I give myself a mental snap and force myself to focus on my potential assassination. All thoughts of wasted silk drifts from my mind. I pick up the champagne flute and place the glass to my lips.
My heart pounds as the silence drags on, and the champagne cools in my clammy fingers. The queen and Lady Circi sip their drinks, and the only person in this mobile dressing room with an ounce of humanity is the girl in purple trying to work on the dress without snagging the queen’s hair.
This feels like the chess matches old men play in the Rugosa dome, where they’re stuck in a stalemate and pondering their next move, except no-one has informed me of the game, its rules, or how to forfeit.
The girl’s busy hands pause, and the silk fabric slides down the queen’s front. My cheeks turn hot, and I turn to Lady Circi, who pinches the bridge of her nose. When the queen rises from her seat, the entire dress slides to the vehicle’s floor in a puddle of ivory silk.
Queen Damascena hands her glass to the girl and stalks across the van, clad only in ElastoSculpt, which stretches from her ribcage to her hips. She braces her hand on the bar and leans over me. “Tell me exactly what happened the moment you stepped off the bus last night.”
This is probably the most awkward situation of my life, and that includes all the recent murder attempts. The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise as her blossom scent fills my nostrils, and my head swims. Mandragon blossoms develop into poison berries, and I’m sure the scent is affecting my nervous system, but it’s nothing compared to the encroaching queen.
I drop my gaze to the champagne glass, where the bubbles rise to the surface, pop, and release their fruity scent. A tight band of panic squeezes my lungs, and it takes all my strength to reply.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
Cool fingers slide under my chin and raise my head to meet the queen’s even colder gaze. They’re what Mom would call cerulean blue, with enough flecks of gray and pink to make them appear violet. The effect is unsettling, and I’m tempted to take a mouthful of potentially poisoned champagne to calm my nerves.
“It will take hours to comb the woods and reconstruct the events of last night, so you will tell me what happened,” she says in a voice as sharp as a blade. Before I can splutter a denial, she adds, “The DNA of the blood found at the scene of Miss Ridgeback’s death matches yours.”
All feeling trickles from my face and gathers around my spasming heart. “What will you do?”
She draws back a few paces and stands with her arms folded over her chest. The pressure around my lungs eases, but not by much. “I could offer you to General Ridgeback as consolation for the loss of his daughter, but I think he prefers a more curvaceous woman, like your mother.”
My mouth falls open. “What—”
She raises a finger to her lips. “Don’t fret. If you cooperate with me, nothing will happen to your precious family. We’re keeping them safe, aren’t we, Circi?”
The queen’s lady-at-arms inclines her head. “If you mean the four armed vehicles stationed around the Calico house, sure.”
The queen’s lips tighten. I’m not sure if that’s because of Lady Circi’s sarcasm or because she finds the sight of me distasteful. “As you see, your family is in safe hands.”
They’re not. Guards are notorious for their short tempers, and their quick fists, and their desire to subjugate Harvesters.
The girl in purple pulls out a powder-blue dress and holds it up to Queen Damascena, who shakes her head. The girl returns to the rail and selects a near-identical dress with a V neckline instead of a round one, and the queen nods.
Now that some of the attention is off me, I can finally exhale. “Your Majesty—”
“Tell me what happened,” she snaps.
The events of last night spill from my lips. She’s probably seen the footage from the armored personnel carrier of Berta and me taking out the hijackers and then Ingrid rallying the girls to hunt me to death.
Queen Damascena raises her hand. “What happened to the foundling’s weapon?”
I shake my head. “He was already dead by the time I reached him.”
Her body stills, and her eyes narrow. I’m locked in her gaze and can’t breathe. It’s like how I imagine a mouse might feel when caught in the sights of a cobra. It’s trapped and no amount of running will put enough distance between them when the snake strikes.
Moments pass in silence, and nobody around us moves. Not even the seamstress approaching the queen with the dress.
Heavy, rapid thuds of my frantic heart fill my ears, and ragged breaths fill my nostrils. She can’t know I’m lying about not killing Berta. By the time the girls decided to hunt me, we had already thrown off and discarded our Amstraad monitors.
“Do you know what the coroner found in Berta Ridgeback’s blood?” she asks.
“No,” I lie.
“Traces of the Foundling’s poison.”
Silence.
Carolina Wintergreen taught us that silence was a technique interrogators use to trick people into spilling their secrets. Sometimes, they drop devastating facts and sit back to watch their victims scramble around for answers. Other times, they ask a question then remain silent when you answer. It’s a prompt for people to blurt out anything to prove their innocence, including facts that betray their guilt.
I resent the woman for offering me this dangerous mission, but I’m grateful that something I’ve learned in the Red Runner cells is proving useful. Instead of letting anxiety run my mouth, I empty my mind and stare back at the queen.
Her nostrils flare. “Miss Ridgeback tried to kill you.”
I nod because Ingrid probably offered Berta the position of lady-at-arms in view of a hidden camera.
“Tell me how a Harvester weed picker escaped a combat-trained gorilla like Berta Ridgeback.”
My throat dries, and I tell her the truth. “I didn’t.”
“Explain.”
“She beat me up. I tried to escape, but she kept coming at me. Then she….” An idea slams into the back of my head.
Queen Damascena’s breath quickens. “What happened?”
“Berta slowed down and didn’t hit so hard or fast. I thought she got tired, so I stumbled away. She followed and tripped, then we both tumbled down the mountainside and fell into a cavern.”
Her lips thin, and she beckons for the girl to approach her with the dress. “You left your friend to die in an underground sewer?”
The girl holds the dress close to the ground, and Queen Damascena steps into the ring of fabric. As a relieved breath slips from my lungs, I place the glass back onto the bar. My heartbeat slows, and I feel the vehicle’s faint rumble against the soles of my shoes.
She doesn’t care about Berta’s life or her grieving parents. This supposed murder interrogation is all about the place where she died.
The cavern looked like a lake to me, but Prince Kevon said it was a river that stretched beyond the border of Phangloria. Now Queen Damascena wants me to believe it's just a sewer.
My gaze skims bottles of Smoky Mountain water piled within a bucket, but I ignore my parched throat. If I’m going to escape this conversation alive, I’d better play along.
“Your Majesty?” The terror I inject into my voice is no pretense. “I passed out the moment I swam out of the sewer, and I didn't even get a chance to rescue her.”
Either my answer satisfies her, or she’s biding her time until she finds a replacement for me in Prince Kevon’s affections. Who knows, but I certainly won’t flaunt my knowledge of the hidden water source, the dying king, or the underground passage that leads to the palace.
As the girl pulls the dress up the queen’s body, guides the older woman’s hands through the armholes, and fastens it at the back with deft stitches, the queen combs her fingers through her blonde mane.
Her eyes narrow. “My son will not be associated with a murderer.”
“I didn’t kill—”
“Do not interrupt your queen,” she roars.<
br />
I rear back, my heart slamming against my ribs. At this stage, even a ‘yes, Your Majesty’ might prompt her into making me finish the glass of potentially compromised champagne.
Queen Damascena strides to a tall mirror and turns her body to the side. The lines of her dress are immaculate, without the usual bulges created by clasps and zippers.
A few paces behind her, the girl waits with her hands clasped. Her shallow breaths belie her nervousness, and I wonder what the queen would do to her if she didn’t like the dress. A moment later, the queen nods and lowers herself into the armchair.
“Understand this,” she says with a sneer. “I will not taint my son’s good standing by associating him with a murderer, even if she’s the wench who warms his bed while he decides upon a suitable bride.”
Prickly heat rises to my face, and I wrap my arms around my middle. My gaze darts to Lady Circi, who tilts her head to the side and raises a questioning brow. I didn’t… I’ve never… He wouldn’t. My lips remain shut because there’s no telling how this crazy woman will react if I denied her accusation.
The girl pulls out a trunk I haven’t noticed until now and wheels it toward the queen. She flips its top open and pulls out a bundle of leather that unrolls into an apron containing more makeup brushes than I can count.
Nobody speaks as the girl paints the queen’s lips a salmon pink, but after two coats, Queen Damascena stares into the trunk’s open lid, which I assume contains a mirror.
“Kevon is a philanderer, just like his father.” She turns her face from side to side, admiring her cruel beauty. “He dallied with Rafaela van Eyck and moved onto you the moment she died. In the end, he will do his duty.”
“Please, let me go home,” I whisper. “I’ll never return to the Oasis.”
She laughs and turns to the seamstress, whose shrill giggle sounds too hysterical to contain any mirth. Lady Circi shakes her head and smiles. I know what they’re thinking. If I disappeared to Rugosa, Prince Kevon would come after me. If they kill me now, Prince Kevon would retaliate when he became the king. Now that he’s about to come into his power, they’re wary of upsetting him.
Annoyance ripples through my insides, but I force my features to remain neutral. “What do you want me to do?”
“Help my son choose a Noble bride,” she says. “Do this and I will allow your family to live.”
Frustration wells in my chest, building in intensity like a pressure cooker about to explode. How dare this woman threaten the lives of innocent people? How dare she interfere with the choices of her son?
I want to leap off this stool and fly at her with my fists and feet and teeth, to tear out those pretty blonde locks, pluck those pretty lashes, and expose the ugliness behind the regal veneer. Judging by the way she handled herself last night, I doubt that I could take her in a fight. She and Lady Circi worked together like a pair of seasoned warriors, even though the hijacking was a fake.
My heart aches and hot tears gather in my eyes. It’s bad enough that those in power keep us starved and dehydrated. Now they have to hold our families hostage?
Breathing hard, I press the heel of my hand into my sternum and try to keep the tremble out of my voice. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Queen Damascena nods. “Then there’s no need to worry about the fate of your mother, father, and those delightful twins.”
The vehicle stops, and the seamstress pulls off her apron and replaces the lid.
“Is that all, Your Majesty?” I say from between clenched teeth.
She stands and smoothes down the imaginary creases in her impeccable dress. “If you mention this conversation to my son or even hint at the threat hanging over your family, I’ll devise the cruelest means for them to die. Is that understood?”
If the goddess Gaia existed and granted me the ability to control lightning, I would strike her down on the spot. “Yes.”
Queen Damascena walks to the door and makes a lazy gesture with her hand. “Do something about the girl’s appearance,” she says to her maid. “I won’t have her looking blotchy in front of the cameras and prompting my son to ask what’s wrong.”
She steps out of the vehicle, and the door slams shut, leaving me alone with Lady Circi and my thoughts.
Chapter 2
A second after Queen Damascena’s departure, all the rage and helplessness welling in my chest breaks through my tough exterior, and tears roll down my cheeks.
The last thing I want to do is cry in front of Lady Circi. I don’t trust her not to say something cutting and report me to the queen. The maid wheels the makeup trunk over to my stool and wipes my tears, but they won’t stop flowing.
“You’re thinking of running to Prince Kevon,” Lady Circi says from her armchair.
I shake my head.
“Good.” She rises and stalks across the van’s hard floor. “He won’t be able to mobilize help quickly enough to counter the guards watching over your family.”
My throat thickens. “How could you let her threaten innocent people?”
Lady Circi raises a brow and makes an incredulous snort through her nostrils. As the Queen’s Lady at Arms, she’s not the one who makes the heartless decisions, she just implements them. She places a hand on the shoulder that got shot and squeezes. I try not to wince with the remembered pain from the searing bullet.
“In this game, the Nobles always win.” She leans close enough for her breath to puff against my ear. “Your role is to identify the key players and secure yourself a position of power.”
My gaze slides toward the dark-skinned woman, and I meet her green eyes. I used to think they were as green as malachite, but up close, they’re ringed with a blue as deep as Prince Kevon’s that bleed into a turquoise with golden flecks. The color is startling against her flawless, mahogany skin with sienna-red undertones. When she’s not pointing a gun at me, twisting my arm, or doing the bidding of Queen Damascena, she is exceptionally stunning.
“Secure yourself a position of power,” I whisper. “Like you did?”
Resentment crosses her features. I don’t know if it’s because I brought up the subject that she was the favorite of King Arias during the last Trials. Or maybe because Lady Circi lost out on the chance to rule because she made a deal to help Queen Damascena win in exchange for becoming the Lady at Arms.
Without a word, Lady Circi draws back, opens the door, and walks out of the van. My gaze turns to the maid, who presses her lips together in a thin line. She probably knows Queen Damascena’s secrets, but there’s absolutely no way I will compromise this girl’s safety for personal benefit.
I push my anguish into a tight ball and stuff it deep in the back of my mind. The lives of Mom, Dad, Flint, and Yoseph depend on my ability to mollify this mad queen. One day, it will be her begging for mercy while I decide her fate, but for now, I will play along.
The maid places a cooling gel on my skin, which removes the puffiness and red blotches, and I practice a mask of calm in the trunk’s mirror. After applying a layer of makeup, she ushers me out of the van and into a courtyard somewhere around the back of the palace. Guards march the perimeter, holding automatic machine guns with thick magazines that could kill an entire group of rebels within minutes.
Lady Circi stands next to the bus’s back door. She flicks her head for me to enter and doesn’t reprimand me for speaking out of line. When I board, every face on that bus twists around to watch me take my seat, but nobody speaks. The journey around the palace is mercifully fast, and I keep my stoic mask in place when we step out into a crowd of baying reporters.
It’s the same as when we entered the ball: a line of guards forming a tight barrier on both sides of the red carpet that leads to the palace’s marble front steps.
The white building doesn’t look as magical as it did during the day, but it’s larger than I remember from last night. As instructed by a production assistant, we walk up the steps past the reporters and line up at the top for the cameras. I try not to squint at the
lightning storm of flashes and instead cast my gaze to the long driveway, where fountains stand like sentinels on both sides, each spouting their arcs of water.
This time, my breath doesn’t catch. I feel no disapproval, awe, or overwhelm. Everything pales into insignificance with the lives of my family at stake.
The palace doors open, and guards in purple let us into the marble-and-gold entrance hall. I didn’t notice the staircase yesterday, but it’s nearly identical to the one we saw in the concert hall, down to the Gaia statues. Instead of the Phangloria Tree, a marble Gaia statue holds a cornucopia that overflows with fruit, and baskets of pink damascena roses line the stairwell.
Since the last Princess Trials, Rosa damascena grows like weeds in the fields and around Dad’s micro-gardens. Their petals are smaller than the average rose, edible, and make a tea that smells as sharp as the queen. If Ingrid won the Princess Trials, would we see more of the dark-petalled Rosa Ingrid Bergman?
Six of Ambassador Pascale’s girls are already waiting for us at the foot of the stairs. I recognize Sabre, the red-haired Amstraadi with the freckles who tried to goad me into saying words of sedition in front of Prince Kevon.
Ingrid grumbles out loud that these were probably our hijackers. I can’t help but agree, even though being close to her makes my hackles rise. I’d like to tackle her to the ground and pound her into the marble. She murdered Firkin because he was a Foundling and looked different. Then, she tried to get me killed.
The doors behind us slam shut, muffling the shouts and scuffling of the reporters.
Production assistants usher us to gather around the Amstraadi girls at the foot of the stairs. About twenty steps up, there’s a half landing, where the staircase splits. Bright lights shine down from two statues of a man who looks like the country’s founder, Gabriel Phan. I stand at the far left of the row of girls furthest away from Ingrid. She’s likely to incite me into attacking her on camera and getting me into even more trouble with the queen.
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 2