The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(29)

A few people in the audience clap, but when nobody else joins them, they stop. My throat dries, and I blink through watery eyes. My vision clears.

The orchestra sits one level below the stage, each member clutching a shiny instrument. Behind them are levels upon levels of raised seating platforms that stretch out an eighth of a mile. There’s a hundred or more, but I’m too nervous to count.

Balconies lit by candelabra wall sconces fill the curved walls, and they’re crammed with silhouetted figures. In the middle is the curtained arch that makes up the royal box.

It feels like every single one of Phangloria’s five-thousand Nobles is sitting in the audience, which makes sense, considering that they don’t actually do any of the work.

“What’s your name, my dear, and where are you from?” says Prunella Broadleaf.

I turn to the judges’ table on my right. My vision clears a little more, and I can tell that the dark figure on the far left is Lady Circi. The one on the far right must be Prunella.

“Zea. Zea-Mays Calico, Mistress,” I say. “And I come from Rugosa and work in the tomato fields.”

Someone barks out a laugh, and I know why. Most Harvester names are crop-related, and we’re the largest grower of corn in Phangloria. Mom fell in love with the Latin name for corn and thought it would be great to name me after the field where she met Dad. Before I can stop myself, the story tumbles from my lips.

The audience coos, and my cheeks heat. That information had been personal and not fodder for the amusement of a bunch of idle Nobles.

Lady Circi clears her throat. “Your juvenile record is interesting. You were whipped at the age of twelve and fourteen for assaulting guards with—” She pauses as though not believing what she sees. “A slingshot?”

I gulp, and the crowd whispers. Why would she dredge up my past to the whole of Phangloria? My gaze darts to the audience, who is waiting for my reply.

“They were attacking Harvester girls.” The words tumble from my mouth. “I wanted them to stop.”

A hush falls across the auditorium, and the only sound is the pulse pounding between my ears. This is nothing like the warm applause they gave Corrie Barzona from Bos or the amused cheers they offered to the cartwheeling girl.

If I don’t do something now, Lady Circi will turn the voters against me. I square my shoulders and say, “Juvenile records are supposed to be erased when a person comes of age. I’ve matured since then.”

The dark-skinned woman leans forward and drawls, “Indeed?”

I offer an eager nod.

“What would you do now if you saw a guard attacking a girl?” she asks.

My teeth clamp shut. If that stupid drug makes me blurt out the events of yesterday, I will end up in a cell with poor Krim. Forelle and everyone else who covered up for my criminal act would join me. I breathe hard, forcing my survival instinct to overcome my lack of inhibitions.

“I would ask them to stop, but isn’t the bigger problem—”

“And if he didn’t?” Lady Circi asks.

“Then I would call another guard to help.”

Laughter fills the auditorium, and my head pounds to the beat of a war drum. I have no clue why they thought that was funny. Anyone intervening with a guard’s fun gets threatened or attacked or killed like Mr. Wintergreen. Calling a second guard would only double the girl’s suffering, but there’s no other solution I can offer that won’t label me as rebellious.

“Zea-Mays is right,” says Princess Briar, sounding bored. “Juvenile records have no bearing on the Princess Trials.”

A relieved breath slides from between my lips, and I send the princess a silent word of thanks.

“Then let’s move to genetic background,” drawls Lady Circi. “Your mother is a Foundling?”

Her words land like a kick to the gut, and I flinch. Blood roars through my ears, and the pounding in my head is louder than the audience’s gasping disapproval. Nobody—I don’t care if they are Harvester, guard, or Prince Kevon himself—nobody mocks Mom.

“Second generation,” I snap back, all notions of self-preservation evaporating in the heat of my fury. “She was born in Phangloria and moved out of the Barrens after passing the Genetic Acceptability Test.”

The audience grumbles. Everyone is probably picturing the type of people so misshapen by genetic abnormalities that they barely look human or the tribes of cannibalistic wild men that attack our borders. Foundlings aren’t anything like that.

Border Guards only allow those who look sane and rational through the Great Wall. And Foundlings have to stay in the Barrens for decades—and sometimes generations—until they test free of radiation. Most of them never progress to the Harvester region, but their offspring might if they’re genetically pure.

“Dear me.” Prunella Broadleaf places a handkerchief to her face, reminding me of the Industrials protecting themselves from the smog. “Does she have six feet? Webbed toes?”

The audience roars with mocking laughter, and Princess Briar huffs out an exasperated breath while Prunella smirks. Lady Circi shakes her head and returns to reading her computer tablet. The pressure pounding through my skull explodes.

“Mistress Broadleaf,” I say in my snippiest voice. “Are you suggesting the Guardians’ security measures are inadequate?”

She stiffens. “Of course, not.”