General Ridgeback points his gun at me, and a sharp pain pierces my chest. My mouth opens to let out a gasp, but I fall unconscious before my head hits the floor.
Bright lights shine in my face, and beeping sounds fill my ears. I awaken secured to a plastic chair. Thick straps wind through the loops of my canvas jumpsuit, and bands of plastic also secure my ankles and wrists. I can’t see anything beyond the lights, and I can’t tell if I’m alone in the room or surrounded by interrogators.
My gaze drops down to my exposed forearm, where an intravenous tube delivers clear fluid from a bag suspended on a metal pole. This has to be the truth serum.
I try to raise my arm, to break free of my bonds, but my limbs feel like lead. I should be panicked because I didn’t drink an antidote and there’s no telling if the injection worked, but I can barely feel my pulse. Slow breaths ease in and out of my lungs, and it feels like I’ve just woken in the middle of the night.
Someone shines an even brighter light into my pupils and announces that I’m ready for questioning.
After some general questions, General Ridgeback asks about Berta, and I answer with a variation of what I said to the Chamber of Ministers. Berta chased after me, I ran, and we both tumbled down the mountainside.
“Where did you fall?” asks General Ridgeback.
“Into a sewer,” I say for the benefit of Lady Circi. When the queen hears this recording, she’ll think her secret underground river is safe.
“How did Berta die?” The General’s voice is hoarse.
My heart clenches. At this rate, he’ll never get the truth about what happened to his daughter. “I heard that she drowned.”
General Ridgeback asks several more questions, such as if I saw Berta in the sewer, why Berta’s blood had traces of the Foundling’s poison, but I say that I don’t know.
“So, it really was an accident.” Lady Circi sounds apologetic. It’s the most human thing she’s said since she asked Prince Kevon if he loved me.
The General’s heavy footsteps recede across the room and a lighter set approach. I stare ahead into the light, letting my vision blur. A male voice asks if I know Ryce Wintergreen, and I tell them about having witnessed the death of his father at the hands of a guard. Anyone who has checked my record is aware of our connection because of the witness statement I recorded years ago. Ryce was one of the last people to visit me before I left Rugosa.
“Did Ryce Wintergreen send you to the Princess Trials?” the male voice asks.
“No.”
“Why did you volunteer for the Trials?” asks Lady Circi.
“I wanted a few days off work,” I say in a monotone.
Someone in the back of the room snorts. A door opens, and a set of footsteps hurries out. I’m sure the person left to laugh. If I didn’t feel so numb right now, I might have smiled that my lie was incriminating enough to sound true.
“Have you communicated with Ryce Wintergreen during your time in the Oasis?” asks Lady Circi.
Unease stirs in the back of my mind. This is a tricky question because I’ve spoken to him at least twice. If they catch me in a lie, they’ll just wait for the antidote to wear off before resuming the interrogation, but if I tell the truth, it will mean my execution.
“At the farmer’s market,” I murmur.
“What did he want to know?” she asks.
“If Vitelotte was falling in love with Prince Kevon,” I reply.
I should feel guilty for giving Ryce an even bigger motive for wanting Prince Kevon dead, but the serum running through my veins suppresses my emotions. Or it could be an effect of the drug in Mouse’s earring.
“Did you know anything about a plot to murder members of the royal family?” asks the male voice.
“No.” It’s the first time I’ve told the truth in minutes.
The next few questions are about the murder I witnessed all those years ago, and they ask me if Ryce ever confided in me about wanting revenge against Phangloria for not finding his father’s killer. I tell them the truth. Ryce barely spoke to me over the following years because I watched his father die and was unable to provide the Guardians with a meaningful description of the murderer.
Eventually, one of the voices says that the serum is wearing off. The needle withdraws from my arm, and someone drags me through the hallways and into the back of a van. As the vehicle jostles and rolls me across its metallic floor, I send Mouse a silent word of thanks. He probably doesn’t know how much he saved me with the antidote and listening device, but I resolve to be nicer the next time I see him.
By the time the van’s doors swing open and a pair of female palace guards pull me to get out, I’m still drowsy and unable to walk. My vision blurs as they walke me through an underground parking lot, through a maze of passageways I recognize as the palace and into my room.
Light from the setting sun streams in through tall windows on the right side of the space. As soon as the door clicks shut, Relief loosens my chest muscles, and I exhale a long breath. I stumble past the velvet sofa and dining chairs to reach the bed, where I collapse face-down into a nest of pillows and groan.
If they’ve returned me to the palace, I’m no longer considered an immediate threat. I place my palms on the soft mattress, try to push myself up so I can turn on the Lifestyle Channel for an update on Prince Kevon, but exhaustion pulls me into a deep sleep.
Gentle hands turn me around, and soft voices whisper in my ear. Forelle’s floral scent fills my nostrils. All this time I spent in the cage, I hadn’t once wondered how my friend might be faring. She’s also from Rugosa and might have also come under suspicion along with Emmera and me.
Someone hooks their hands under my arms and pulls me off the bed, while another set of hands takes my feet. I crack open an eye and see that it’s only Georgette. She’s wearing one of the white robes that hang on the bathroom door.
I drift off again and wake up to a warm bath and meet a pair of huge, gray eyes framed by a shock of red hair.
“Zea?” A familiar voice echoes in my ears.
“Forelle?” I murmur.
“We’re getting you ready,” she says.
I blink myself into awareness. Firm hands massage something cool and gloopy into my hair, and my nostrils fill with the scent of lemon balm. On my left, a large close up of Prunella Broadleaf murmurs something incomprehensible into a wall screen. On my right, is the rest of the bathroom.
“Ready?” I croak. “For what?”
“The Princess Trials is about to restart.” Forelle scrubs a brush under my fingernails and scowls.
My breath catches. “What about Prince Kevon?”
She meets my gaze with a sad smile. “He’s still in the Royal Hospital.”
“He woke up this morning and gave an interview.” Georgette’s fingers withdraw from my hair. She walks around and stands beside Forelle. “He just wants life to go back to normal.”
My shoulders slump, and I exhale my relief through my nostrils. “How’s his skin?” When they exchange puzzled looks, I ask, “How long have I been gone?”
“Eight days.” Georgette dips a washcloth into the bathwater and rubs at a spot beneath my ear. She places the cloth on the edge of the bath and heads toward the walk-in shower.
Forelle gulps. “When we saw all that blood on your skin and that silver paint on your hands, we thought the worst.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t mine.”
The fog over my mind clears, and heat rushes to my cheeks. “You undressed me?”
“Only down to your underwear.” Forelle’s brow wrinkles. “Sorry, but there isn’t much time.”
The wall switches from Prunella to footage of Ingrid Strab sitting by Prince Kevon’s bedside. Something about her looks different. Prettier. The camera zooms into his paler-than-usual face. His eyes are closed, and his features are more chiseled than ever. He reminds me of a lot of Harvester men his age, who expend more energy than they consume. Someone has slicked his hair off his face, mak
ing it appear darker.
A gasp slips from my lips. He survived.
The camera swings to Ingrid, who reads from a leather-bound book. She’s either wearing a wig or the producers have softened her pinched features and added several inches to her hair. Instead of the usual jumpsuit, she wears a knee-length ivory dress with a matching jacket that looks like something from the wardrobe of Queen Damascena.
Georgette returns with a carton decorated with pictures of coconuts. She huffs an annoyed breath, stabs it with a plastic straw, and holds it in front of my face. “Ever since Ingrid returned from being held captive, she’s been sitting with the prince.”
“Why?” I nod my thanks and take the proffered drink.
The carton’s exterior is cool, and when I pull its contents from the straw the taste of coconut floods my mouth. It’s sweet and somehow more refreshing than Smoky Water. The cool liquid moistens my dry tongue and slides down my throat, making it feel less like parched earth.
Forelle tightens her lips. “Byron Blake is desperate to present them as a fated couple, separated by tragedy. That footage they kept playing while she was gone doesn’t help.”
My brows furrow. “Footage?”
Georgette waves her hand. “A montage of romantic moments she supposedly shared with Prince Kevon.”
I gulp my coconut water, remembering that pile of horse manure, which included Ingrid replacing me in our near kiss at the fountain and my fight with the hijackers. So much has happened since then that it fades into insignificance.
“Does Prince Kevon know she’s there?” I ask.
“They only let her in when he’s sleeping,” says Forelle. “Garrett spends most of his time in the hospital, making sure he’s well-guarded.”
“How are things going between you two?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him in days, but we talk every night on Netface.”
The girls help me out of the bath. My head spins and I nearly lose my footing, but they hold me steady and walk me across the gray tile to the huge shower, where there’s a stool propped against the tiled wall.
Thick globs of conditioner-covered hair fall onto my face, but I’m past caring. A mix of fatigue, hunger, thirst, and the remnants of the drugs make my legs tremble with each step. When I finally reach the security of the seat, I rest my head against the wall and exhale ragged breaths.
Georgette rushes to the right of the bathroom and turns on the sink’s taps, then she runs the bath again before raising the volume and returning to us. The sound of running water and the Lifestyle Channel fill the room, and I remember the servants’ trick for fooling the hidden microphones.
I’m about to speak when Forelle turns on the shower and drenches us with warm water.
She kneels at my side and places her hands on my lap. “Sorry for not letting you sleep, but this is important.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Georgette hands me another carton of coconut water. “People know what’s really happening, and they’re outraged.”
My stomach clenches and my fingers turn numb. There are so many hidden truths, I don’t dare to ask which they’ve uncovered. “What are you talking about?”
“Someone leaked footage of the stabbing on Netface,” says Georgette.
My mouth drops open, and the straw slips from my lips. “Who?”
She raises her shoulder and shakes her head. “They saw you help Prince Kevon when everyone else panicked. They also heard what the emergency technicians said. You saved his life.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I stare into my lap. All the weight I gained during my time in the Oasis is gone, leaving me with legs like a grasshopper. Even the fingers holding the carton appear thinner.
“The nation saw how the guard electrocuted and punched you unconscious on the street then dragged you into the back of a van,” Forelle adds with a sob. “What else happened? You look terrible.”
I mumble a few sentences about being held in a cage with Emmera and Vitelotte, but then remember that I stepped out of the restaurant covered in blood. “Did people think I tried to kill Kevon?”
Georgette wraps her hand around my wrist and brings the straw level to my lips in a silent cue to continue drinking. “The Lifestyle Channel said nothing for the first few days and just played Princess Trials reruns. By then, the rags reported the leaked footage, which made the Nobles scream for answers in the Chamber of Ministers.”
“Then Ingrid conveniently emerged from her ordeal,” adds Forelle.
I stare at my friend and frown. She was never this skeptical before. “You think she was faking?”
“Of course,” says Georgette. “They’re just trying to replicate what happened with you.”
I slump against the wall and try to take in all this new information. According to Georgette, whose family is addicted to the Lifestyle Channel, the production assistants came under pressure the evening of the ball when nobody could find Berta or me. With Prunella Broadleaf confessing to making an attempt on my life, they all thought I was dead until I entered the Chamber of Ministers with Prince Kevon.
My brows draw together. “That explains the huge round of applause.”
Georgette nods. “They made such a big deal about Ingrid going missing and they probably would have stretched out the suspense for longer, but they needed a distraction from Prince Kevon’s stabbing.”
I run a hand through my wet hair. “But there were so many guards searching the National Park…”
Georgette snorts. “I can point out six of these so-called guards from my theater school.”
“Actors?” I glance at Forelle.
She places a comforting hand on my shoulder and grimaces. “Sorry, but they’re trying really hard to make Ingrid look like she was meant to become the next queen.”
Bile rises to the back of my throat, and I clench my teeth. “Why did they even bother to keep me in the Trials when they could have just sent me home?”
Forelle turns her gaze to Georgette, who pulls her brows together in a look of contemplation. I gulp, and try to calm my breaths. What aren’t they telling me?
“Remember how I said that there’s footage of you saving Prince Kevon?” asls Georgette.
I nod.
“That’s not all someone has leaked on Netface,” she says.
“What’s there?” I whisper.
“Everything,” says Forelle. “Clips of you and Prince Kevon falling in love along with footage that could only have come from his Amstraad device. I don’t know how they got it, but anyone who searches Netface can see the truth.”
The carton of juice slips from my loose fingers and falls into my lap. Cool coconut water oozes out from the straw, and I lean forward with a groan. “Do they think it came from me?”
“Of course not.” Forelle rubs my back.
I bet she thinks I’ve gone crazy. Anyone else would celebrate that the whole of Phangloria knew about their budding romance with the future king, but these videos could mean my family’s death.
I raise my head and meet my friend’s worried eyes. “Have you heard anything from Rugosa?”
“A few journalists went to your house and tried to interview your parents, but they seemed confused because they only watch what’s available on OasisVision.”
Georgette walks around the bathroom and turns off the taps. I pick up the carton of coconut water and drain its contents in several long gulps. This isn’t as bad as I initially thought. Queen Damascena can’t blame me for actions that took place while her security people held me in a cage, can she?
After giving me some energy pills, which taste like orange and fizz on my tongue, the girls leave me to finish bathing alone. I peel off my underwear and rinse the conditioner out of my hair. It doesn’t matter if everyone in the Oasis knows the truth about Prince Kevon and me. As long as the queen outranks him, I have to obey her to protect my family.
When I step out into the walk-in wardrobe, Forelle and Georgette are read
y with a hairdryer, makeup brushes, and an eggplant-colored jumpsuit they say will look wonderful on my skin. I sit in front of the dressing table and let them go to work, but as soon as they’ve done my hair and makeup, they step back for me to get changed.
Forelle says she’ll order me some soup, and Georgette leaves with her. As soon as the door clicks shut, I examine the wardrobe. Two rails of clothes stand opposite each other from within the ivory cabinets. I rifle through an array of outfits that include short dresses, long gowns, more jumpsuits than a person could use in a year, and find my Harvester Uniform.
Tomato juice no longer stains the apron, and there’s no sign of the small pocket I stitched into its side. The palace staff must have replaced it with a replica when they couldn’t make it pristine.
Behind another door are shoes arranged in shelves that stretch up to the wall. There’s no sign of the boots I wore during the previous round but then I give myself a mental slap upside the head. I didn’t return to the navy barracks after Prunella gassed the room, and I changed at the guesthouse.
“Zea?” Forelle knocks on the door.
“Coming!” I hurry back to the clothes rail and pull on the jumpsuit.
When I step out into my room, Garrett rises from the sofa, looking grave. He wears an officer’s jacket, but instead of navy blue, it’s the same purple as the one worn by palace guards. With his blue-black hair and dark eyes, he looks more like a prince than the man I saw in the hospital bed.
I pause at the door and gape. This is the first time I’ve seen him since the ball.
“Zea, I’m glad you’re well,” he says. “Kevon wants to see you immediately.”
Chapter 11
My heart flutters the entire journey to the Royal Hospital, and I can barely make conversation with Garrett as he drives me through the Oasis streets. We pass a district of wide, tree-lined streets of blue-haired patrons drinking and dining outside restaurants, oblivious to the girls who were starved and interrogated under truth serums.
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 15