Someone raps on the bathroom door, pulling me out of my musings. “Zea,” says Forelle. “We need you, now.”
I shut off the water, slip on a robe, and join my friends. Most of the other girls have a stylist, a makeup artist, and a lady’s maid, but Georgette carries out all those tasks with Forelle as her assistant. According to Forelle, Prince Kevon only wanted people around me he could trust.
Because Cassiope is recording this session for the Princess Trials, I sit in front of the mirror and keep the conversation light as Georgette dries my hair and arranges it into a high ponytail of long, mahogany waves. Cassiope asks if I’m excited to see Prince Kevon, happy the Trials are restarting, and I give her bland but enthusiastic answers.
The girls dress me in a khaki-colored jumpsuit with flapped pockets on the chest and at the hips. Each pocket is held down by a chocolate-brown button and belted just like the outfit Ambassador Pascale wore to the garden party. I stare at my thinner-than-usual reflection and frown. This is a peculiar choice for welcoming back the prince, but Georgette isn’t allowed to share the instructions she received.
Cassiope escorts me through the hallway, and a blonde-haired figure walks several feet ahead. A knot of worry forms in my stomach. This is the first time I’ve seen Emmera since the interrogation. I tried to visit her room, but her lady’s maid kept telling me Emmera was resting.
I give her space and continue down the hallway with Cassiope without calling after her. Now that Emmera has left her room, there’ll be time to speak in private.
When we reach the top of the palace’s grand staircase, the morning sun filters through arched windows and illuminates a set of chandeliers more elaborate than the ones that fell in the ballroom. I climb down, keeping my gaze on the light fitting, which consists of dagger-sharp tiers of crystal. Ten-inch-long prisms dangle from concentric rings of chrome, each layer descending until the entire display reaches five feet.
My throat dries, and I glance at the pair of camerawomen at the foot of the stairs filming my descent. Then my eyes dart back to the heavy chandelier. It’s been ages since someone made an attempt on my life.
Two rows of contestants stand at either side of the palace’s double doors. Six Amstraadi girls wait on the right, each clad in identical Harvester-beige jumpsuits. On the left are five Noble girls and an Artisan. I gulp, wondering if that means Paris Kanone, the final unaccounted-for Guardian, is still missing in the National Park.
Constance steps out of formation and places her hands on her hips. She wears a strapped-top with pockets at the front that exposes her chest and arms and scandalously short culottes that show her knees. Her dark hair is slicked back, with a ponytail of ringlets.
“Look, everyone,” she says. “It’s the agricultural assassins.”
I clench my teeth and curl my hands into fists. A hundred responses roll to the tip of my tongue, but I hold them back. The camerawomen are recording, and I won’t let them make me seem unsympathetic.
Emmera pauses at the foot of the steps and clutches her chest. The production assistant at her side places a hand on her shoulder, urging her to continue. I’m not sure if anyone offered her support since her release from the detention center. Without my friends and my visit with the prince, I might have gone mad from the ordeal.
I continue down the steps and stand at Emmera’s side. “Are you alright?”
She turns her wide, gray eyes to mine and blinks. “Zea?”
I lace my fingers through hers. “Let’s welcome Prince Kevon.”
“What if those people come back?” she asks.
“They wouldn’t have let us go if they thought we did something wrong.” I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “Come on.”
Emmera inhales several ragged breaths before nodding, and we walk hand-in-hand down the stairs. I ignore the voice in the back of my head that whispers that she will turn on me. Berta did, even though we had twice fought side-by-side. I might not trust Emmera, but I can’t leave her to fall apart in front of the cameras.
We cross the entrance hall, where a production assistant ushers Emmera to stand beside the Artisan girl on the left. Another guides me toward the Amstraadi girls. I purse my lips and wonder if this is a deliberate attempt to position me as an outsider.
My gaze turns to Ingrid, who stands at the end closest to the door. She is dressed in a fitted shirt and fitted pants with the same oversized, flap pockets. The three Nobles to her right wear jumpsuits, but Constance is the only contestant revealing her bare legs.
Someone clears their throat on the left, and I turn to the half landing, where Byron stands in a sand-colored suit. My stomach roils with anxiety as memories of the Detroit Depression tumble through my mind. They’re ignoring Prince Kevon’s demand for a safer Princess Trials and taking us somewhere equally as horrific. And I’ll be the one who suffers all the attacks.
“May I have your attention, ladies?” Byron waves and grins. “Thank you for your patience, and I hope you’re ready for this next exciting round of the Princess Trials.”
Constance stamps her foot. “Where’s His Highness?”
Byron raises his palms. “We’re just waiting for everyone to arrive before he makes his grand entrance.”
I glance down the rows of girls, wondering who might be this late arrival. The palace round started with eighteen girls, and now there are thirteen. Two Guardian girls are confirmed dead and one missing. With one Artisan dead, and Vitelotte banished, only the Nobles and the Amstraadi teams are intact.
With a rumbling on my left, everyone turns for the opening of the
