The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(59)
As the second Amstraadi girl makes a long introduction, people wearing tailored burgundy vests with matching bow-ties serve bowls of dark broth with caramelized onions and melted cheese. The scent of warm beef fills my nostrils and makes my stomach rumble, but nobody eats.
Ingrid Strab hardens her eyes. Her lips twitch as though she wants to bring up her disastrous date from the night before or tell the Amstraadi girls to stop hogging the prince’s attention.
She casts nervous glances at the camera pointed at her face, and I wish we had gotten a chance to see how things ended with her and Prince Kevon. Even though my stomach feels as though it’s digesting itself, I smile politely at the camera aimed at me.
When the last Amstraadi girl finishes talking, Prince Kevon inclines his head. “Thank you for the charming introductions.”
Rafaela grins. “You know the rest of us from watching the auditions, so why don’t we eat?” She winks at me from across the table. “I’m sure some of us are eager to start on that French onion soup.”
Prince Kevon and Rafaela share a fond glance and a chuckle but still don’t eat.
“You certainly know the prince along with many of your other co-stars,” says Ingrid. “Last week, there were pictures of you getting close to Blake Langdon, Cliff Hanson, and Grant Leonard.”
Rafaela’s smile falters. “You know better than to believe the gossip rags, Ingrid.”
Berta snorts a laugh, but I’m too hungry to care about the storm brewing at the dinner table. Everyone around us in the room is eating. The clink of silverware rings through my ears, and the scent of cooked meat taunts my nostrils. Saliva fills my mouth, but I can’t yet fill my belly.
Prince Kevon says something in Rafaela’s defense, but the words glide over my consciousness the way water rolls on dry and tightly-packed earth.
Before I can help myself, the words tumble from my lips. “The cooks have prepared such a lovely meal. Why don’t we enjoy it while it’s still hot?”
The prince’s eyes soften, and he looks at me like I’m a starved puppy. “Of course.” He picks up his soup spoon. “We thank Gaia for the wonderful food, but also remember the talented Artisans who prepared it.”
With the first spoonful, a riot of flavors explodes in my mouth. It’s sweet and rich and meaty with a hint of alcohol. The onions are so soft that they disintegrate on my tongue, and the cheese is better than anything made from goat’s milk.
Sublime is too weak a word to describe the soup, and a pang of regret strikes my heart. I wish Mom, Dad, the twins, and Ryce were here to enjoy such a sumptuous treat.
Just as I place a second spoonful in my mouth, Sabre says, “We should also thank the wonderful Harvester folk for growing these ingredients, yes?”
Prince Kevon pauses, and his cheeks darken. “Of course. Every Echelon contributes to Phangloria’s prosperity.”
I glance down into my soup, wondering why it took an Amstraadi and not me to point out Prince Kevon’s oversight. Was one taste of luxury enough to make me forget our struggles?
Sabre turns to me with a sharp smile. “You are the Harvester who ranted about the Echelon system, yes?”
Everybody turns to look at me. I want to hiss like an angry cat at the girl for bringing up my embarrassing performance in the audition, to tell her that I had been drugged, but she’s probably baiting me to lash out like a bucking bronco.
When I don’t respond, she says, “How does it feel to know that the food you grew is unappreciated?”
A bout of irritation sizzles across my skin. “That’s an interesting comment,” I said. “What makes you say that?”
Her grin widens, and the other Amstraadi girls to her left smirk. “Wasn’t it a subject you brought up during your audition?”
“When someone threw a tomato at me?” I said. “Food isn’t a weapon.”
“Ladies, let’s not talk politics at the dinner table,” says Prince Kevon. “I get enough of that with my father’s daily briefings with the Prime Minister.”
The Noble and Amstraadi girls chuckle, but Berta, Gemini, and I remain silent. Rafaela changes the subject to an upcoming festival, while Ingrid buts in with interruptions. The Noble girls exchange hateful stares and continue to compete for his attention.
If I had joined the Princess Trials for a chance with the prince, I would be annoyed with Ingrid and Rafael.
“Gemini.” Sabre gathers some broth on her soup spoon. “How do you feel about being paraded in front of the entire nation as a scapegoat?”
“She looks more like a sacrificial lamb to me,” mutters a mahogany-skinned girl on Sabre’s left.
I slip my hand under the table and wrap it around the smaller girl’s clenched fist. It’s my silent encouragement not to give these other girls the satisfaction of crumbling.
Sabre shoots me a pointed look. “I think a person should be executed for their own crimes, not the crimes of others. What do you think?”
“I don’t believe in executions at all.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
The Amstraadi girls try to drag me into a discussion of Phangloria’s death penalty policies, but I deflect their attempts to place words of sedition in my mouth. Berta mutters a few words in my defense, but the girls ignore her. Maybe that’s what everyone is supposed to treat the underdog.