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

of the camerawomen taps me on the shoulder. She’s an annoying, mousy-haired woman, who once tried to film me tending to a dying Rafaela van Eyck.
“Zea, Zea…” she purrs. “We’re all dying to know if you spent the night with Prince Kevon again!”
My lips purse. Last night, Prince Kevon brought me to the palace infirmary with a bullet wound in the shoulder and a knife in my back. The only person tending to me was the royal physician, Dr. Palatine. I won’t dignify her question with a comment, even though she’ll probably insert footage of me talking about something else to make me sound like I spent a romantic night with the prince.
By the time I turn back to the bus, everyone else has boarded. Lady Circi stands at the top of the steps with her arms folded and her face twisted with annoyance. Let’s hope she remembers that Prince Kevon admitted to loving me and she doesn’t point her gun between my eyes.
I board the bus and walk down the aisle. Each of the twelve finalists raise their heads to stare. Some of their gazes are hard, some confused, and the two Harvester girls can’t even look me in the eyes. I meet the hateful gazes with a glower. If they think I’ll forget being dumped on the roadside, shot in the shoulder, and hunted like an animal, they’re deluded.
The cameras are rolling, so I don’t voice my declaration of war out loud. Instead, my hands curl into fists. If Prince Kevon can’t extract me from the Princess Trials, they’re going to meet a new Zea-Mays Calico.
Years of Red Runner training has prepared me for combat. This time, instead of running, I will stay and fight.
As I’m about to take a seat, someone places a hand on my shoulder. I spin with a right hook, but Lady Circi catches my fist.
“Nice move.” She twists me into an arm lock that sends pain exploding through my shoulder joint. “You could work on your speed.”
Bending over double, I clench my teeth. So much for kick-butt Calico. “Will you show me some moves?”
“If you survive the night, why not?” She marches me to the end of the bus, where the emergency exit hisses open.
Nervous giggles fill the bus. I want to snarl with anger, but anything that sounds pained will delight my enemies. A ring of fire burns through my shoulder, and sweat breaks out across my skin.
I hobble alongside Lady Circi because fighting back will dislocate my limb. “Where are we going?”
“Queen Damascena would like a friendly chat.” As we step out into the sun-lit courtyard, she leans into me and whispers, “Don’t drink the champagne.”
My throat spasms and I lope toward the van, still bent in that awkward angle. Was that a warning or a joke? After Prince Kevon gave Lady Circi that ultimatum—stand down or she’ll become a lady-in-waiting to a dowager queen—she has backed off.
There’s no sign of Kevon’s solar car, but then my range of vision is limited. I can’t help wondering if Lady Circi is on Prince Kevon’s side, Queen Damascena’s, or her own.
The pressure in my arm releases and Lady Circi bundles me into the van.
Spots dance before my eyes. I’m not sure if that’s because of being held at an awkward angle or because the van’s interior steals my breath. The only way I can describe it is a mobile dressing room. Seriously. It’s about twice the size of an ambulance and lined on the right with shelves of shoes and rails of jackets atop ivory chests of drawers. Next to the jackets, a long rail stretches the rest of the vehicle, holding enough full-length dresses to clothe our entire street.
On the left is a row of tinted windows above a full-length bar stocked with trays of sliced fruit, fancy cheeses, and finger food arranged around a bucket of champagne and gold-topped glasses.
Two compact chandeliers dangle from above between a pair of light panels that stretch the entire ceiling. My mouth drops open. This is nearly as ostentatious as the fountains.
On the far-right, Queen Damascena sits on a leather armchair sipping a glass of champagne. Behind her stands a blonde-girl about my age, who looks strikingly similar to the queen. From her purple servant’s uniform, I’m guessing she isn’t a secret daughter. Queen Damascena indicates for me to sit on a leather stool by the bar, next to the champagne flutes.
Lady Circi steps in behind me and sits on the leather armchair on the queen’s left. The driver or footman slams the door shut, encasing me with two of the most dangerous women in Phangloria.
“Help yourself to the champagne,” says Queen Damascena.
“I…” My throat dries. “I don’t drink alcohol, Your Majesty.”
Her smile turns wintry. “I insist.”
My gaze darts to Lady Circi, who rolls her eyes and picks up a glass of what appears to be sparkling water. If the champagne is poisoned, I’ll just pretend to drink it.
The vehicle moves forward, and the girl in purple pulls a seam ripper from her apron. It’s a small tool with a forked head that unpicks stitches without damaging the fabric. She works on a seam behind the queen’s neck, and I gape at the waste. A talented seamstress could have installed a clasp or some other kind of fastening, but Queen Damascena needs people to sew her in and out of her clothing?
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,