I tear off the bottle’s label, looking for instructions, a message, anything, but its underside is blank. Maybe Ambassador Pascale really meant it when he said he wasn’t going to give me any help.
Prunella’s distant screams drift through the door of my cell, but I could be mistaking the sound with birdcalls. I lower myself onto the floor and take a sip of minty water that traces a freezing path from my tongue down to my stomach. Its lining stops fluttering, and calm washes through my veins.
My gaze drops to the label I discarded on the floor. I moisten my finger with the water and rub it on its front and back. There’s a message:
We tried our best to put you on the throne, but even we could never have predicted that the man you shot from the tree was King Arias.
If it’s any consolation, your death will change the course of history.
Even the minor nobles will balk at the brutal death of a beloved public figure.
Please take the strength enhancers. Fight bravely. You will be remembered.
Whatever was in that water has numbed my reaction, but it looks like even the Amstraad Republic believed in Queen Damascena’s lies. They probably also leaked all that footage of me to NetFace.
I exhale a long breath and take a few more swallows of mint water, which calms my nerves and clears away the remnants of my fear.
If I must die, everyone will know the machinations of Queen Damascena. I moisten my finger again and pick up the paper carton. It fizzes against my fingertip, making me flinch.
Strength enhancers. The fritters were pain-killers, the water has given me a calmness and clarity I haven’t felt since the day I supposedly shot the king from the persimmon tree. Ambassador Pascale took the first bottle away but left the carton on purpose.
I tear a strip off the thick paper and place it between my lips. It melts and fizzles on my tongue, releasing a mass of bitter bubbles. A rush of adrenaline surges through my veins, and I rise off the floor, chewing mouthful after mouthful of the carton. It bubbles and expands in my mouth, and foam escapes my lips.
For the next several minutes, I eat the paper, wash its chemical taste away with the minty water, and my confidence soars. My mind rolls back to the time I stood at Gemini’s side and watched the Amstraadi girls’ practicing their drills in the garden. Will this enhancer make me move like them? If the answer is yes, I might just survive this stadium.
The bottle cap lies at my feet. I reach down and hold it between my fingers. Beneath the opaque seal above the metal are letters I can’t read. I peel it off to find a paper disc that says: SUICIDE.
Shock loosens my fingers, and the cap and the suicide disc falls to the floor. The lock mechanism whirrs, and the door swings open. I drop down to the floor and place a palm over what could be my only means of escape.
“Your turn, Popcorn,” says the same female voice from before.
Rough hands hook under my arms and drag me out of my cell. I curl my fingers around the disc and scramble to my feet. My captors are two women in black who cover their heads in masks that only reveal their eyes. I scan their bodies for holsters, guns, or tell-tale bulges, but they’re unarmed.
“Let me walk,” I say.
“Suit yourself.” The woman pulls me upright and marches me through a short hallway of white doors and matching, polymer walls illuminated by more of those ceiling-holes.
We reach a metal door, and the woman on my left steps forward and taps a code into a keypad on the wall. The door clicks open, revealing another woman standing inside a white room the size of my cell.
“What’s happening?” I ask the new woman.
“I’ll be your wardrobe mistress for the day.” She holds up a jumpsuit made of sackcloth in one hand and a gown made of the same material in the other. “Prunella is wavering on her feet already, and you’re needed in the stadium. Take your pick.”
I tighten my lips, wondering what kind of sick game they’re playing. All three women close in on me, making my muscles quiver with anticipation. With one punch I could—
“If you’re thinking of escaping, don’t,” says the wardrobe mistress. “Fail to cooperate, and they’ll flood this room with a sleeping agent and drag your unconscious carcass into the stadium.”
“Jumpsuit,” I snap.
As the other women unfasten my silver dress, I glance around the room for a weapon. The woman at the door points her remote at the wall and brings up an image of Prunella in a short dress made of sackcloth. Blood flows from gashes in her arms and legs, and from a cut on her shaved head.
“What have they done to her?” I whisper.
“Short hair was a good choice.” The first woman sets aside the gown and holds the jumpsuit open at my feet. “It helped her escape Scorpio more than once.”
I gulp. “Scorpio?”
Another woman places a cup of water to my lips. “Drink this. We can’t have you croaking your way through the execution. The crowd wants big, lusty screams.”
I jerk back, and the woman huffs as though I’m the one being unreasonable.
Someone grabs my hair, holding me in place. “It’s only water. Now, drink.”
Throwing my weight back, I swing a high kick up at the huffing woman’s wrist and kick the water out of her hand. It arcs through the air and lands on the wall screen.
Her companion laughs and claps me on the back. “I guess you don’t need any help. Good luck with Scorpio.”
I step into the jumpsuit’s legs, wondering if they were only just trying to help but shake off that feeling as the wardrobe mistress pulls the garment over my hips and slides my arms through its openings at the top. They’re
