The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(56)
“Yes,” I whisper.
His face disappears from view, and I stare at the blank screen until Sharqi nuzzles my arm with her head.
The watch buzzes, and a message scrolls onscreen:
YOU CAN DO IT. MY LOVE AND ADMIRATION FOR YOU IS DEEPER THAN THE OCEAN. SPEAK TO YOU AFTER DARK. XXXX
My chest lightens, and I exhale a long breath. Ryce was probably pressed for time and needed to be curt, but I still don’t know if he’s in the Oasis or how he trained Sharqi to send messages.
I slip off my boot and slide the phone into its inside pocket. That way, I’ll hear when he calls or messages.
The door opens, and a jolt of alarm shoots through my insides.
Berta stands in the doorway with a bundle of gray fabric under her arm. Her ash-blond hair shines with warmer highlights and is cut in several uneven layers and bangs that sweep across her broad forehead. She wears full makeup with gray eyeshadow and pink lipstick with dark shading on the sides of her nose to make it appear smaller and thinner. The only part about her that hasn’t changed is her size and posture.
She frowns at Sharqi. “What the hell is that bird doing here?”
“Get inside,” I hiss.
Berta steps into the room and closes the door. “Wild birds carry diseases. We need to report it—”
“She’s mine,” I whisper. “Two years ago, I found her lying underneath a giant agave plant with her wing broken. She has stayed with me since.”
Berta folds her arms across her chest. “Don’t tell me you nursed that thing to health and tamed it?”
“It’s not illegal to have a pet,” I snap.
Her eyes soften. “There’s a calico cat I sometimes feed. Its name is Whiskers.”
“Oh.” I exhale a relieved breath. Maybe she won’t report Sharqi’s presence.
“You can’t keep that creature here. It’s probably still radioactive and will trash our genes while we sleep.” She strides across the room and opens a window, letting in warm, grass-scented air. The silk of her gray dress hugs her waist, accentuating her ElastoSculpted figure.
My gaze drops to my open gown, and I grimace at the tight bands holding me around my middle.
“Throw it out, and I won’t order it exterminated,” she says.
I grind my teeth. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”
She throws the fabric onto the foot of the bed. “Put this on. You’re wanted for deportment lessons.”
“Thank you for finding me, Sharqi,” I whisper. “Let’s meet later on the grounds.”
Sharqi stares into my eyes as though looking into my soul. Mom told me once that certain types of birds can form deep bonds with humans. The Red Runners use desert runners to send messages, but maybe Sharqi and I have that same, deep connection. How else would she know where to find me?
I release my friend, and she hops onto the ground and bounds across the room. Berta steps back as though the bird lets out clouds of radioactive dust. In a flurry of wings, Sharqi jumps onto the windowsill, turns her head, and with a nod goodbye, launches herself into the sky.
“Good riddance.” Berta slams the window shut. “Don’t ever bring a wild animal here. Pixel might not care about the long-term effect of contact with those creatures, but I’m not eager to bleed out of every orifice.”
Every instinct wants me to snap back at her, but I hold my tongue. If there are Red Runner operatives close by, I can’t afford to even hint about their presence.
She stands at the door and waves her hands in a shooing motion. “Go on then. Get dressed.”
“Did I miss anything?”
“Lunch.” She rolls her eyes. “And a boring lesson on how to use a knife and fork. Anyone who embarrasses Broadleaf during tonight’s fancy dinner gets half-rations from now until the ball.”
Without bothering to explain the dinner, Berta leaves the room. I go through my entire conversation with Ryce, and my stomach tightens at the implications of doing whatever is necessary to get into the palace.
After washing my face, I slip on the gray dress and gasp as the silk caresses my body. It’s smooth and soft and warms against my skin. I’ve never felt anything so luxurious. Sending a silent word of thanks to the Harvesters in Morus for husbanding the silkworms, I head downstairs, where an assistant ushers me into the large room from before. The booths have gone, and all the girls walk in a circle around a stern-faced woman.
I turn to the assistant. “What’s happening?”
“That’s Mistress Briella Pavane. She’s the foremost dance instructor in Phangloria. She’s going to train you on how to move with elegance and poise.”
We spend the entire day walking around in that circle, performing enough dips and spins and turns to keep me off-balance. At one point, she makes us tap the tips of our toes from side to front in a graceful movement that would only kick up dust in Rugosa.
Everyone from the Industrial and Harvester echelons struggles to keep our backs straight, to move in time with the beat, and a hundred other faults Mistress Pavane points out over the hours. Even Emmera, who is graceful and poised, can’t satisfy Mistress Pavane. Eventually, she allows those who have perfected the routine to leave early to get the first pick of the gowns.
The Amstraadi girls, who mirror the instructor’s movements, are the first allowed to leave. Next to perfect the routine is a pink-haired Artisan girl who I suspect is a professional dancer, and then Rafaela and the short-haired noble girl, followed by some more Artisans.