The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2)

get cleaned up.”
Cassiope’s brows draw together. “Don’t you want to complete the trial?”
“We have until dinner, don’t we?” Vitelotte stands. “Let’s all go.”
The three assistants exchange awkward glances, but I don’t care if they’re failing to capture sensational footage. I want to tell the viewers at home about my malfunctioning glider and how they forced us to escape off a cliff with ligers. But what’s the point in complaining when they’ll twist my rage into a scene of me playing the bucking bronco?
As they walk us out of the room, Vitelotte grabs my hand and taps on my knuckle in Vail code:
NO.
My gaze snaps to her, but she stares ahead and follows the production assistants out into the hallway and up a stairwell that leads to a white door. Cassiope knocks, waits for a male voice to call us inside, and lets us into a spacious, white room.
Doctor Palatine stands in front of a black screen that glows with blue charts and flashing numbers that monitor a set of vital signs. He shuts them off, crosses the room, and gestures for me to raise my wrist. Without indicating that we have ever met, he scans my Amstraad cuff and hands me an ointment for irritated skin. After examining Vitelotte, he hands her the same ointment and turns to Emmera, who bursts into tears.
The doctor guides her to a reclining chair with arm and footrests then injects her with something that makes her go limp. He tells us to return in two hours, so he can fix Emmera’s fractured eye sockets.
As we leave, one of the production assistants remains to question Doctor Palatine on the extent of Emmera’s injuries. The assistant assigned to Vitelotte descends the stairs ahead of us, and a light flickers on the plastic band of the glasses that wrap around her head.
I resist the urge to ask Vitelotte how she knows Vail code. If she’s not a Red Runner, then she must be a supplier, a sympathizer, or a relative to a Runner who betrayed secrets about our resistance group.
She loops her arm through mine and taps BE CAREFUL on my forearm then suggests out loud that we should take a two-hour break to eat in our rooms and get cleaned up.
“Do you have any ideas for Gaia’s treasure?” Cassiope asks from behind, her voice perky.
I rub my temple and try to temper my irritation. She has never stuck a camera in my face, and as far as I’m aware, she didn’t doctor any footage to make me look like an idiot. It’s not fair to snap at Cassiope for doing her job.
“Perhaps I’ll be more productive after a glass of water and some food,” I mutter.
She pauses. “Whatever you say, Zea.”
After a silent walk to our side of the palace, Cassiope pushes my door open and lets me into my assigned room. Georgette and Forelle, who were sitting at the velvet sofa, scramble to their feet.
Forelle rushes at me with her arms outstretched. “Did you really jump off the side of a cliff?” She squeezes me tight. “Of course, you did.”
“Have you befriended your makeup artist and stylist already?” asks Cassiope.
While Forelle explains that passing the marquee round of the Princess Trials made her eligible to work in the Oasis, Georgette guides me through the walk-in closet and into the bathroom.
The floors are a pale gray with ivory mosaic tiles in the same shade as the rest of the suite. A screen behind the bath playing images of palm trees swaying in a pristine beach reminds me of the bathroom in Garrett’s guesthouse. There’s even the same walk-in shower with a giant head and multiple jets.
Georgette puts a finger to her lips and gestures with her outstretched palm for me to stay. She walks to the right of the room and turns on the taps, and lets the water flow at full blast. She then turns to the end of the room and runs the bath.
I bite down on my lip, wondering if she’s going to tell me something about Prince Kevon. Instead, she opens a drawer beside the sink and pulls out a huge tub of a cream that smells like QuickBurn.
“This is how the palace servants get to talk without the cameras picking up their sound.” Georgette pulls off my hood, dips a cloth into the cream, and rubs at my face.
“Is anything wrong?” I whisper.
“We’ve been switching between channels for most of the night.” She continues wiping off thick layers of pigment from my face and tells me the events of last night.
While Georgette watched the Chamber of Ministers Channel to learn how Prunella Broadleaf tried to explain how she murdered Rafaela van Eyck, Forelle watched live footage of me jumping off a cliff and trying to stay on the glider. Prince Kevon interrupted the Council with a demand to end the Princess Trials on the grounds that it was unsafe.
Montana refused to listen to his request as Queen Damascena wanted it to continue, but when the live camera feeds stopped, everybody took notice.
With hours of footage missing, the drones lost track of most of the girls, and the public became disgruntled about the running of the Trials. Reporters interviewed Dr. and General Ridgeback about Berta’s drowning and tried to get them to denounce the production people for not taking better care of their daughter.
“It’s all backfiring.” Georgette’s eyes sparkle, and she bounces up and down on her heels, the hands wiping off my face paint trembling with excitement. “My fiancé works for Vain Gloria. It’s an online gossip rag that comments on what’s really going on in Phangloria.”
I gulp. “What did he say about last night?”
“The editor told everyone to put pressure on the ministers and the Lifestyle Channel to back Prince Kevon. It’s part of the reason why the Ministers agreed to his demands for less danger.”
“Is there anything else?” I ask.
“They’re publishing footage of what the Lifestyle Network holds back.” When I don’t react, she adds. “The other group