The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(23)
A band of panic tightens around my chest, cutting my air supply to the shallowest breaths. The Oasis is too noisy, too bright, too violent. If I step off this vehicle, I might crumble under the newness of this world.
Chapter 7
The coach stops outside the concert hall, and there’s another red carpet that stretches up its stone steps.
Everyone sighs with relief, and we all form a line down the aisle. Emmera pushes in front of us, and I roll my eyes. She can’t continue blaming me for her sister’s rejection.
Sergeant Silver and Garrett are the first to step out. They stand at both sides of the door, a buffer to the madness outside.
People holding cameras gather on both sides of the red carpet. Their camera flashes fill my sight, and it's worse than the summer lightning storm that once burned down Dad’s cornfield.
They shout out our names, and I imagine that they already broadcasted our details all over Phangloria, but it’s hard to do anything with my vision dazzled and my legs aching from the long ride.
I imagined there would be a crowd of people awaiting us in a stark and modern interior like the Rugosa Square dome, but this is like an entrance hall from the Old World. It’s the size of sixteen Harvester homes and eight times as high. A marble floor stretches out to a grand staircase as wide as our house with over two dozen steps and a landing that splits into two separate staircases.
Flanking the stairs stand twin statues of Gaia, each balancing the Phangloria Tree on their outstretched palms. I glance at the lights shining at the end of every branch and can’t help thinking about us having to travel through the dark after sundown.
The girls spread out, all turning their heads up and to the left and right to take in the stone columns that stretch to a ceiling consisting of arched cornices and carved moldings. I only know these words because Mom is obsessed with anything related to fairy tales, including castles.
Gasping, Forelle places a hand on her chest. “It’s…”
“Breathtaking, yeah,” I whisper.
A side-door hidden within the stone wall opens, and a woman wearing a teal catsuit scurries out. She glances at her computer tablet before saying, “This way, girls.”
She leads us into a dim hallway, which isn’t quite as grand as the entrance hall but looks better than anything from home. The floors here creak underfoot, and the scent of applewood fills my nostrils. Lights blaze out from an open door at the end of the passage, and my stomach rumbles.
“Was that you?” Forelle asks with a giggle.
I rub my belly. “It’s strange to feel hungry after sitting around all night.”
“A light breakfast is available in the green room,” says the woman.
We step into a waiting room with groups of comfortable-looking black sofas arranged around low tables in U-shapes. Each holds a vast platter of fruit, sliced cheese, meat, and toast. My mouth waters at the banquet that would keep my family fed for days.
“Everybody, sit and eat,” she says. “The show starts in an hour, and our co-hosts will join you momentarily and record profiles on the most promising candidates. Please cooperate to give yourself the best chance of winning.”
There are more than enough tables for each town to occupy a section, and Emmera marches to the nearest sofa and plucks a piece of toast from the tray. Forelle, Vitelotte, and I follow her and fill our plates.
Vitelotte points at a slice of pink meat. “What’s that?”
My brows draw together. “Ham, I think.”
An arrogant voice behind us snorts. “Beef carpaccio. Don’t you vegetables know anything?”
I twist around and glare at the owner of the voice, one of the fresh-faced girls from Bos. “We don’t get delicacies in Rugosa.”
Her gaze wanders down to my modest chest. “Clearly, you don’t.”
Fury surges through my veins, and something Carolina said reaches my ears. The Nobles design daily quotas that make us compete against each other for rations for maximum rivalry. They want us too busy fighting each other to band together and fight them.
All resentment drains from my system in an outward breath, and I say, “We’d appreciate an introduction to all these meats. Do you cure them yourselves?”
Her face drops, and she glances at the other girls in her town as if looking for reassurance. They’re too busy enjoying the banquet to engage in hostilities.
“Sure.” She walks around and introduces herself as Corrie Barzona.
Applause fills the room, the far wall turns black, and the Phangloria insignia appears. The national anthem blares out, and the screen fades to an orchestra. Its conductor and musicians wear the black and white of Artisans, the Echelon valued for their ability to create beauty.
The camera cuts to Montana, who wears an electric blue tuxedo coat with tails that sweep on the stage floor. Instead of a shirt and bowtie, he dons a black one-piece outfit with blue buttons that match his coat.
He stands with his arms spread and bobs his head along with the orchestra, as though it's the most moving piece of music he’s ever heard.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” he says over the fading strains of the music. “A round of applause for Her Majesty Queen Damascena and His Excellency Ambassador Pascal of Amstraad!”
Now the screen shows the queen sitting in a royal box clad in an ivory dress that clings to her figure. Its asymmetric neckline wraps around her neck like a snake. She wears a diamond crown with drop earrings.