Excerpt from chapter 3

My shoulder aches more and more each night when I take my prosthetic off. It’s gotten to the point where I tear up when I manage to unfasten the arm. It’s too small, and has been for years, but it still works, so I can’t justify replacing it.
If only I could explain all of that to the six judges staring at me with varying degrees of disgust.

I feel like I’m a crusty old vase on a podium and they’re about to start bidding, except none of them is sure if I fit their decor. Cameras are hovering around me at a polite distance and the audition room itself is barren and clearly a re-purposed conference hall.

The blond woman has just ordered me to take off the top of my grimy work overalls so she can see the extent of the damage and how busted the rest of my body is as a result. There’s a ketchup stain on the hem of my tank top that I hope no one has noticed.

“Do you have scarring on your chest area?”

“Yes.”

“Is it extensive?”

“… Yes? Though my cleavage is fine, if that’s important. The scars start on the outside of my boob.”

The man with a short black beard snorts and quickly covers his mouth, “How were you hurt, again? What’s the story behind the injury?”

He’s sitting at the left end of the long table and looks marginally more intrigued than the others. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

“There was a house fire,” I say, my voice stilted and timid like I’m giving a presentation about climate change in primary school. “I tried to save our cat, and the floor above collapsed on top of me.”

The judge in the middle, a forty-something brunette woman, gasps sympathetically.

“What a hero,” says an older gentleman without looking up from what I assume are my records.

He doesn’t sound very genuine.

“The accident caused some internal damage as well, correct?” says the bearded man.

Does he look vaguely familiar?

“Yeah, my heart and left lung are also synthetic, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“A synthetic heart, you say …”

A wave of hums passes between the judges as a couple of them write down notes.

“Katrien, tell us why you would make a good princess and queen,” the blonde woman says blandly.

It’s like she already knows my answer won’t be enough, like she’s just going through the contractually obligated motions.

But this isn’t real. I’m going through the motions, too.

I shrug.

“You don’t know?” she says smugly.

“I guess not. It’s not like us blue collars” — I flap my overall sleeves for emphasis — “go to princess school.”

“What do you think makes for a good queen?” says Beardy, who I’m now pretty sure is actually Beau Thorpe. Royal spokesguy or whatever. “You must have some ideas. Surely you’ve seen our dear queen, she’s an excellent example.”

“Uh. I guess?”

“You guess?”

Oh, good job, Kit. Now you’ll get executed for treason.

I scratch my head, “I mean, I haven’t seen any other queens to compare her to. But, like, I’m not like her, to answer your question. Obviously. I mean, look at me, right?”

I’m highly aware that I sound like I have two entire braincells and one of them just left for a bathroom break. My face feels warm and it’s hard to breathe, and the judges are watching me with such contempt I’m pretty sure they’ll haunt my nightmares for at least fifty years. Only Beau looks like he’s having a good time.

He turns to the other judges, “I kind of like her.”

They’re all too polite to say anything but not polite enough to hide their confusion at that statement.

“Look at her.” Beau gestures, “People love an underdog. She didn’t even practice her introduction.”

“I … was supposed to prepare an introduction?”

He gestures harder as if to say, “See?”

Suddenly the blond woman’s gaze shifts from superiority to interest and she leans over to the older man to whisper something. When she’s done, the man writes something on his pad, and the woman clears her throat and looks back at me again.

“You’ll forgive me if I say that your presentation is rather, shall we say, improvised …”

“Sure.”

“… haphazard, if you will …”

“Uh-huh.”

“… and it makes me wonder why you decided to submit a form in the first place?”

“I didn’t. My mother bought it and I filled it out just to have it done. It said no refunds and all, and it’s not like we’re swimming in cash. Might as well do it so it’s not a complete waste of money.”

The judges blink, half of them with their mouths flapping open. I did essentially just tell them their entire reason for being here is a sham and a waste of not just money, but my time as well.

“Is it safe to say that you aren’t actually interested in the prince, then?” says the brunette lady.

I shrug again, “I mean, he’s cute. Good face and all. Wouldn’t kick him out of … my house.”

Beau covers his snort with a loud cough. I realize I’m definitely digging my own grave and enter damage control mode.

“I mean, the baggage he’d bring to a relationship is the biggest issue, right? The cameras, the NDAs, the political power. It’s intimidating, especially the last part. What if you break up with him and cause a civil war or something?”

“You don’t ‘break up’ if you’re the queen,” says the older gentleman dryly.

I nod, “Well, yeah. Because of the civil war.”

Beau turns in his chair to bend over and we all wait for him to stop giggling quietly. Once he manages to collect himself, he sits back up and clears his throat.

“You all know how I feel. The arm and synthetic heart are fantastic. She’s practically a shoo-in based on the storytelling potential alone.”

“I’m afraid we’re all out of time, Ms. Sullivan,” says the blond woman sharply, ignoring her co-worker’s comment. “Thank you for coming, and good luck.”

“Nice meeting y’all,” I lie and hurry out of the room.

I’ve never been in this hotel before, so it’s hard to remember my way back. The place is pretty fancy, the fanciest in Duncross, and currently stuffed with girls my age all here for their auditions. The vast majority of them look fairly well-groomed despite living in the poorest province. Few, if any, decided to follow my example and show up looking like they’ve just rolled out of a landfill for dad clothes.

I find my way back to the lobby, where Mom’s waiting for me with a handful of other people who came for moral support.

When she sees me, she bounces over with glittering eyes, clapping her hands.

“How’d it go?”

“Dunno. Not great, I don’t think.”

I suddenly feel bad for not putting any actual effort in. I know Mom shouldn’t have bought the ticket in the first place, but seeing her disappointed face will hurt. I mean, I wouldn’t have gotten in anyway, but if I’d made a genuine attempt the defeat wouldn’t sting as bad for her, right?

Except she doesn’t seem disappointed at all. Instead, she just laughs and slaps me on the arm.

“You’re just saying that! How could they say no to such a pretty, intelligent girl like you?”

I roll my eyes.

“I’m sure they’ll find a way.”