The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(57)
A muscle in my foot cramps from the repetitive movements, and I stop flouncing about to walk it off.
“You there.” She points at me. “The Foundling.”
I clench my teeth. “What?”
“At least make an effort to participate.” She widens her stance, placing her balled hands on her fists. “You want to impress Prince Kevon, not incite his pity.”
I snarl and continue limping around the room. A camerawoman keeps at my side, recording every wince, and my hands twitch to slap the annoying device out of her hands. I’m sure a little tantrum will excite the viewing public.
Berta gets the brunt of the instructor’s sharp tongue. Each time the older woman refers to her as a donkey, an oaf, or a blundering ape, my sympathy for the larger girl grows. Berta’s shoulders tighten, but she doesn’t snap back at the insults, not even when the instructor says she’s only fit to muck out Foundlings.
By the time Mistress Pavane dismisses me, Berta, and two wheezing Industrial girls as lost causes, the sun has already set, and I can’t believe what walking around in a circle has done to my body. My throat is dry, my stomach concave, and my head won’t stop spinning. Add heatstroke, and this might as well be a day’s work in the fields.
We file out of the room, but a hand lands on my shoulder.
“Miss Calico,” says Mistress Pavane. A camerawoman stands at her side, filming my reaction. Next to me is another of those annoying women, who fixes her camera on the dance instructor.
I pause and wait for a blistering reprimand for lacking grace or not trying hard enough.
“Despite your clumsy demeanor, you would have a chance of succeeding in this round if you participate fully in these trials.”
“But I am—”
“Why are you here at all when you resent the very people giving you a chance to elevate yourself beyond a tomato picker?”
My brows draw together. There’s no point in correcting her that I only weed the tomato fields and haven’t yet progressed to picking the fruit. “I don’t resent anyone.”
She pulls a remote from the pocket of her skirt and points it at the wall screen. The music stops, and her hawkish gaze penetrates mine. “Then I will give you the benefit of the doubt and believe that your features fall in such an unsightly manner.”
Indignation burns through my sinuses, making my skin tighten. What on earth is she talking about? No one has ever complained about my face.
“There it is,” she says, her eyes flashing with triumph. “You act as though these trials are something you must endure to gain a larger prize.”
My mouth drops open. Am I really that obvious? Without the music, there is nothing to cushion the weight of her words. And worst of all, OasisVision might broadcast this reprimand all over Phangloria. I swallow hard and hope Carolina and Ryce can’t listen to the device in my boot. They would hate my lack of discretion.
“At the ball, when Prince Kevon surveys the selection of beauties, who will he be most likely to invite for an evening’s promenade?” She sweeps her arm in a graceful arc and points a toe on the polished stone floor. “The delightful young lady who glows in his presence or the hunched, scowling creature seething with hatred?”
The camerawoman standing over Mistress Pavane’s shoulder steps forward for a close-up of my stricken expression, and I drop my gaze to the floor. What kind of spy shows her true emotions? If I continue like this, I’ll be joining Gemini on the execution block.
“Think about what I have said.” Mistress Pavane gives my shoulder a firm squeeze. “You have everything necessary to catch the eye of His Highness. Everything except the attitude.”
Ryce said to do what it took to get into the palace. Somehow, I’ve got to convince the voting public that I’m interesting enough to keep around. I close my eyes, blow out a long breath, and nod.
“Thank you.” The words come from my heart. “I needed to hear that.”
“Dismissed,” she replies.
One of the camera women remains with Mistress Pavane, presumably to interview her on our performance, while the other guides me out of the room and down the stone hallway to a smaller room. Empty garment rails line three of the walls, and a row of trunks sit along the fourth.
Berta stands on one of six podiums surrounded by a gaggle of seamstresses, who fit her into a silver gown that exposes long, shapely legs at the front with a train at the back that sweeps down to her ankles.
I don’t have time to marvel at her spectacular transformation or the way they have pinned up her hair with silver combs because the head seamstress shrieks that she has run out of gowns and can’t dress me for the royal dinner.
The camerawoman filming Berta turns to capture my reaction, and all I can smell is horse manure. I can’t believe the seamstresses didn’t know there would be forty-five girls. And it’s far too much of a coincidence that Mistress Pavane kept me behind for a talk that lost me a chance to wear an evening gown.
My jaw clenches, and I walk around the room, opening trunk after trunk, only to find them empty. A tight band of trepidation squeezes my chest tighter as I move along the row. The last trunk holds a box of pins, and I’m ready to hurl them into the camera pointed at my face.
Even though Mistress Pavane deliberately held me back, she was right about one thing. I need to show Prince Kevon and the voting public that I’m worth progressing to the next round.