The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(70)

The whispers turn to angry mutters, and all the fine hairs on my body stand on end. At this rate, an army of guards will drag me out for an interrogation from which I may never return.

“That wasn’t me,” I shout. “I was in the botanical gardens all evening with Prince Kevon!”

Triumph flashes in her eyes, and her lips curl into a smile. “Did you soak in the lovers’ bath, or did you let him deflower you in the bed of lilies?”

A bitter taste spreads across my mouth, and I want to spit. Prunella manipulated me. The black clothes, the tearful announcement, the horse manure about Rafaela’s suicide—it was all a ploy to get me to talk about my night out with Prince Kevon.

“We all want to know, don’t we ladies?” She gestures at the girls around the table, who grumble. “What did you do to capture the attention of Prince Kevon? Are you making promises of carnal delights, or are you hiding something ravenous under those voluminous Harvester skirts?”

Shame washes through my sinuses, making them sting, and tears prick the backs of my eyes. I should have withheld my reaction and waited for the right moment to strike with the truth. They’ll probably just show my outburst and not the fakery that prompted me to speak.

I try not to imagine Carolina pursing her lips at the big screen or Ryce turning his head away in disgust, but I’ve made an idiot of myself for no reason that advances my mission.

Lowering myself into the seat, I fold my arms. “Lying about a girl’s death is really low, even for a vacuous, no-talent scarecrow like you.”

The glare she gives me sends cold sludge through my veins. Prunella turns around to address the room. “Ladies, see to it that our bucking bronco doesn’t steal the prince.”

“What does that mean?” I snap.

Berta shakes her head. “She’s just rallied everyone to make you their target. Even if the prince wants you, Phangloria won’t accept a queen who has performed like an ass in front of the nation.”

I turn to Gemini, who cringes and nods. Biting on the inside of my lip, I can’t help but wonder what this means for my future with Ryce.

When I raise my head, more than half the room shoots me calculating glares.

After a breakfast of sliced melon, the production assistants lead us back to the large room, where Mistress Pavane holds a cane. She stands in front of floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the lawn. Today’s lesson is the basic waltz, and she orders us to form pairs for an assessment of our skills.

Gemini steps back and folds her arms. “I won’t be dancing at the ball.”

I’m too sickened by Prunella’s stunt and the events of last night to do anything but nod.

“You’re leading,” says Berta.

“I’ve never waltzed bef—”

“Lead.” She pulls my arms into position.

The dance mistress bangs the cane on the stone floor and counts to three in a rhythm that I assume is related to the waltz.

Berta pushes me around the dance floor in dizzying circular movements that make me stumble over my feet. My insides cringe with renewed horror as I’m once again looking ridiculous.

Mistress Pavane taps girls on the shoulder as they waltz past and tells them to move to the side of the room. All six Amstraadi pairs stand among the three Noble and Artisan pairs.

Within moments, the dance instructor tells two pairs of Guardian girls to stand aside, leaving the final pair of Guardians, all the Industrials, the Harvesters, Berta, and me.

“Stop,” I say to Berta. “This isn’t working.”

“It would if you listened to my directions.”

I shake my head and pull myself out of her grip. Maybe she’s had lessons, but I haven’t, and neither have those whose families work six days a week with only a seventh day to have a decent bath and tend to their own business.

Emmera dances with Corrie Barzona, the milkmaid from Bos, but even they struggle to perform steps they haven’t learned.

Vitelotte, the purple-haired girl from Rugosa dances with the girl from Morus, who cartwheeled through her audition. She holds her face in a neutral expression, but her nostrils are flared, revealing her displeasure.

The door opens, and a production assistant steps inside. “May I borrow Miss Calico for a moment?”

Whatever goodwill I have left plummets like a dandelion seed caught in the rain. If Prunella has shown Lady Circi this supposed footage of me sneaking into Rafaela’s room, no amount of talking will help me escape her wrath.

Mistress Pavane shoos me away.

I walk across the room to the production assistant, who hurries down the hallway and won’t answer any of my questions. Part of me wants to return to the dance class, but I think about the larger prize. Even if it means being tripped up or turned into a donkey’s behind, I’ve got to endure it until the palace round.

The assistant opens the door to an office with dark wood furniture and a gold-button naval jacket hanging on the wall. The bookshelf of leather tomes and globe give it an old-world feel, and the sight is ruined by Prunella Broadleaf sitting behind the desk with her tablet. She has changed to a pastel green version of her black suit, which looks terrible with her peach-colored makeup.

Prunella points at a low, metal stool in front of her desk that reminds me of an upturned bucket. “Please sit.”

“What’s this about?” I ask.