The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(16)

Nausea churns in my gut. Mom’s unique childhood will forever make her grateful to the Nobles for her life in the Harvester Echelon, but all I can see are the injustices.

I lower my gaze and raise a shoulder. “It’s not like I have a chance of winning.”

“Don’t talk like that.” She squeezes my arm. “Everyone invited to the Oasis wins. Did you know that most contestants rise above the echelons of their birth?”

My brows draw together. “You never told me that.”

“Because you never showed any interest.” Mom wipes her face with a handkerchief. “Mistress Melrose competed in the trials when the previous king came of age.”

I lean forward. Mom always speaks fondly of the Noble who taught the Foundling children Modern History. Carolina and Ryce call the class Modern Propaganda, which is a more accurate description.

Modern History is all about how Phangloria expanded its territory over time by moving the Great Wall. It’s also about how grateful we should all be because the Nobles gave our ancestors sanctuary from the barren and polluted wasteland beyond Phangloria.

The textbooks are a constant reminder that we’re guests of Phangloria and so transparently biased. What about the other countries, and those who live wild beyond the wall who survived without the Nobles’ help?

“If you can focus on befriending Prince Kevon and let everyone see the brave, beautiful, and kind girl beneath that scowl, you can win.”

My lips form a tight line. I can’t let Mom think I’m serious about the Trials, or she’ll be upset when I’m not clamoring for the prince. But speaking out with guards outside the door might lead to my disqualification before even reaching the Oasis.

“Mom…” I struggle for a way to communicate the truth. “Prince Kevon probably prefers the Noble—”

“Mistress Melrose told us the real reasons for the Princess Trials,” she blurts. “Do you remember the House of Habsburg?”

I draw back and remember a painting of a king with a severe underbite. “The royals from Old Europe who kept marrying their cousins?”

“Yes. The Noble Echelon all descended from a small group of people. Most of them are related in some way.”

Irritation spreads across my skin, and I clench my hands around my knees. This feels like one of the speeches she makes when trying to justify rationing and quotas. “Mom—”

“Listen to me.” She squeezes my hand. “Mistress Melrose said that Phangloria was built on the ruins of a world of excesses. We’ve learned from the mistakes of our ancestors and don’t mine the earth, destroy forests, or create industrial waste. Another important lesson we learned was genetic diversity.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “So, Prince Kevon needs a bride who isn’t his cousin several times removed?”

“Don’t turn this into a joke.” Her voice is unusually sharp, and I glance into her flashing eyes. “Did they test your blood? Perform internal examinations?”

Heat rises to my cheeks. “How did you know?”

“Foundlings go through rigorous tests before we’re allowed through the Minor Wall.”

I swallow hard. Mom’s referring to the electrified fence that separates the Harvester Region from the Barrens. According to Modern History, the Barrens is the largest expanse of land within Phangloria as the wall continually expands. Eventually, soil builders will turn that wasteland into fertile soil for building crops.

She crossed over when she was thirteen, and my chest tightens at the thought of a young girl undergoing the same invasive and humiliating examinations.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

Mom shakes her head. “What’s a brief moment of discomfort compared to a whole life beyond imagination?”

My gaze drops to my lap, and I force myself not to react. Conditions in the Barrens must be terrible if she thinks that drudgery and starvation are aspirational living.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders and presses a kiss on my temple. “You’re clever and beautiful and genetically perfect. The royals need an infusion of new blood. Why can’t it be yours? And when you’re in the palace, you can suggest all the reforms you want.”

The door opens, and a pair of footsteps rush inside.

“Zea!” chorus two identical voices.

I glance up into the tear-streaked faces of Flint and Yoseph. They crash into me and bury their heads into my chest.

“What’s wrong?” I stroke their little, blonde heads.

Flint points at the guard. “He wouldn’t let us go in together.”

“He’s mean!” shouts Yoseph.

“Boys,” Mom and I both hiss.

At the door, the blond guard raises both hands and grins. “As you can see, they’re both together and present.”

Mom and I both exhale relieved breaths. Even though most guards just want to do their jobs and return to their barracks, even Mom can’t deny that some guards revel in the power they hold over Harvesters. Guards like the one who murdered Mr. Wintergreen. Guards like the one who tried to abduct Forelle.

“Mrs. Calico,” says the blond sergeant. “It’s time to leave.”

Mom presses a kiss on my temple and rises. She walks to the exit and murmurs, “Good luck.”

As soon as the guard shuts the door, two identical faces with the same missing tooth grin up at me. A laugh huffs out from my chest, and I roll my eyes. The blond-haired guard clearly isn’t used to the sneaky tactics of little kids.