The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(55)

Prunella’s eyes sparkle with challenge, and she places a hand on her hip. “Miss Calico, we’re transforming you from a feral beast into something vaguely resembling a girl. Is ingratitude a common Harvester trait?”

A surge of fury heats my veins. What have the people at the Oasis ever done for Harvesters? I take a deep breath to unleash a barrage of truths, but triumph flashes across her eyes, and I clamp my mouth shut. She wants me to rant at the camera.

My lips tighten, and annoyance fizzles across my skin. Prince Kevon told me I had appeared rebellious during my audition, I won’t give this manipulative social climber the chance to get me thrown out of the Trials.

“I’m proud to support the agriculture of Phangloria. If that means my skin isn’t perfect, it’s a small price to keep everyone fed.” I beam at the camera, hoping that the viewers will see Prunella Broadleaf as the villain.

Prunella’s face morphs into a grimace. She addresses one of the women applying bands over the other girls’ bodies. “Please make sure to wrap plenty of ElastoSculpt over Miss Calico’s significant physical flaws.”

The beautician applies band after band around my torso, which compress my ribs until the contents of my lungs whoosh out in a noisy breath.

“Wha—”

The ElastoSculpt pinches my stomach, cinches my waist, and encases my middle in a constrictor grip that squeezes my pounding heart. I inhale, but the breath only reaches the tops of my lungs. Chills spread across my skin. I grab the beautician’s arm, trying to tell her to take off that last band, but she steps back and stands next to a gloating Prunella.

Sweat dampens my brow, and the tips of my fingers turn numb. I twist from left to right, where Berta and Gemini stare at me with wide eyes. If I don’t get these things off, they’ll crush my insides. My knees weaken, and I step off the podium before I fall, but someone gives me a hard shove in the back, knocking me face-down to the stone floor.

“Interesting.” Prunella rolls me over with the toe of her boot. “Is this Harvester weakness or proof that Foundlings don’t have any place in our society? Even a mannish brute and the daughter of a traitor can tolerate simple underwear.”

As blackness crawls across the edges of my vision, Prunella tells someone to take me upstairs so I can sleep it off over lunch. Rough hands bundle me onto a stretcher and carry me out of the room. A camera lens fills my vision, and someone fires questions at me that I can’t hear through the pounding of my pulse.

A groan slips from my lips. How can I advance to the palace round if I’m not conscious enough to amuse the audience? I’m failing my mission, failing Carolina, and failing Ryce. Most important of all, I’m failing every Harvester and Industrial who suffers to provide a life of luxury and comfort to these ungrateful Nobles.

The camera stays on my face as I’m wheeled into an elevator, which lurches up and turns my stomach. Nausea surges through my gut, and the acidic remains of my half-digested apples spill from the sides of my lips.

I turn my head and fade away.

By the time I awaken, something warm and fuzzy rubs against the side of my face. It feels like a dream, but a scent of familiar feathers and musk fills my nostrils. I open my eyes and meet Sharqi’s unblinking gaze. My head jerks back, and a shocked breath hisses through my teeth.

Satisfied, Sharqi ruffles her lime-green feathers and opens her beak.

There’s something inside her mouth.





Chapter 16





I sit up and stare at the object in Sharqi’s beak. The bird stretches her wings and takes flight, revealing the gray underside of her wings. She tilts her head, and a flattened walnut shell drops in my lap.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

Of course, the bird doesn’t answer. What about her chicks? Two days ago, they were barely ready to take flight. I glance around the room for signs of the overgrown baby birds then shake my head. It’s a wonder that Sharqi infiltrated the barracks by herself. She’s intelligent, but not a prodigy.

I pick up the walnut casing, which cracks under my fingernails like an eggshell. A wafer-thin watch face lies inside, and it’s attached to a transparent strap that feels like wisps of corn silk.

As soon as my fingers touch the blank screen, Ryce’s face appears. My gaze fixes on the dimple on his chin, which I hadn’t fully appreciated until now.

His lips part. “Zea?”

“Ryce!” I whisper. “What’s going on?”

His eyes flutter closed. “I was so worried about you in that place. Congratulations on finding a way out.”

A lump forms in my throat. It looks like Prunella Broadleaf failed to tell the audience at home that we were in a simulation. I want to tell Ryce that I’m fine, but the words die on my tongue. The unfairness of the last trial fills me with bitterness, but I must focus on the mission.

“Zea.” His features turn stern. “We don’t have much time.”

I nod.

“You’ve got to befriend Prince Kevon and have him invite you to the palace.”

“But the public vote—”

“Only applies to Nobles, and they won’t want Harvesters progressing into the next round.” The screen tilts toward his pale eyes.

“What should I do?”

“Whatever is necessary, soldier.” The steel in his voice makes my heart plummet. This is the Ryce Wintergreen, who leads our Red Runner cell, not the young man who wrapped an arm around my waist and hinted at a possible future together. “Is that understood?”