The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(32)

“Do you know Jimeno Montana?” I ask.

She leans forward with her elbows resting on her thighs. “Oh, you’re talking about the government news channel. Don’t you get anything else apart from the official news?”

They play documentaries and the occasional relic from the past on OasisVision, but I shake my head and stare down at Gemini Pixel. At least now I know why she’s lost herself to despair. “What’s going to happen to her?”

“I don’t know.” The girl reaches down and yanks Gemini upright. “Sit down and stop sniveling, will you?”

“Hey—”

“I don’t see you picking her off the floor.” After plonking poor Gemini on one of the seats, she reaches for me, but I scoot back across the stone floor and stand. Her outstretched hand moves up, then I realize she wasn’t trying to lift me or anything weird. “Berta Ridgeback. And you are?”

I shake her hand and wince at the firm grip. The rough skin on her palm reminds me of Dad’s hands. “Zea. Zea-Mays Calico.”

She sits, leaving a chair between herself and Gemini. “I can’t say it’s good to meet you.”

My lips tighten, but I don’t comment on her rudeness. She probably isn’t pleased to be in this room and was clumsy with her phrasing. “What’s a bucking bronco?”

“It’s a term used in Amstrad TV shows. Most of the ones they broadcast here are competitions where people compete for some kind of prize.” She raises a massive shoulder. “A year’s supply of Smoky Water, a pig roast, or a bolt of silk.” She turns to me to make sure I’m following.

I nod, even though I’m not sure she’s answered my question.

“To make the shows more exciting, the producers place extra contestants into the show.” Berta scratches the side of her face, and I glance away when it sounds like the rasp of a nail against stubble. “They’re not supposed to win or anything, but they amuse the audience while the legitimate contestant focuses on winning. Get it?”

“No.”

She huffs out an exasperated breath, and my insides squirm with the kind of awkwardness I got at school when getting an answer wrong.

“Alright.” She points at Gemini. “You said she’s the scapegoat, right?”

“Yes.”

“At some point during the trial, she’s going to die.”

Gemini makes a choked cry, and my heart flips upside-down. “I thought you said—”

“They announced her father’s execution by proxy last week, but now it’s going to take place in the Trials.”

All the blood drains from my face, and I’m glad to be sitting because I’m not sure that my legs can hold up my body weight. I can’t look at Gemini because it feels like I’m about to be sick. This is—I have no words to describe my horror.

“Why?” I whisper.

“She’s going to die anyway, so why not spice up the trials, Amstraad style?”

I clench my teeth, breathing through my emotions. Whoever sentenced an innocent girl to death is the one who needs a public execution. “How can you talk about it so casually?”

Berta shrugs and turns back to the screen, where a Harvester girl talks directly to the camera. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want to know the answers.”

Gemini’s head remains bowed. Teardrops splatter on her nightgown, and my throat aches with sympathy. If we can start the revolution before her execution date, we might save her from an undeserved death.

My lips part to utter words of comfort to the girl, but no sound comes out. I can’t give her false hope, and most importantly, I can’t speak freely in front of someone who callously agrees with the slaughter of an innocent.

Later, I ask, “What’s the role of a bucking bronco, then?”

“Someone who provides the laughs by throwing a tantrum every time the contestants pranks her,” she says. “Like a raging bull but scrawnier.”

“The ambassador said you were the underdog.”

She scowls. “That figures. It’s not like I have any chance of winning this stupid trial.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, biting back the question on my lips. Turning my gaze from Berta, I glance at the screen. Vitelotte stands onstage, her expression serene. The camera cuts to Lady Circi, who points at something on the screen of her tablet.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Berta barks.

“What?” I turn back to the large girl.

“Why would a brute like me join a trial when she isn’t small or feminine or beautiful?”

“I wasn’t—”

“As soon as they announced the trials, my mother wouldn’t stop whining at me to apply.” She claps her hands to her chest and says in a high voice, “Oh, Bertie, you should try out. Oh, Bertie, you’re being too hard on yourself. Oh, Bertie, you’re perfectly beautiful. Any young gentleman would be lucky to have you as his wife!”

My gaze drops to my stained apron. “Oh.”

“I was sick of her wittering on and spouting crap. She had to see my humiliation broadcasted across the nation before it would sink into her thick skull that I’m not like other girls.”

“You passed the first round in the marquee?” I ask.