The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(84)
“Now, everyone watches the Lifestyle Channel to see her crumble.”
Master Thymel clasps his hands. “Her heartbreak is a work of art.”
I glance at Forelle, who sits on a far sofa with her arms wrapped around her middle. If the Thymel siblings were talking about anyone else, I would probably dislike them for reveling in another person’s misery. But heartbroken or not, Prunella Broadleaf is a corn snake and my biggest source of strife in the Princess Trials.
My eyes still itch, and my throat still hurts because of the disgusting fake footage she showed and her announcement to the other girls to come after me.
With a huge smile, I turn to the designers. “Let’s get started.”
The black fabric comes off the huge trunk, revealing dozens of gowns, each wrapped in a plastic covering that they explain is vacuum sealing. The process lets them transport a larger quantity of voluminous outfits.
The girls usher me behind a privacy screen created by one of the trunk’s open doors and fit me with a flesh-colored body stocking with fingers and toes. When I emerge, Forelle gapes and then frowns. Before I can explain that I’m not nude, Master Thymel wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me onto a platform.
The body stocking inflates and squeezes my limbs, and I jump down to the floor. “What’s happening?”
“Our measuring suit takes an electronic mold of your body.” Master Thymel wags his finger and lifts me back into place. “It’s the latest in fashion for the busy madame. We take your measurements and fit the garment to a customized mold, so there’s no waiting around or being poked with pins.”
Forelle laughs. “This is so much better than the Harvester way.”
I smile as she hurries behind the screen to get a bodysuit. Our uniforms come in eight sizes, ranging from infant to matron. Children get new clothing every eighteen months to accommodate new growth, but the replacements slow to one every five years for adults with a new matron outfit each time a Harvester records a pregnancy.
The uniforms are always slightly too big and need adjusting, but we’re free to alter them however we wish. I always sew deep pockets into my skirts from scraps of fabric to fit a blowgun and quiver.
The body stocking deflates, and Forelle emerges to take my place on the podium. Master Thymel places a hand on my back and guides me to his trunk, where plastic-wrapped and vacuum-sealed gowns of every color hang from the rails.
His gaze sweeps over my body, and he drums his fingers on his chin. “You have such versatile coloring. Pale skin, mahogany hair, and rich, aquamarine eyes. How do you feel about a deep plum?”
Nobody in Rugosa ever has the opportunity to ponder on the color of their clothes. I shrug. “It’s better than Harvester brown.”
Master Thymel throws his head back and laughs as though I’ve just told the biggest joke. It’s a hooting sound that half-bird, half-monkey, and I can’t help but smile.
“Very well, we’ll try every color and see what you think.”
Chapter 23
The Thymel siblings wheel their trunk out of the guesthouse and complete the adjustments in their vehicle, leaving us alone in the vast living room.
Forelle finds a recorded lesson on ballroom dancing, and we spend the rest of the morning practicing the waltz. I’m not terrible, but I hope the voluminous skirt of the dress they chose will hide any awkward steps.
Forelle shows me how to order lunch with Netface, which is more than a mode of face-to-face communication. It starts with a black screen that asks if you want to shop or chat, and then there is a dizzying amount of options for things people can buy. One of them includes home visits, but we skip over that part and select food.
Everyone in Rugosa gets an allowance of cornmeal, a box of fresh vegetables, and a quantity of soy protein. We’re allowed to barter anything we grow in our homes or collect from the wild.
Even with Dad’s micro gardens providing us with enough herbs to exchange for meat and fish, there’s no way we could begin to mimic any of the items on the menu.
“You have to try the melting king. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve eaten.” Forelle taps the screen and brings up a picture of an old-fashioned burger with two patties, strips of bacon and melted cheese. “It comes with a milkshake and fries.”
My brows draw together. There’s enough meat in that burger to create a stew that will feed Mom, Dad, the twins, and me for at least two days. “Is that for one person?”
“We can share,” she says.
In less than ten minutes, a man in burgundy arrives with a tray containing the items we ordered plus a salad of pickled raw cabbage shredded into delicate wisps, a dish of potato salad, and hot rings of onion fried in batter. There are bowls of condiments—a tomato sauce, a mustard sauce, mayonnaise, and thick sauces containing chopped pickled vegetables, which Forelle tells me is called relish. It’s more food than we can eat and even more delicious than the steak sandwiches I ate at the botanical gardens.
After lunch, a man from the Royal Hospital drops by with a case that contains lightweight machines that check the quality of my vision and the health of my eyes. I’m not surprised when he tells me that my wrist monitor was disconnected after I left the hospital. My situation mirrors that of Rafaela van Eyck, except she wasn’t sharing a room with a girl as strong as Berta.