“Right.”
I brace my forearms on the white counter and stare at my reflection. Red blotches still mar my cheeks, my left eye socket swells, and my hair looks like I’m caught in a sandstorm. Behind me hangs a garment bag that reminds me of what the Toxic Disposal Guardians used to wrap up Rafaela’s body.
“Are you hurt?” she asks.
“I…” I have to pause to answer that question because adrenaline still courses through my veins and numbs everything except for my stinging eyes.
My throat feels like I’ve swallowed mouthfuls of grit. As I force deep breaths in and out of my lungs, the burning of my scalp intensifies, along with a sharp ache in my gut. “I’ve had worse.”
“Let's get you out of that uniform,” Georgette says.
I nod and fumble with the buttons of my borrowed shirt. What’s going to happen to Mom and Dad? My mind races at how I allowed the situation with the queen to escalate. What on earth was I thinking to get into a fight with three women?
Queen Damascena asked for the impossible. There’s no way I could tell Prince Kevon to marry someone else and have him listen. It was hard enough to dissuade him from pursuing me. She must have been frustrated about her impending loss of power and came to my room to work out her resentment.
As Georgette eases my hands away from the buttons and unfastens the jacket, she explains that she called Prince Kevon to return to my room the moment Queen Damascena arrived. I squeeze her hand and croak my thanks.
Someone knocks on the door, making us both stiffen.
“Let the guards answer.” Georgette throws me a bathrobe and walks ahead of me through the bedroom and to the door. “But let’s be prepared in case she returns.”
I let the jacket fall away and shoulder on the robe. The toweling fabric feels like clouds against my irritated skin, and I creep past the closets and poke my head out into the room.
The servants have already straightened up and left. One of the guards in white uniform stands at the far wall facing the door, while the other speaks to whoever knocked.
“What’s happening?” I whisper.
“It’s another girl from the Trials, Ma’am,” replies the guard.
“Oh.” I tie the front of my robe and walk across the room, wondering if Emmera ever made it to Rugosa.
The guard at the door moves aside, revealing Ingrid Strab, still wearing her khaki shirt and pants from the Barrens. One side of her face is still a little swollen from when she got stomped on her head, but there’s no sign of the bruising. For once, she has lost the haughty self-assurance and stands with her hands clasped.
“Zea-Mays?” Ingrid steps forward. “May I come in?”
“No. I’m busy.”
She bows her head. “I came to apologize.”
Distrust quivers through my gut. I clench my fists and get ready to jump aside when she finally reveals what she’s hiding in her hands.
“For what?” I ask.
“Everything.” Ingrid raises her head and fixes her eyes on mine. They’re as green as a pickle with brown centers that remind me of an avocado left out in the sun. She exhales a long sigh. “The other girls have hated me since I returned from captivity, and it’s made me realize how you must have felt this entire time in the Princess Trials.”
I want to roll my eyes and remind her that she led the worst of the animosity, but two skirmishes a day are my absolute limit, and I still don’t know if Mom and Dad are safe.
“You’re comparing petty backbiting with your attempts to hunt me with guns?” I glance at Georgette, who beckons me toward the walk-in wardrobe. “If that’s all you came to say—”
“Please, don’t go.” Ingrid raises both palms.
I place my hands on my hips. “What is it, now?”
“Since Prince Kevon will choose you to be his queen, I want to give you some advice.”
My brows rise, but I don’t encourage or discourage her to continue.
Ingrid gulps. “Be careful when you set up your royal court. Everybody from the Chamber of Ministers to your ladies-in-waiting will want you dead and replaced by a Noble.”
I suppress a ripple of anxiety. This isn’t exactly anything new, and I don’t want Ingrid thinking that she’s breached my defenses. “And I expect you’re about to tell me how to circumvent this?”
She shakes her head. “There’s a reason why girls from other Echelons never rule Phangloria. At least not for long enough to make the history books unless they ally with a Noble.”
It sounds like a threat, but there’s a truth in her words that twists my insides into painful knots. I smooth out my features, turn around, and walk back to the mirror. Whatever game Ingrid is playing, I’m not interested.
“Think about it,” Ingrid says to my back. “If you let me marry the prince, you can have him as much as you want. I’ll even grant you the honor of birthing the royal heir.”
A scuffle breaks out behind me. I don’t flinch, I don’t turn. The door slams, followed by Ingrid’s outraged squeak. The corner of my lips curl into a smile. Even Ingrid recognizes me as a person of influence.
I continue to the bathroom and take a long, hot shower. It washes away the salt and sand and sweat still clinging to my skin from the previous challenge. The apricot-scented soap fills my nostrils and relaxes my muscles.
Maybe now that Prince Kevon has threatened to banish her from court, Queen Damascena won’t strike out against Mom and Dad. Besides, none of those guards would want to be executed for following the orders of a soon-to-be dowager queen.
After washing my hair with a peach shampoo and honeysuckle rinse, I dry off and return to the walk-in wardrobe, where Forelle leans against a closet, chatting with Georgette. She wears an
