The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(61)
Prince Kevon opens the passenger door, releasing a blast of cold, polish-scented air. I slide inside to find that its interior consists of enough leather to provide protective footwear for every family on my street. I have to hold back a gasp at the waste.
He gets into the driver’s side and places his fingertips on a screen in the steering wheel that scans his prints. The car makes a low hum and welcomes him by name. I shake my head. Technology like this is beyond the imagination of any Harvester.
“Montana never shows us cars like this,” I say.
“It’s hardly an appropriate subject for the government channel,” he replies with a smile.
I can’t comment because Carolina’s voice keeps screaming at me to ask Prince Kevon to see the palace, and a shudder runs through my insides. What if he misinterprets my request and takes me to his bedroom? Nausea wriggles down my throat as realization hits that this might be what Ryce suggested.
“When will I get to see the palace?” I blurt.
“I think Prunella has one more trial planned before the ball.” He turns to me with a dazzling smile. “Would you like a tour?”
“Yes!”
“There’s always a floorshow of professional dancers at the ball performing a rendition of an ancient routine. That might be our best opportunity to sneak out.”
My lips part to let out a shocked breath. I want to go to the palace now, not later, but how can I say that without sounding forward?
Prince Kevon turns to the dashboard, and the tension in my shoulders and gut dissolves with relief. I don’t need to visit the palace tonight.
The car drives itself and takes us out of the building, down a tree-lined street through the city, and onto a familiar-looking highway. As we descend down and around a hill, a view of glowing interconnected domes appears through the windscreen.
From a distance, I can tell that they consist of patterns of five hexagonal frames set around a pentagon. It’s even more magical in the dark than during the day, as the structures form a circle around the entire Oasis.
“Can anyone in Phangloria visit the domes?” I ask.
He gives me a kind smile. “If you want to invite your family, I can arrange a permit.”
That had been a stupid question. We’re not even allowed out of the Harvester Region without the relevant permission. Harvesters and Industrials make up seventy-five percent of Phangloria, and the Nobles only account for one percent. After spending time in the Oasis, I understand that sharing with us will dilute their wealth.
Even though the word sticks in my throat, I manage to say, “Thanks.”
I stare out into the lamp-lit highway toward the botanical gardens. Prince Kevon explains that each cluster of domes contains plants and environmental controls that mimic the climates that used to exist on earth before nuclear weapons set off a chain of natural disasters that destroyed our planet.
My breaths turn shallow, and I have to contain the excitement that thrums through my insides. This is like the time when I was so engrossed in the French onion soup that I hadn’t noticed Prince Kevon not expressing his appreciation for the Harvesters who grew the ingredients.
I turn away from the arresting sight and stare at his profile. “Did you get a chance to investigate my supervisor’s wrongful arrest?”
“It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about,” he replies.
I long to know which other subjects he wants to raise, but ask, “What did you find out?”
“Someone reported your former supervisor for the production and dissemination of persimmon-based alcohol. He would have gotten arrested regardless of whether that guard got stung.”
A shocked breath huffs out of my lungs. That makes no sense. “Krim wouldn’t—”
“I looked into the file and found images taken of a still he kept in his basement. Mr. Krim knew the penalty, yet he decided to take the risk.”
I dip my head and frown. Alcohol is good enough when Montana sends out crates of vodka to the town that produces the highest output. When Harvesters try to make something similar for themselves, they disappear.
Up close, the botanical gardens are even more majestic. When I saw their exterior days ago, I had been tired, hungry, and unable to pay it the attention it deserved. Now, I’m alert and can’t stop thinking about what I will find inside.
He parks the car outside a much smaller dome, walks around and opens the door, letting in the heat. “My favorite set of domes are of the tropical biosphere. Garrett and I have a treehouse hidden on one of the higher levels. Would you like to visit it?”
“Sure.”
He helps me out of the car and stands at the smaller dome, where a panel scans his entire palm.
The smaller dome is about as tall as a three-story building, but I have to tilt my head up and lean back to take in the scale of the larger dome.
“How tall are the botanical gardens?” I ask.
“Two-hundred-and-twenty feet, although we’re rebuilding a section of domes to accommodate our giant redwoods.”
One of the hexagonal panels swings open, and Prince Kevon ushers me into an indoor facility with rows and rows of little plants growing in pots, each supplied with similar drip irrigation used for the tomatoes in Rugosa.
We walk down a path and approach a tall arch that leads to the next dome, and the air becomes warmer and more humid. It’s just like the public bathhouse showers.