The crowd parts as Prince Kevon guides me down the steps toward a black limousine, which has a black interior identical to the one I rode with Garrett to the ball.
As I sink into the leather seats, my gaze lands on a bouquet of cornflowers, daisies, forget-me-nots, and other plants that grow wild in Rugosa. The sight of such commonplace flower tickles my insides, and I burst into a delighted giggle.
Prince Kevon hands me a glass. “Master Thymel will visit tomorrow to help you choose your dress.” He takes a long sip of his champagne. “Once the royal guard has dispatched my mother, I would like you to bring whoever you wish to join us for the wedding.”
The champagne chills my fingers. Its bubbles rise to the surface and pop, releasing the scent of alcohol and fruit.
“Is my choice of drink not to your liking?” He raises his glass. “I have nonalcoholic grape—”
“Champagne is perfect.” I place my hand on Prince Kevon’s lap and place the glass to my lips. The cool liquid slides and fizzes on my tongue.
“Garrett commissioned Master Thymel to dress Forelle for her wedding.” Prince Kevon takes another sip of his drink. “I’m sure she won’t mind you…”
The glass slips from his fingers, spilling champagne over his white pants.
I set my glass aside and cup his cheeks. “Kevon?”
His head lolls to the side.
I dash toward the divider that separates the back of the limousine to the driver’s side and bang my fist on the window. The car continues speeding through the Oasis streets, oblivious of Prince Kevon’s plight.
My eyes droop, and I think of Lady Circi’s warning when I boarded Queen Damascena’s mobile dressing room. Several days later, it echoes through my skull.
Don’t drink the champagne.
Chapter 20
My ears ring, muffling the sounds of urgent voices. Rough hands lift me off the floor and bundle me onto a hard chair. A needle pierces my bicep, and I try to raise a hand to strike out, but I can’t move. Whatever my captor has injected in me makes him or her confident that I’m immobilized. Nobody has secured me to the chair with straps.
Or maybe that’s because I’m back in that cage, and there’s no escape.
I push away the speculations and focus on regaining control of my body. With a deep inhale, I fill my lungs and let the air slide out. This is one of the breathing exercises Ryce taught us in our youth cell. It’s supposed to increase the metabolism and help the body burn through foreign substances.
My heart sinks. He probably made it up, just as Carolina did by implying I was important to the Red Runners when she sent me to the Princess Trials as an afterthought.
Where’s Prince Kevon?
A breath catches in the back of my throat, and I slow my breathing to focus on the voices. I can’t hear him, but I suspect that the queen ordered someone to tamper with his champagne.
Worry roils through my stomach, and my mind conjures up images of Prince Kevon lying on the ground with a dagger in his heart, with bullets in his chest, with slices of the moon over his eyes. Nobody would kill their own son just to become the regent.
Would they?
My chest tightens and rapid breaths heave in and out of my lungs. My head spins, and my limbs turn to lead. If anyone touches me, I’ll roll off this chair and hit the floor.
“She’s waking up,” says an unfamiliar female voice.
“Shall we begin?” Queen Damascena's impatient voice slices through my panic.
Hatred soars through my chest. What is she going to do now, torture me?
“At least wait for the girl to open her eyes,” says a voice I think belongs to Montana.
With a loud slap, stinging pain spreads across my left cheek. My eyes snap open, and I stare into the malicious, violet eyes of the queen.
“There,” she says through clenched teeth. “Now, she’s awake and ready for her trial.”
In front of me is a high-backed chair that looks similar to the one supporting my back, and to my right are tiered rows of six leather seats, occupied by Nobles wearing identical white robes. There could be twenty-four or thirty of them. I don’t stop to count because an entire wall on my left displays the words, ‘TRIAL OF ZEA-MAYS CALICO.’
“What is this about?” asks the Minister of Justice.
She sits between Montana and Ingrid’s father with her arms folded over her chest. The woman’s words give me hope, as it looks like the Chamber of Ministers no longer consider me the same powerless Harvester Girl she electrocuted in her witness box.
“Poisoning the regent’s betrothed and holding her against her will is treason,” adds Ingrid’s father. “Nobody will argue your case if Prince Kevin demands your execution.”
Heels click on the stone floor behind me, and Queen Damascena stands in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. In the time she’s engineered her son’s poisoning and my abduction, she has changed into an ivory pantsuit with a ruffled shirt.
She turns to her audience. “As the former queen consort, it is my duty to inform the Ministers of the Chamber of the regent’s unstable mental state.”
“You’ll have to dig deeper than his poor choice in women,” Ingrid’s father drawls. “I doubt that lying slumped in the back of a limousine, suffering the effects of your poison counts as instability.”
The other ministers chuckle.
I slow my breaths and force myself to focus. We’re probably in a room within the Chamber of Ministers Building, but more importantly, these people aren’t taking Queen Damascena seriously. I sag even further in my seat as the injection turns my muscles slack.
