He pauses at the corner, turns back and waves.
I raise a hand, hoping things won’t be different between us when he takes the throne. At the end of the Princess Trials, he’ll probably work full time on matters of the state. I hope that this isn’t the start of a new distance between us.
The intensity of the sun shining through the tall windows of my room tells me it’s between two and three in the afternoon. Georgette sits on the velvet sofa with a computer tablet, the ends of her mahogany hair turning red in the light. Her usual waistcoat and pencil skirt is white.
As soon as our gazes meet, she tosses the tablet on the low table and rises to her feet.
“Have you heard?” Georgette rounds the table, rushes across the room, and grabs me by the hands.
“About the king?” I ask.
“The funeral is tonight.” She sweeps her gaze down my borrowed uniform and purses her lips. “I’m going to dress you in something so dignified that they’ll forget about that hideous outfit that’s streaming all over NetFace.”
“This one?” I unbutton my jacket.
Georgette winces. “Where did you get something so anti-Harvester?”
My cheeks flush. I’m about to tell her it wasn’t my choice of outfit when the door behind us slams open with a bang. My heart leapfrogs out of its resting-place, and I spin around.
The queen wears an ivory jumpsuit with a fitted, one-button jacket. Her golden hair does nothing to hide the hatred seething under those pretty features.
“I thought the outfit was appropriate payment for her temporary dalliance with my son,” she says.
The memory of Mom and Dad huddled together in their nightclothes, each clutching a twin, races to the front of my mind. Anger simmers in my belly, dissolving all notions of fear. There are no words to describe the depth of my hatred of this woman.
Georgette dips into a low curtsey. “Your Majesty, I am sorry for—”
“Leave us,” the queen snaps.
Georgette walks a wide circle around the monster in white, scurries out of the room, and closes the door.
Queen Damascena advances toward me with her hands clenched into fists. “I ought to beat you bloody for not completing your speech.”
“It’s hard to read with cepa gas in my eyes.” I mirror her movement.
“It’s hard to believe that you can read at all,” she drawls.
“What do you want?” I snap.
She rears back. “Is this the way you speak to the Queen Regent of Phangloria? I could have you executed for treason.”
Her bluff drifts over me like a dandelion seed in the breeze, and I glance at my imaginary watch. “Do you think you could organize my trial and sentencing before moonrise?”
She bares her perfect teeth and flares her nostrils. Queen Damascena might have intimidated me before, but her reign of threats and terror ends the moment Prince Kevon becomes the regent. She steps forward until the heat of her anger warms my skin and the scent of her mandragon perfume stings my nostrils.
“Tell Kevon he must announce his Noble of choice during the eulogy.” Her face tightens. “Anyone but Ingrid Strab.”
“But the Chamber of Ministers—”
“That group of fossils will not control the throne,” she snaps. “Choose another Noble girl or—”
“What if Prince Kevon chooses me?” I raise my chin and meet her hateful eyes. They’re bloodshot, more magenta than violet, and probably as fake as her perfect nose.
“Then you’ll be Phangloria’s shortest-lived orphan.” She prods my shoulder with a sharp finger. “I know Harvester girls are only good for picking produce, but even you know I could have your entire family exterminated before Kevon slips a ring on that scrawny finger.”
The fury in my belly roils. It fizzles and crackles and pops until it burns the back of my throat with its bitterness. How I long to shove my knowledge in her arrogant face. If Prince Kevon chooses me tonight, I will become the second-highest-ranking person in Phangloria with the power to squash her like a ripe tomato.
Her eyes narrow. “You don’t believe me?”
“Why do you think I can persuade Prince Kevon into choosing a girl he doesn’t want?”
“Your father should be supervising cornfield nineteen around this time.” Queen Damascena walks across to the low table and picks up the tablet Georgette discarded. With a few commands, she makes it ring, and a voice on the other side greets her.
“Bring the father,” she says.
My stomach drops. “What are you doing?”
“Demonstrating on your father what I will do to your mother if you don’t fall in line.”
Panic explodes across my chest. I rush across the room to the door and fling it open. Prince Kevon couldn’t have gotten far—his mother won’t give the order if I’m not there to watch. I escape into the hallway. Two hard-faced women in black jumpsuits step out from the wall into my path.
“Move aside.” I dart to the left.
Fingers thread into my hair. They pull back with a ferocity that burns my scalp. The cloying scent of mandragon fills my nostrils.
“You’re going nowhere.” Queen Damascena drags me back into the room.
“Let go of me!” I thrash at her with my fists and hit her nose. The queen’s head snaps back, and she clutches her face.
One of the women’s arms encircles my neck. My head jerks back into her chest. Before I can twist away, she grabs her other bicep and pushes my head forward. My throat closes. I can’t breathe. I elbow, throw back my head, and kick at the woman, but she grunts and bears the force of my attacks.
“How dare you?” Queen Damascena’s violet eyes bulge, her face turns scarlet, and her features twist into a rictus of rage. “I should execute you right now!”
The woman holding me tightens her grip, turning the edges of my vision black.
My insides are a lightning storm of thundering heartbeats and white-hot fear. Loud, rasping breaths struggle through my collapsed throat. I’ve got to stay calm. I’ve got
