The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(27)

His brows rise, but he doesn’t comment. Maybe it’s because he thinks I’m hankering over something trivial, but I would like to see him swap his fruit-infused Smoky Water for the metallic-tasting liquid we get at home.

“What would make me happiest is a better future for everyone in Phangloria. I think we can make this a reality together.”

He blows out a breath. “Prince Kevon is a lucky fellow to have such a committed admirer.”

My bracelet beeps, jolting me out of my musings. “What’s that?”

“You’re wanted onstage.” Sergeant Silver opens the door. “I’ll show you the way.”





Chapter 8





We rush through a darkened hallway at the end of which stand two women with headphones attached to screens on their heads. They are fussing around a petite Harvester girl, fluffing up her hair and telling her to take deep breaths.

“Good,” says Sergeant Silver. “It looks like you’re still on time.”

They both turn around. The red lights hanging over the door marked STAGE makes their frowns appear like scowls, and the Harvester girl looks pale enough to faint.

“Where have you been?” one of them hisses. “We had to arrange an early interval because you weren’t in place.”

“Sorry,” I mutter.

The lights turn green, and she spins away, not giving me a chance to muster up an excuse. I turn to thank the guard, but he’s already gone.

One of the stagehands places both hands on the girl’s shoulders. “You saw the previous girls. Follow Montana’s leads, be polite to the judges, and smile.”

She nods, and her face hardens with determination. The door opens, and she walks through to a round of lackluster applause. I’m not sure how many girls the audience has seen already. Fatigue and nerves and the unfamiliar surroundings have pushed my sense of time off-kilter, but I suspect they’re tired of seeing different girls wearing the same outfits and talking about producing food.

The taller of the stagehands turns to me. She’s a stern-faced woman with iridescent violet eyes that catch the light. “Watch carefully. After the break, you’re next.”

Gulping hard, I nod.

She projects OasisVision onto the wall, but there’s no sound. The Harvester girl is blinking rapidly and has stretched out a palm the way some people do when they’re trying to look in the distance when the sun is too harsh. I make a mental note to keep my hands at my sides.

Montana is his usual chatty self, but the panel of judges seems bored. It’s probably because they know that the Harvester portion of the Princess Trials won’t lead to anything but false hope for our Echelon.

I imagine everyone huddled around Rugosa Square, watching out for the four of us, and my heart aches. What are Mom and Dad doing now? Are they worrying about me? I suck in a long breath and hope he will one day understand I joined these trials for a larger purpose.

Prunella Broadleaf appears back onscreen. She leans forward with her fingers steepled and stares into the camera with narrowed eyes. Next, the camera switches to the girl, whose mouth drops open.

“What are they saying?”

“Pru’s having a little fun with the girls,” replies the stagehand.

I glance at her headphones. “Can I listen?”

Her face twists with disgust, and she steps away from me as though I’ve proposed something indecent.

The Harvester girl gives the judges a sharp nod and takes several steps back. I lean forward and frown, wondering what on earth she is doing. Then she takes a running jump, stretches out her arms, and performs one cartwheel after another.

Applause seeps through the stage doors, and a boulder of dread drops into my stomach. I lean against the wall and stare at the screen.

“She’s dancing,” I whisper.

“Someone has to break up the monotony,” the stagehand mutters.

Tremors make the ends of my fingers vibrate, and I curl them into fists. The judges could at least make it look like they took us seriously. “Did the Noble girls have to perform?”

Her colleague’s lips tighten, and she looks at me as though I’m something that has soaked through the sole of her espadrilles. “When one is educated and poised, it’s enough to entertain the crowd with wit.”

My stomach churns, and my heart pounds so hard, I forget to flinch. I can’t dance or sing or recite poems, but I have a good eye, and I’m accurate with distance weapons. But I won’t reveal the blowgun in my pocket or the poisoned darts.

I’ll just have to refuse if Prunella Broadleaf asks me to amuse those Nobles. The Harvester girl skips around the stage, kicking her legs up and treating the audience to a view of her ankles and calves. I shake my head and feel bad for her parents, who must be horrified at the display of flesh. I won’t perform. I won’t make a national fool of myself for Mom, Dad, and the twins, to watch on OasisVision.

“You’d better start thinking of something interesting to win the audience’s vote,” says the stagehand who projects the image. “This girl is winning everyone’s hearts.”

“Will dancing like that help me become the Queen of Phangloria?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“No, but it will get you to the palace round,” she replies. “You might even meet someone special at one of the balls.”