The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(35)
I glance at my ring for signs of activity, but when no message arrives, I swing my legs out of bed and look out of the window. Beyond the trees is a long, stone building that takes up an entire block. It might be the same one we passed yesterday morning.
“Trying to escape?” Berta asks.
“Why would I want to do that?” I turn and lean against the windowpane.
Berta sits upright. She pulls her long, ash-blonde hair into a braid, which accentuates her strong features. Her eyes have an owlish, unblinking stare. They’re set far apart, and a thick nose bridge fills the gap. I can’t say that she’s unattractive—she isn’t, but it’s her harsh words and blunt personality that make her unlikeable.
“Your face last night when I told you about the bucking bronco. You looked like someone holding back a wet fart.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That perfectly describes your feelings about being the underdog.”
Her face twists into a scowl. “Even if Prince Kevon liked you, they’d never allow him to marry a Harvester.”
One corner of my lip twitches. It’s the same expression Ryce makes when something should make him smile. Berta probably thinks I’m a backward country girl who believes in fairytale romances. If only she knew.
She leans forward. “What?”
“Let’s just say I’m optimistic about the future.”
“What does that mean?
I turn back to the window. “You wouldn’t be interested. It’s just a yokel phrase.”
She huffs and moves around the room, cursing at the crappy selection of clothes. A loud slam makes me spin around, and I turn to find that she has left. There’s a second door, which probably leads to a bathroom.
Gemini jolts awake. We lock eyes for a heartbeat, and then her face crumples. My shoulders droop, and I blow out a long, tired breath. With Berta in the other room, I might be able to offer her some hope by sharing my plans, but it might be premature. We’re not in the palace, and there’s no guarantee that Gemini won’t try to barter the information to save herself.
Eventually, Berta emerges from the other room, her hair glowing with health. She wears a jumpsuit that’s tight around the chest and shoulders.
My brows draw together. “What’s—”
“They’re going to make us wear this uniform for the trials.” She spreads her arms wide. “These pants are flapping around my shins.”
I glance down at the bottoms of her jumpsuit, which end five inches above her ankles. “Can you tuck them into your boots?”
“It’s not regulation.” She walks over to her side of the room and makes her bed.
I take the pile of clothes on my trunk and walk into the bathroom. It’s four times the size of the one we use at home, covered in glossy tiles, and divided into four shower cubicles. A wide mirror hangs on the wall closest to the door, in front of which sits four benches with a perspex counter.
After placing my new outfit on the table, I undress and stand under the shower, which rains a torrent of warm water onto my head. It’s warm and more powerful than anything I’ve ever experienced.
I tilt my head toward the spray, letting the water pummel my skin. Once a month on a Sunday, each family gets to visit the public baths, where they can shower or take a swim in over-chlorinated water. This shower makes my Sunday treat feel lame.
A heavy fist thumps on the door, and I realize how much time I’ve spent in the water. Guilt creeps across my skin, combined with the shame at having wasted so much of a valuable resource. I step out of the shower, which turns itself off, and quickly get dressed.
When I return to the room, Prunella Broadleaf is standing inside with a pair of assistants. She wears a royal blue two-piece suit consisting of a jacket with similar gold brocade to the one King Arias wore on OasisVision.
“Good morning, ladies,” she says, not looking any of us in the eye.
Nobody replies. I glance at Berta, whose scowl makes me wonder if the scathing comments Prunella made to her onstage cut deep.
“Your actions have earned yourselves special roles in an interim round of the Princess Trials.”
“Isn’t this the palace round?” I ask.
Her gaze darts to me, and the corners of her lips twitch with distaste. “There’ll be an announcement about that later.”
I wrap my arms around my middle and lower myself onto the spare bed. The jumpsuit is form-fitting and makes me feel like a scarecrow that has lost its stuffing. “What’s happening?”
“You three will form the comic relief.” She recounts something similar to Berta’s explanation of Amstraad contests, except her description sounds a little more humiliating. The producers of the show will put me in situations that will incite my anger, they will enhance Berta’s unattractiveness at every opportunity, and Gemini will still die.
By the time Prunella stops speaking, even Berta is pale. I’m beginning to despise Amstraad as much as I hate the Nobles. I save my animosity for Lady Circi, who dredged up my background and for Prunella, who outlines our predicament as though putting two girls through humiliation and one to death is a matter of entertainment.
Prunella’s gaze sharpens as she turns it to Gemini. “Your father will watch highlights of the Princess Trials as part of his punishment. If you do not cooperate, we will broadcast your whipping.”