As we step out into the night, we meet another man in white, who sweeps his arms toward the stone steps, where other guests wearing white ascend toward the entrance.
Forelle climbs the steps at my side. “We’re sitting together, no matter what.”
“Thanks for returning to the palace for me.” I bump her on the shoulder.
“You and I are going to have a long, happy life as cousins-in-law.” Forelle loops her arm through mine.
The muscles in my face twitch, and I rub the high collar of my dress. “He hasn’t proposed.”
“That’s because he’s waiting for the right moment.”
I want to ask if Garrett told her this, but we reach the top of the stairs, where another devotee in the same white robes as before bows. He holds up a piece of parchment that welcomes us to the funeral of King Arias II and asks us to give our names to the usher, who will guide us to an assigned seat.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He inclines his head, and we walk through the pillars into a candle-lit interior of carved, stone walls and vaulted ceilings. Our footsteps echo on the hallway hard floors, adding to the voices of the group of girls standing at the side of tall, wooden doors.
Ingrid stands aside from them and glares into Constance’s eyes. An elderly devotee whose white hood has fallen down holds them apart, as though he’s just separated them from fighting.
“The other Noble girls attacked Ingrid on the coach,” I whisper to Forelle.
“We saw it on Netface,” she whispers back. “None of those awful girls are fit to rule anything except a lizard fight.”
I press my lips together and hold back a laugh. It’s so unlike Forelle to speak badly of anyone. We reach the end of the line, which mostly consists of girls I recognize from the Princess Trials. All six of the Nobles stand at the front, along with the Guardians and Artisans who got eliminated at the Chamber of Ministers. There are also a few girls I don’t recognize, whose blue-black hair indicates that they are Nobles.
“Has anyone claimed responsibility for all that leaked footage?” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “Nobody believes the official statement that it came from Prunella Broadleaf.”
A huff of disbelief escapes my nostrils. I’m about to tell her my Amstraad Republic theory, when a group of Nobles in identical white robes stride past. The Minister of Justice walks among them and glowers at me from the corner of her eye. Montana strides behind her but stares straight ahead.
The devotee at the double doors lets the Ministers inside a moon-lit chamber. Forelle gasps at its interior, but I’m too busy watching a short-haired Minister pull Ingrid aside.
He’s about five-ten, with a hooked nose a little too large for his pinched features, and thick brows twisted in a similar scowl to Ingrid’s. He wraps a hand around her bicep and hisses at her through bared teeth.
“That’s the Minister of Integration,” whispers Forelle.
My brows furrow. If she’s right, then that’s Ingrid’s father. “How do you know?”
“He’s the one Prince Kevon argued with the most when he approached the Chamber of Ministers to stop that dangerous trial.”
I would ask which one she means, as most of the challenges were perilous, but I’m sure she’s talking about the one in the Gloria National Park.
Minister Strab jerks Ingrid’s arm and says something that makes her face crumple. I bite down on my lip. At least I know where she learned to be so nasty.
“He looks like a bully,” Forelle whispers.
I cup my hand around her ear. “His daughter hunts Foundlings who stray from their camps.”
She rears back, her face slack.
I nod. “Ingrid boasted about it before trying to shoot me.”
The Minister of Integration releases Ingrid’s arm with a force that knocks her into a Noble girl, who shoves her aside. Her father straightens his robes as though he didn’t just hurt and humiliate his daughter in front of her peers, then strides through the double doors.
A few other people walk past, including the Amstraad Ambassador and Princess Briar, both clad in silver. Following them are a quartet of soldiers in white dress uniform, including Mouse, who turns to me and winks. I smile back in silent thanks for helping me through the truth serum.
Just as the devotee at the door opens it to let us into the temple, Ingrid walks in the opposite direction with her lips pressed into a tight line.
“Where’s she going?” whispers Forelle.
I shake my head. “Let’s forget about her and go inside.”
The temple’s interior is circular, about twice the size of my suite, and seats about three-hundred. Around its edges are more pillars than a ballroom, and the entire space is lit by the moon. At the far end, a set of stone steps leads to a marble elevation carved with statues of Gaia, Uranus, and the other gods and goddesses the Nobles revere.
“Is that an altar or a mausoleum?” I whisper to Forelle
She shakes her head but doesn’t make a move to look it up on NetFace.
As the devotees guide the girls in front to the seats at the back, it soon becomes our turn to find our places. Forelle and I introduce ourselves, then an elderly man in white robes steps forward and guides us around the back of the pillars through a darkened walkway.
My heartbeat echoes through my ears, and I grab Forelle’s hand. Our usher walks past where his colleague seats the other girls, past the Chamber of Ministers who sit in the rows closest to the front, and stops at the first row to the three empty seats next to Garrett.
I gulp and peer at the people sitting next to him, a Noble girl about his age, Lady Circi, a Noble who looks like an older version of Garrett, and Queen Damascena. On the queen’s other side is
