Their reporting of the last challenge centers on Ingrid’s prowess with the gun, with commentary on her valiant effort to protect me from my own stupidity at confronting a hoard of hungry wild men. I close my eyes and stop paying attention.
Sometime after three in the morning, we reach Fort Meeman-Shelby, and a production assistant guides me off the coach. It’s cool outside, and the moon shines down within an indigo sky that reminds me of Prince Kevon’s eyes.
An ache forms in my heart as I walk through the darkened courtyard. It’s hexagonal and covered mostly with lawn, unlike the sandy courtyard of Fort Tyler. The assistant guides me to a private room, where a scandalously low-cut dress lies on the bed.
Alarm seizes my heart. I spin around and gape at the production assistant, who is already backing out of the room and wishing me good luck. As I rush to the door, a key turns in the lock, but I try the handle anyway.
“Hey.” I pound on the door. “What’s going on? Let me out.”
I run to the window, but its fastenings won’t budge. So much for a stealthy escape.
With a snarl, I turn back and glare at the outfit. The two strips of sheer fabric that make up its front are cut so low that it would expose the wearer from shoulder to waistband. My stomach churns at the minuscule skirt. On legs as gangly as mine, it would land at mid-thigh.
With an outfit like that, Queen Damascena has got to be setting me up for something scandalous. I lean against the wall and fold my arms across my chest. If there’s a lecherous lieutenant waiting outside the door, I won’t go down without a fight.
Moments later, a knock on the door causes my heart to somersault into my throat. I glance around the room for a weapon, snatch the chair, and hold it in front of me like a shield.
The lock turns, the door opens, and I charge on my would-be attacker. In an instant, the chair flies across the room and the back of my head hits the hard floor. Pain explodes across my skull. I kick out at my attacker but he’s not hovering over me.
I struggle to my feet and find Lady Circi standing on the other side of the room. She wears a black catsuit with a hip holster and carries only one gun.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” she says.
“What are you doing here?”
She pinches her nose. “You agreed to be present at the banishment of Vitelotte Solar.”
I pause, not remembering having agreed to anything of the sort. Somehow, I don’t think calling her a liar will help my predicament. “In that dress?”
Lady Circi raises a shoulder. “If you wanted to choose your own outfit, you should have negotiated that with Her Majesty.” She snaps her fingers. “Hurry up and get dressed before someone puts a bullet through your friend’s skull.”
“May I have some privacy?”
“Sixty seconds.” She crosses the room, picks up the dress, and flings it into my arms.
I clench my teeth. Sometimes, it’s hard to work out which of them I dislike the most: the queen or her lady-at-arms. I shake my head and change into the dress. Lady Circi is gruff and occasionally unpleasant. Queen Damascena is just plain evil.
After I change into the dress, Lady Circi makes me slip on a pair of high-heeled shoes, then marches me through the fort’s angular hallways. Seeing as she’s a general, the few guards we pass salute, but their gazes linger on my barely-covered chest. For once in my meager life, I’m glad my figure is nothing like Emmera’s or Forelle’s. This outfit is obscene.
I smooth out the fabric. “Why do I have to wear this dress?”
“A girl stops Prince Kevon’s heart with a knife, and you’re complaining about what to wear for her pardoning?” Her brows draw together. “You must admit that it was generous of Prince Kevon to spare your friend’s life.”
Prickly shame rises to my cheeks, and anger flushes through my veins. I grind my teeth and snarl, “That still doesn’t explain this awful outfit.”
Ignoring me, Lady Circi places a hand on the small of my back and ushers me out of the building’s double doors. It’s still dark with no sign of sunrise, and only four jeeps are present in an asphalt forecourt that could accommodate hundreds.
A black car waits at the bottom of the steps, its headlights illuminating the space. The driver, a pale-skinned woman wearing a similar black outfit to Lady Circi, opens the door.
She motions for me to get inside. With no means of escape, in a hideously revealing dress, and under the threat of something terrible happening to Vitelotte, I have little option but to obey. I slide into an interior that smells of polish and settle into the leather seat.
Lady Circi enters and hands me a computer tablet. “You’re giving a speech. Her Majesty has ordered marksmen to shoot Miss Solar if you don’t read exactly what you see.”
“What?”
She turns to me, her green eyes as hard as malachite. “Do as you’re told, read what’s on the tablet, and you’ll get to rejoin the Princess Trials. Mess this up, and your regicidal little friend gets shot along with whoever stands with her.”
My throat convulses, and I tap the screen of the tablet.
The speech doesn’t seem too atrocious. It’s mostly innuendo about how I convinced Prince Kevon to increase the water rations, along with a warning against attempting to murder the royal family.
“Prince Kevon believes in making Phangloria a better place for all,” I say. “That includes making sure everyone has enough water for drinking and growing food.”
Lady Circi snorts. “What is it about men and naive farm girls?”
Irritation tightens my skin, and a barrage of retorts gather on the tip of my tongue. If she wasn’t the lady-at-arms, wasn’t carrying a gun, and wasn’t in the position to beat me to within an inch of my life, I would
