“Let go of me,” I say. “They’re going to notice I’m miss—”
His lips crash onto mine, and I open my mouth to scream, but he slips his tongue between my lips. The taste of tannin floods my mouth, along with the scent of bitter red wine. I’m choking. I can’t breathe. My fists pound on his chest with all my strength, but he’s too big, too strong, too determined to force this mockery of a kiss.
He draws back, breaking his assault. I strike out with my fist, but he catches my wrist before I can land a blow.
“I love you, Zea-Mays Calico,” he says. “You’re the bravest, most interesting girl I’ve ever met.”
The words hit a wall of shock. I can’t believe that Ryce Wintergreen, the future leader of the Red Runners, and the man I once thought would rule Phangloria, just forced himself on me.
He pulls my limp body into his chest, and it feels like torture. “Go back to the others,” he murmurs in my ear. “Before they notice you’re missing.”
My entire body trembles, and tears fill my eyes. All those times I watched Harvester girls get accosted by guards, I had been a bystander and never imagined myself one of their victims. It turns out that Harvester men are just as capable of such atrocities.
Something inside me cracks. Maybe it’s a sense of idealism that all Harvesters are good and all Nobles are bad. Maybe it’s my indecision about handing over the country to the Red Runners.
Ryce turns me around, swats me on the behind, and tells me to hurry back to the cameras. I rush out from behind the marquee and through the space between the stalls on legs that feel like brittle saplings. If the Red Runners want a revolution, it won’t be through me. Prince Kevon will be the king to smash through the inequalities in Phangloria.
The crowd around the tomato seller thins, and Nobles call my name. Some chuckle and others call me the bucking bronco. Maybe they’re waiting for one of my famous tantrums. Instead, I offer them waves and weak smiles.
Vitelotte stands at the edge of the crowd between Cassiope and her production assistant. She sees me first and glances over my shoulder, not commenting until I reach their side.
“There she is,” she says. “Chatting with fans as I told you.”
I shoot her a grateful smile, answer a few questions about the tomatoes I weed, then a few people in the crowd ask me more tomato-related questions.
Afterward, we walk with the production assistants past fruit and vegetable stalls. The sweet, warm aroma drifts across the market, and somebody rings a bell. I raise my gaze to a triple-width marquee in the corner, where women dressed as Harvesters sell pastries and freshly-baked bread.
“Be careful,” Vitelotte whispers in my ear.
“About what?”
“Ryce Wintergreen.”
A spasm of shock squeezes my chest and ripples up my tightening throat. I glance at the assistants walking together at my side, but neither pays us any attention.
I croak, “What are you talking about?”
She flicks her head toward the marquee next to the bakery, where a tall girl clad in a scanty version of the Harvester uniform rises from a black cow and holds up a pitcher. Ryce stands beside her and drinks a glass of milk.
“If that guy over there tries to talk you into something, ignore him,” she mutters.
“Huh?”
Vitelotte’s sharp stare slices through my veneer of false innocence. “He’s not a bad person, but he acts like he’s going to bring about a revolution for the Harvester Echelon. He’s just a pretty boy who talks big and can’t even gain the respect of his mother.”
“You know him?”
She nods. “His father used to run the cornfield my brother supervises.” She raises a shoulder. “I don’t know if Ryce sees him as a mentor or something, but he’s always coming to our house crying about how his mother makes him take care of lost causes and ranting about becoming the president or something.”
Lost causes. My stomach hardens. Like Ryce’s Red Runners youth cell? “Right.”
We continue past the bakery and past the milkmaid, who hands Ryce another glass of milk. He raises it to the crowd and grins. The crowd cheers back.
I snatch my gaze away and focus on Constance, who waves, blows kisses, and poses for photos with ageless Nobles. I don’t know what to believe, but I don’t think it matters. This will be the last I see of Ryce Wintergreen until Queen Damascena allows me to leave the Oasis, and by the time I return to Rugosa, I’ll be done with the Red Runners.
I turn to ask Vitelotte about Carolina, but she’s gone.
“Oh, look.” Cassiope points at a crowd of reporters by the door. “Ambassador Pascale is here. Let’s see if he will offer his support in finding the missing girls.”
Vitelotte avoids me for the rest of the outing and sits with Emmera on the journey back. I’m not being paranoid, but she hasn’t been the same since pointing out Ryce. Part of me wonders if that’s because she spotted him dragging me behind the tomato seller’s gazebo, but she didn’t mention having seen us together.
When we reach the palace, there’s no sign of Byron or Prunella, and when I reach my room, there’s no sign of Forelle and Georgette. Instead, I find Lady Circi sitting on the velvet sofa, looking into the screen of her tablet computer. She wears a teal jumpsuit today and balances a gun on the sofa’s arm.
I clap both hands to my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
She glances up then returns her gaze to the screen as though I’m not even a threat.
“Wrong question.” Queen Damascena steps out from my walk-in closet, clad in a carnation-pink one-piece with flared culottes that look like they belong to a gown rather than a jumpsuit. Her blonde hair falls in a cascade of curls, framing smoky eyes that glint with malice.
My pulse accelerates. All the moisture leaves my throat and gathers on my palms. I place a hand on the wall to steady myself, and my legs collapse into an awkward curtsey. “Your Majesty.”
“Breaking my son’s heart wasn’t part of the arrangement,” the queen snaps.
“What?” I whisper.
Lady Circi raises her head. “She told you to help him choose a suitable Noble, not to leave the trials.”
Just because they once made an arrangement over a man, it doesn’t mean I could be as heartless. I force my expression into a mask of calm. “How can I guide him to someone else when he asked me to get engaged?”
“Do we need to spell everything out to you?” asks Lady Circi.
“Yes,” I say from between clenched teeth.
“Tell Kevon you’ve changed your mind.” The queen strides toward me across the room, bringing with her the cloying scent of mandragon blossoms.
Resisting the urge to step back, I lick my dry lips. “But he won’t believe—”
“Convince him.” She hisses through bared teeth.
I gulp. “Alright, but there’s only so much I can do if he doesn’t come with us on excursions, and we eat alone in our rooms.”
Queen Damascena’s eyes harden. She’s trying to work out if I’ve been sarcastic, but a snort from Lady Circi seems to assure her that I’m merely stating a fact. I want to twist my fingers around her curls and yank the blonde out of her hair. What kind of monarch needs to go to such roundabout, underhanded methods to influence the lives of others?
The queen relaxes her features and places her hands on her hips. “From tomorrow, you will all share meals with Kevon, and tonight, you and he will dine in front of the cameras.”
“But Vitelotte—”
“Has kindly allowed the other girls from her village to share her date with the prince.”
She never mentioned that to Emmera or me on the journey to the farmer’s market. This means that their next stop after threatening me will be Vitelotte’s room. I hope she stays calm and doesn’t say something to make Queen Damascena lash out.
I exhale my frustration in an outward breath. There’s no point in asking if I can leave the Princess Trials, then. “So, you want me to make up with him, r
aise his hopes, and then suggest he marries some other girl?”
“I wouldn’t put it so bluntly,” she says with a smirk.
I stare into her cold eyes, not quite believing she’s serious. “Why?”
Her lips tighten. “Like most men, Kevon doesn’t think with his brain.” She lets her gaze linger down my body. “Using what you’ve learned from watching mating cattle, I’m sure you can whisper into his ear and guide him to make the right decisions.”
Bile rises to the back of my throat. Not about the animals, but she’s talking about manipulating her own son. “And if I can’t—”
“You will do as I say if you don’t want anything to happen to those charming twins.” Queen Damascena steps out into the hallway. “Circi, when does the Immunology Committee administer vaccinations?”
“In Rugosa?” Lady Circi steps out of the door. “The end of the month.”
Her words hit like a flying kick. Yoseph. Flint. The annual vaccinations protect us from a strain of the influenza virus that mutates every year. Without it, old people die and young children perish. There are a number of ways they could hurt the twins: withdrawing the vaccination, swapping the vaccine for water, or replacing it with a poison that will mimic a natural death.
Lady Circi closes the door, leaving me gasping for air. The imaginary noose around my neck is so tight that the fibers of the rope chafe against my skin—that’s how much it hurts. I can no longer afford to interpret Queen Damascena’s words—I must do exactly as she says until I can find a way to hide Mom, Dad, and the twins.
I sit alone for hours, staring at the wall and trying to work out a way to help my family. If I told Prince Kevon, he would help, but that help might come too late. What about Colonel Mouse, the man from the Amstraad Republic who tried to save me from the fake hijacking?
Shaking my head, I toss that thought aside. The Amstraadi might turn it into a game and get them killed just to place my reaction on their show.
My only way forward is to hope that Prince Kevon becomes the king before Queen Damascena carries out her threat. Then he will outrank his mother and overrule any of her orders.
Later, Forelle and Georgette step into the room and ask about my day. I give them snippets about the fake Harvesters I met in the market while they ready me for our group date. I barely notice the outfit, a silver, off-the-shoulder dress that reminds me of the blue ballgown.
They arrange my hair in a braided updo and weave strands in a mix of Oasis sophistication and Harvester charm.
I step out into the hallway, where Emmera and Vitelotte await. Emmera wears a form-fitting dress with a split up the side and has dyed her flaxen hair auburn. I guess she has worked out that Prince Kevon prefers girls with dark hair.
Vitelotte wears a fuchsia dress with a deep V that shows a little cleavage. The garment’s short sleeves and the way the fabric skims her figure reminds me of something Lady Circi would wear but without the pants.
As Emmera walks in front, I lean into Vitelotte and whisper, “Are you alright about us joining your date?”
She raises a shoulder. “I really don’t mind.”
“Thank you.” Emmera turns around and flashes the other girl a grin. “You’re so generous to share your time with His Highness.”
If I wasn’t so preoccupied with the threat hanging over the twins, I would bristle at the implication that I should share Prince Kevon with her. My gaze flicks to Cassiope, who grins. I can’t even smile back.
“Tonight’s going to be fun,” I murmur, thinking the opposite.
A limousine takes us to a Japanese restaurant called Peko Peko. We learned about Japan in Modern History. It was an archipelago of hundreds of islands but got swallowed by the Pacific Ocean. All that’s left of the country are millions of people living on crowded mountaintops.
Carolina says it’s a lie because Phangloria doesn’t have aircraft, and its navy wouldn’t waste resources traveling halfway across the world. According to her, they teach us about Japan to make us feel grateful for our lives in Phangloria.
I shake my head. Carolina says a lot of things, but she offers no guarantees for the safety of her Runners.
Peko Peko is in the middle of a block of seven-story buildings. Instead of the usual awning of solar tiles, the restaurant uses ceramic roof tiles illuminated by a hexagonal, white lantern with Japanese lettering. Long strips of curtains hang in front of the doors, and wooden shutters obscure the windows.
“This place looks very exclusive,” Emmera says with a giggle.
My insides crochet themselves into tight knots. It’s an unpleasant sensation that’s mostly trepidation and mounting dread. Prince Kevon will never believe I’ve changed my mind, and he’ll believe me even less if I steer him toward one of the Noble girls.
Our driver informs us to wait for the production assistants to shoot footage of us stepping out of the limousine. When they arrive with cameras and lighting equipment, Emmera shoots out first and poses by the camera. Vitelotte and I continue toward the restaurant and are the first to meet Prince Kevon.
Prince Kevon stands a few feet from the doorway, dressed in a velvet jacket the color of eggplants with a pale purple shirt. The shades complement his blue-black hair and olive skin, and the fabric skims his athletic frame.
His gaze meets mine, and the smile on his lips freezes. I hold my breath and wait for him to react. Apparently, nobody told him it would be a group date. Emmera bustles in behind us, breaking the tension, and he kisses Vitelotte’s hand first, then Emmera’s, and then mine.
The touch of his lips on my knuckles sets my skin on fire. My breath hitches, and my cheeks heat.
A frown crosses his features, but he smooths out the expression and turns to Vitelotte. “I must be the luckiest fellow in Phangloria to dine with three ladies. Was this your idea?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” she lies.
He places a hand on the small of her back and guides her through the empty restaurant. Emmera and I walk behind the pair, and I can’t help but stare at his large hand on her narrow waist.
As expected from watching Prince Kevon’s date with Ingrid at the beginning of the Trials, the restaurant is empty. Paper lanterns illuminate dark wood floors that stretch out to walls that look like they’re made of paper and matted straw.
All the dining tables are low, with crimson floor cushions that match a red-and-gold embroidered robe that hangs on the wall. I’ve never heard of people displaying clothing like art, and Prince Kevon assures us that the women of Japan used to wear such fine garments.
A man stands in front of a doorway at the far end of the restaurant, an auburn-haired chef, wearing a tall hat and white robes. He dips into a bow that bends his body in a ninety-degree angle and sweeps his arm toward a private dining room.
In the middle of the room is a U-shaped table set for four. Its interior consists of a flat griddle that’s already smoking with heat. Raw ingredients sit in square bowls around the hotplate, and it looks like the chef will cook them as we watch.
Prince Kevon helps Vitelotte into the seat on the widest part of the U and places Emmera on the other side, next to Vitelotte. My stomach tightens as he holds out the seat perpendicular to his.
“Thank you.” I fix my gaze on the place setting of little bowls and away from the handsome prince.
“It’s my pleasure,” he murmurs back.
The chef positions himself behind the hotplate and explains teppanyaki to Prince Kevon and the cameras positioned behind us. After encouraging us to try a clear soup that tastes of fermented soybeans, he pours oil on the hotplate, then another clear fluid. He points a lighter at the hotplate, which bursts into three-foot-tall flames.
Emmera shrieks, Prince Kevon laughs, and I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle my shock.
As soon as the flames ebb, the chef wipes the hot metal with a cloth and then juggles a pair of spatulas that look sharper than blades. They clank and click in a rhythm that would be entertaining if I had been forewarned abou
t bursts of fire and sharp, flying instruments.
I bite down on my lip and turn to Prince Kevon. “Is this supposed to happen?”
“This is my first time in a teppanyaki.” Prince Kevon turns to Vitelotte and smiles. “This will also be my first time trying this cuisine, so thank you for expanding my horizons.”
A tight fist clenches my heart. That’s the sort of thing he would say to me. I glance up to find two cameras pointed at my face.
It’s only when the chef places a large fillet of beef on the hotplate that I can finally relax and enjoy the show, especially when he pours an oily sauce over it, and fills the air with the scent of spices and garlic.
Over the next several minutes, the chef performs an array of culinary feats with knives as large as short-swords, giant forks, and a selection of spatulas. He places shrimp, chicken, lamb, and lobster on our plates, and busies himself cooking vegetables.
We eat rice and drink miso soup in between courses, and Vitelotte picks up the chopsticks, arranges them in her fingers, and pops a scallop in her mouth.
Emmera gasps. “Where did you learn to eat with sticks?”
“My brother and I used to practice picking up stones with twigs,” she replies with a shrug.
Prince Kevon chuckles and picks up his chopsticks. “Would you two like to learn?”
Emmera leans across her table. “Yes, please!”
He turns to me and smiles. “How about you, Zea?”
Heat rushes to my stupid cheeks. Doesn’t my body realize I’m in the biggest trouble of my life?
We spend the next five minutes practicing with our chopsticks. When Prince Kevon turns around to help Emmera, I pick up the meat with my fingers, and Emmera does the same when he turns to help me. Vitelotte watches us both with narrowed eyes but doesn’t mention our cheating.
As the chef sets down his knife and fries a mound of rice with vegetables and finely chopped meat, Emmera leans forward. “Have you been to the farmer’s market, Your Highness?”
“Many times,” he replies. “Did you enjoy your visit, Miss Hull?”
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 12