My plan’s so freaking awesome.
I drive Betsy to the thrax compound, park her on a dry patch of field, and follow the crowd. Everyone’s in traditional thrax dress and glaring at my ratty sweatpants and gray hoodie. I glance at my watch. If I leave in the next ten minutes, I can still catch reruns of I Love Lucy on the Human Channel. Sweet.
I follow the thrax crowd. We hike through the trees and onto a wide meadow covered in mud. By the forest’s edge stand five large tents. Each one’s bigger than my house and in a different color: yellow, bronze, purple, blue, or black. Beyond the tents lies an oval tournament green—it’s the only place around that is green—and it’s surrounded by a shoulder-high wooden fence. Two long spectator pavilions overlook the green, one on each side.
Squinting, I take a closer look at the pavilions. They’re raised platforms covered in stepped rows of seats. Wooden poles hold a cloth ceiling over the audience’s heads. Flags and lanterns hang everywhere.
Cissy stands near the tournament green, looking lovely in a simple medieval dress of emerald fabric with long loopy sleeves. I wave. “Hey, Cissy!”
Her jaw drops as she runs to my side. “Myla, you showed up.”
“That I did.” I gesture to my sweats. “And this is what I’m wearing. Who do I talk to so I can get kicked out?”
“You’re supposed to be in a traditional gown. Like me.”
“Drat.” I snap my fingers and make my ‘aw shucks’ face. “I guess I’ll have to go home.”
Cissy chuckles, her head shaking from side to side. “You’re not getting out of this so easily. They have emergency dresses around here.”
“They do?” I freeze.
“Oh, yeah. Unlike you, I did some homework on the thrax.” She sighs. “Why didn’t you call the dressmaker I gave you?”
I frown and kick the dirt with my sneaker. “Because I came up with this awesome plan.” Okay, maybe my plan isn’t that freaking awesome.
Cissy grips my hand and leads me to the Rixa tent. Bands of tension grip my shoulders. Lincoln could be in there. I grit my teeth, waiting for the familiar waves of rage to pour through me. They don’t appear. Instead, I feel charged with nervous energy, my stomach doing flip-flops.
What the Hell is wrong with me?
My friend pauses beside the fabric flap that serves as the tent’s door. My breath hitches.
Cissy clears her throat. “Hello!”
An elder woman’s voice sounds from inside. “Yes?”
“We’re two maiden guests for the house of Rixa. May we enter?”
The tent flap opens. A portly woman in a simple black gown peeps her winkled face at us. “No one’s in here but me. Come on in.”
My body relaxes a bit. No close encounter with Prince Pompous. Whew.
Cissy guides me inside. “My name’s Cissy and this is Myla. She needs a gown of welcome.”
The woman sets her plump hands on her hips and looks me over. She has brown hair streaked with gray, a round face, and mismatched eyes of ice-blue and wheat-brown. “Is she the one who’s Lincoln’s, ah, guest?”
I raise my pointer finger. “Technically, I’m more of a prisoner.”
“Behave, Myla.” Cissy stifles a smile. “Yes, she’s the one.”
“I’m Queen Octavia’s handmaiden, Bera.”
Cissy curtsies. “Nice to meet you.” She elbows me softly in the ribs.
“Nice to, uh…” I scan the tent’s interior. My mouth opens wide with surprise. This place is packed with every sort of armor and weapon you can imagine, including baculum. I point to a line of silver swords with zigzag blades. “Those are for killing Viperons, aren’t they?” I bounce on the balls of my feet. “I wasn’t sure they really existed.”
Bera’s plump cheeks round into a smile. “Actually, they kill Viperons and Simia demons.”
Okay, I’ve heard rumors of these blades but I thought they were legends, like a flying carpet or Excalibur. I watch the weapons glimmer on the tent walls, my fingers itching to touch them. “Wow. Can I hold one?”
“No, you can’t,” Cissy shoots me a look that says ‘focus, Myla.’ “We just need a gown of welcome and we’ll be out of your way.” She glances meaningfully to the tent entrance.
She’s right. Lincoln could walk through any second. “Yes, a gown would be great.”
Bera nods. “I think we have something.” She waddles over to a large trunk along the back wall of the tent. Cissy follows her and releases my arm. Bera pulls up the trunk’s heavy wooden lid and sorts through layers of fabric. She pulls out what can only be described as a big pile of white pouf. “Here you go.”
Cissy grabs the garment. “Thank you.”
Bera bends into the trunk again, pulling out a pair of white heels. She eyes my feet. “These should fit.”
Cissy holds up the gown. It’s a huge marshmallow of a dress covered in layers of puffy lace.
My upper lip curls. “I am not wearing this.”
“You have no one to blame but yourself, Myla.”