THE PRINCESS TRIALS

CORDELIA K CASTEL

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

The Rebel: A Princess Trials Story

The Princess Trials

Cordelia Castel’s Books

Writing as Delia E Castel

Copyright © 2020 by Cordelia Castel.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Download a Princess Trials short story at the link below:

http://rebel.theprincesstrials.com

CHAPTER 1

When the revolution comes, border guards won’t get away with harassing Harvester girls. But for now, it’s just me and my poison darts.

I lie on the branch of the ancient persimmon tree, aiming my blowpipe at the exposed skin between the guard’s helmet and collar.

The hair curling from beneath his helmet is the blue-black common to the Nobles. His hand is wrapped around the Harvester girl’s arm, and he’s pulling her to his solar pick-up truck.

Dry leaves rustling in the wind mingle with the rapid beat of my pulse. As I grip the pipe’s barrel, my lips close around its mouthpiece, and I wish I’d brought the longer one I use for hunting jackrabbits. Accounting for the effects of the wind, it’s going to take every ounce of concentration to hit my target.

“Stay still,” I whisper into the wind. If that dart hits the girl…

Krim, the tomato supervisor, pushes his wheelbarrow off the path and heads toward the struggling pair, but the guard grips the butt of his rifle and hisses at the older man to get going.

He ducks his head and hurries along. As he passes beneath my tree, his head tilts up. My gaze is too fixed on the guard to notice the expression, but I don’t think he’ll yell at me today for not tending to my plants.

“One,” I mumble around the mouthpiece.

The guard clutches the girl to his chest and laughs. A palpitation reverberates through my chest, and my palms become slick. This won’t be like the last time.

“Two.” Dry air streams into my nostrils, fills my lungs, and expands my diaphragm. My ribcage pushes painfully against the rough bark of the branch.

The girl places both hands on his chest and throws her weight back to break free of the guard’s grip. He snatches her back and bends his head to plunder her mouth, exposing the reddened skin of his neck.

I release the air from my lungs and channel my resentment in a sharp exhale. The dart flies through the air and lands between the third and fourth notches of his cervical spine. I clench my teeth, waiting for the mandragon berries to do their work.

The guard flinches. His hand flies up to touch the feathered porcupine quill. He spins, yanking the dart, looking for me. I lie still, hoping the poison has blurred his vision enough to mistake the beige of my skirt for tree bark.

He stumbles toward the girl, who skitters back onto the path and ducks beneath the low canopy of the tomato trees. He falls forward with a heavy thud, and clouds of dust and leaf litter explode into the air.

Elation surges through my veins, and I drop from the tree to the applause of the other harvesters. On days like this, the revolution feels like it could really happen. I slip my blowpipe and quiver into the deep pockets of my skirt and walk back to weed among the tomato trees.

By the time Lieutenant Lecherous wakes up, it will be sunset, and he’ll suffer the mockery of his fellow guards, but there’s one Harvester girl saved.

For now.

The tomato trees have trunks as narrow as my forearm, which split at five-and-a-half feet into long branches that stretch horizontally to form a canopy thick enough to block the afternoon sun. Ripe fruit dangles from the stalks, and cool, sweet air sweeps beneath this haven from the dry heat.

My jute espadrilles scrape on the sandstone pathways, and I long to sink my feet into the damp, black soil.

A tall girl with straw-colored braids nods, acknowledging my heroic act, and I nod back. Only one thing would be better than saving a fellow Harvester girl, and that would be doing it under the approving gaze of Ryce Wintergreen.

“Zea-Mays Calico.” Krim’s voice lands in my ears with the weight of a boulder.

My shoulders stiffen, and I turn around. The tomato supervisor is in his mid-thirties like Dad, but the sun has dried his skin to the consistency of leather. It’s darker than his beige shirt and neckerchief, and his black eyes burn with fury.

“Yes, sir?” I reply.

He gestures behind us. “What have you done?”

I step back and bump into a wheelbarrow laden with beefsteak tomatoes. The question is annoying, considering he failed to save the girl. “That guard was attacking—”

“I didn’t ask for the whys.” He bares blunt, white teeth. “How in the name of Gaia will I explain his condition to his superiors?”

Apprehension prickles my skin, and I glance around the tomato field. The other harvesters pause to watch, their eyes wide with fear. My gaze darts back to the fallen border guard, who still lies face-down at the foot of the persimmon tree.

I swallow hard. “Mandragon mimics the venom of a jimson wasp.”

Krim’s lips tighten, and I already know what he’s thinking. Jimson wasps swarm in thousands. They will ask why only the guard got stung. If they’re not satisfied with his answer, that will be the end of Krim.

He blows out a long, weary breath. “Macoun, Cortland, Forelle, come here.”

Twin girls step forward, along with the girl I rescued from the guard’s attack. They all keep their gazes to the sandstone path.

Krim turns to me, his expression grim. “You’re going to sting each of them with your poisoned darts.”

My mouth drops open. “But—”

“How else can I cover up your impulsive act?” he snarls.

Any remaining triumph I felt now drains, and my shoulders slump with defeat.

The girl I saved steps forward. Her short apron indicates that she’s also an apprentice, but the faded tomato stains on the fabric tell me she’s been on the job at least a year.

Without looking me in the eye, she holds out her arm.

Ignoring the rise of bile to the back of my throat, I reach into the pocket of my skirt, pull out a dart, and give the girl’s arm the barest prick. She blinks once, twice, and falls back. One of the twins catches her before she hits the crops, and they carry her to the persimmon tree. Now, it will look like they both got stung.

When the twins return, we walk to the edge of the tomato field, and I have to sting them, too.

They remain conscious for long enough to position themselves in the shade, and Krim strides to the fallen guard and plucks the dart from his neck. I chew on the inside of my cheek, hoping the girls will stay unconscious for long enough to corroborate Krim’s cover-up.

A moment later, he returns with the dart and presses it into my hand. “I’ll report the sighting of jimson scouts.”

He glances around at the other harvesters. “Everyone was too busy weeding and picking tomatoes to notice what happened by the tree, is that understood?”

Mutters of agreement spread out from the tomato trees, and relief washes through my veins like rain. Krim’s plan might work.

As we walk toward the persimmon tree, he says, “Go home.”

“But—”

“The next squadron will arrive soon enough.” He squints up at the sky. “When they take the register, I’ll explain that I sent you home with sunstroke, a common ailment for a careless apprentice.”

Home is a two-mile walk through the cornfield Dad supervises. Giant stalks loom at my sides like sentinels, their leaves rustling in the breeze. The milky, sweet scent of ripe kernels teases my sinuses, and saliva trickles into my mouth. Swallowing hard, I dip my head and pull down the brim of my bonnet, so no one recognizes me as I walk home in disgrace.

The sun beats down on my back like an admonishing parent, and for the next half-hour, Krim’s voice rings in my ears. Maybe there was a better way to handle the situation, but if I had let that guard drag away Forelle—I shake my head. I can’t dwell on old memories. I can’t keep punishing myself for those I couldn’t save.

Along the dirt track, I pass a few Harvesters, their heads bowed with the weight of drudgery. Dust blends with the beige and browns of their clothing and many of them carry gourds of water.

I rub my throat and gulp. Water, not food, is the currency in our Echelon. Echelon’s are levels of society that define a person’s caste, social status, access to resources, and freedom. Harvesters are at the bottom of Phangloria’s Echelon system, even though we’re the ones who grow the food and tend to the livestock.

Phangloria is the largest country in the continent of North America, separated from the desert by the Great Wall. Harvesters live in a dry region closer to the outskirts and miles away from the Oasis, the country’s only source of water.

My tongue darts out to moisten my dry lips. With more water, Harvesters won’t feel so beaten down. More water also means we can grow more food at home and on our window sills. I fan myself, but the effort is futile.

At the end of the cornfield, dust drifts off a hundred-foot-long stretch of parched earth that marks the beginning of Rugosa, a mishmash of pale houses built from the earth and arranged around a public square. Rugosa isn’t a city like the Oasis, and the word village would imply that we have a community. We don’t. Toil and hunger and thirst keeps us too weary of doing anything but surviving and biding our time for the revolution.

My foot catches on a deep crack in the earth, and the ear-piercing shriek of a royal raptor overhead reminds me of the dangers of standing still for too long in the sun. Shuddering, I quicken my pace and try not to think why such a dangerous bird of prey has escaped the notice of the Great Wall’s riflemen.

Like most Harvesters, we live in an earth house. It’s white with curved walls, and a huge roof sloped to catch every drop of water during the rainy season. At the window, Flint and Yoseph wave and jump up and down. Squinting up at the cloudless sky for signs of the royal raptor, I wave back at my little brothers.

As I step into the shade of the veranda, Mom opens the door and steps aside. “What did you do?”

I enter the welcoming cool of the house and mutter, “Krim sent me home with sunstroke.”

Her brows rise. I’m not the best of liars, but Mom knows my mannerisms well enough to tell that I’m hiding something. The twins rush out from the family room and wrap their arms around my waist. They’re five, identical, with the same front tooth missing on the bottom left. Flint pats down my pocket for tomatoes, and Yoseph pulls out a poisoned dart.

“Careful.” I wrap my hand around Yoseph’s wrist. “Don’t touch.”

“Did you bring us something from work?” asks Yoseph, his hazel eyes dancing with excitement.

I ruffle his hair. “How about a story before bedtime?”

“Now!” Flint grabs my arm and jumps.

Mom ushers them back into the family room, which doubles as a classroom during the day. “You took your blowgun to the tomato field?”

With a sigh, I follow her into the kitchen. It’s a space as large as the family room with wall-width windows and raised beds running along both sides of the back door. It’s where we grow food from all the spoiled fruit we’re allowed to keep. Because of her childhood, Mom’s the blowgun expert. She taught me how to use it when I was little, saying it was a useful skill to have during lean times. Now, I can tell she regrets introducing me to the weapon.

While Mom tends to the pile of dragon fruit on the kitchen counter, I sit at the bed’s low wall and give her the highlights about the guard. Throughout my tale, she scoops white, speckled flesh from the cerise-colored fruit with increasingly jerky movements.

She asks, “Was there a camera on his helmet?”

My brow furrows. “No.”

“How can you be sure?” Mom slams her spoon on the counter.

“He wouldn’t have wanted his superiors seeing what he’d come to do.”

Mom’s hand claps over her mouth, and she stares at me with wide, glistening eyes. “He was—”

“Dragging her to his jeep.” I snatch my gaze away from Mom’s. That’s the look she used to give me when I would scream awake from nightmares of the other time. The other time I hid in a tree while a different guard assaulted a Harvester girl. My throat thickens, and I let my shoulders droop. “My dart hit him before the girl got hurt.”

“Zea,” she says, her voice soft.

“It’s fine.” I stand and turn to the glass door that leads to our yard.

“You’re sixteen,” Mom says to my back. “They won’t just whip you.”

“I know.”

“Zea,” her voice sharpens.

I turn around and meet Mom’s worried, aquamarine eyes. They’re a shade lighter than mine, and it’s the only physical trait we have in common. Where Mom is short and curvy for a Harvester woman, I’m all angles and elbows with dark brown hair. She clasps her hands over the full-length, white apron that covers her beige dress, and over the long, blonde braids that frame her delicate features.

My heart softens. I wish I could tell her that we’re the ones that will cause the guards to worry. “I’ll stay low until Carolina—”

“Are you still associating with that lunatic?”

I flinch. “Mom?”

She rounds the counter, advancing on me with her eyes blazing. “The Guardians block every uprising before they even start and execute the ringleaders. I don’t see Carolina or her associates risking themselves to save the virtue of Harvester girls. Why should you?”

I press my lips together to suppress a rant. In Rugosa, words have a way of reaching the wrong ears and getting innocent people detained.

Mom disagrees because she spent her childhood in the Barrens—the buffer between the desert and our Echelon. The people who live there are Foundlings, who survived the wilderness and approached the Great Wall. They remain in the Barrens for decades, generations sometimes, until they prove themselves genetically fit to join Phangloria.

We should all be grateful, Mom always says. She doesn’t mind that the Harvesters work in harsh conditions to grow food for the other Echelons—according to her, it’s better to live at the bottom of an ordered society than in the dry wilderness.

An exasperated breath slips from my lips. “It’s not like—”

“If you want to change Phangloria, join the Princess Trials!” She balls her hands into fists. “At least then, you’ll have the opportunity to become the queen and make some changes.”

I step back, a laugh huffing from my chest. The Princess Trials is a centuries-old tradition where the king and queen of Phangloria invite girls from every Echelon to compete to marry the crown prince.

All the girls in the tomato fields won’t stop talking about the handsome Prince Kevon and their big chance to visit the palace. I can’t believe anyone would subject themselves to such scrutiny, particularly because no prince has ever chosen a Harvester to be his bride.

“That beauty pageant?” I say.

“Why not?” Mom raises her chin and levels me with her stare. “You’re healthy, beautiful, and full of ideas. Time at the Oasis with the future king might make him and the Nobles more sympathetic to your cause.”

I turn away from her determined gaze. When I go to the Oasis, it will be with the Red Runners. We’ll defeat the Guardians with our armory, tear King Arias off his throne, and make water available for everyone. Why would I want a pampered prince when I could have a revolution?

“That’s not going to happen,” I say.

“Is this about Ryce Wintergreen?” Her voice is sharp with accusation.

Ryce Wintergreen is Carolina’s son and an eighteen-year-old revolutionary who leads our cell of the Red Runners, a secret group of like-minded people who will one day overthrow the entire Echelon system.

Everybody in Phangloria belongs to an Echelon. The Royals are descendants of the country’s founders and consist of the king, queen and the prince.

Next are the Nobles, which include minor royals, distant royals, and families that were in Phangloria from the beginning. The Guardians mostly consist of the soldiers who protect Phangloria and enforce the law, and the Artisans are the creatives.

The last two Echelons are the most numerous but have the least power: the Industrials, who work in manufacturing, and the Harvesters who grow all the food and tend to the livestock.

Foundlings aren’t considered part of Phangloria until they pass a series of rigorous tests when old enough to contribute to our society.

Even though I’ve known Ryce Wintergreen for years, and he’s personally trained me in hand-to-hand combat, basic gun and knife skills, he has only ever shown me professional interest.

I open the back door, letting in a rush of hot, dry air. “Ryce is just a friend.”

Before Mom can say anything else about Ryce or Carolina, I close the door and hurry through the maze of tall cacti that fills the backyard. A human-sounding screech carries in the breeze, and warmth fills my chest. I pluck a few purple berries from a round cactus and hurry to a group of thorny succulents with arms that trail down to the dusty ground.

I kneel before a three-foot-tall barrel cactus and stare into the black eyes of my friend. “Sharqi.”

Sharqi looks like a kakapo—an owl-faced parrot with moss and lime-green feathers. She’s the size of a large cat with oversized claws that curl like fingers. Unlike kakapo, Sharqi can fly. An ornithologist at the Oasis might be able to classify her exact species.

As I sprinkle the berries on the ground, she opens her curved beak and squawks her thanks.

“How are the chicks?” I murmur.

From deep within the taller plants, three young birds emerge from behind another barrel cactus. They stand nearly as tall as their mother, but with crested head feathers and beaks as sharp as blades. From the looks of them, they’re probably more suited to chunks of raw meat than to berries.

I sit in the shade with the birds for what feels like hours and take a few fruits for myself. They’re warmer than I’d like but an appreciated source of liquid.

“Zea?” asks an unfamiliar voice.

Forelle, the red-haired girl from the tomato field, stands over me. I shield my eyes with my hand and squint. “How did you get here so quickly?”

She grins. “The guards woke me with a shot. After I gave my statement, Krim brought me here on his mule.” Forelle kneels at my side and makes kissing sounds at Sharqi. “He said I could find you here.”

“How’s that guard doing?” I ask.

She rubs her brow. “He’s still unconscious. I hope he gets a headache when he wakes.”

I snort. “Trust me, he’ll have the worst hangover.”

“Tell me about it,” she says with a laugh.

My smile fades as I remember stabbing her with my poisoned dart. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not complaining. You only gave me a tiny prick of poison.” Her hands shoot up. “I came to thank you for coming to my aid. That guard wouldn’t have stopped.”

“Yeah.” My head dips, and old memories push themselves to the forefront of my mind. I’m up a tree, watching another Harvester girl struggle in the grip of a similar guard, except I’m too paralyzed with fear to pull out my blowpipe.

Forelle places a hand on my arm. “You risked execution for me.”

Sharqi gobbles the first berry, splattering purple juice over her beak. I shake my head and smile because the Red Runners wouldn’t let me get hurt. If one of their members got arrested for protecting a Harvester, it would incite a riot that would wipe out every guard that dared to tie a noose around my neck.

“It would never have come to that,” I murmur.

She sucks in a breath, sounding like she wants to disagree. Maybe Forelle is like Mom and fears the might of the Guardians, but Ryce told me the revolution would happen soon. He has seen the cache of weapons, and there are enough guns to storm the Oasis and free every Harvester from a life of servitude.

Forelle licks her lips. “If you hadn’t saved me today, I wouldn’t have qualified for the Princess Trials.”

I turn away from Sharqi and examine my new companion. She’s about my height, five-eight, with smiling gray eyes set within a heart-shaped face and rosy cheeks and lips that don’t need coloring. I can see why a girl like her could compete with the higher Echelons for the chance to marry Prince Kevon.

One evening at the assembly hall, a documentary played on the OasisVision screen of Pre-Raphaelite paintings from the ancient society that was once Italy. Ignoring the beige dress, matching bonnet, and tomato-stained apron, Forelle could have modeled for one of those artists.

She continues staring at me, and my mind snaps to the present. I mutter, “It’s not safe around those Nobles.”

Her face breaks out into a grin. “But it would be nice to get out of Rugosa and stay in the palace, swim in a pool of water, and eat at all those banquets. Besides, the pageant is televised, and nothing untoward will happen on the big screen.”

My lips twitch, and I can’t help but return her smile. Forelle’s optimism reminds me of Mom. “And what about the handsome prince?”

“It’s not like I have a chance.” She raises a shoulder. “There’ll be opportunities at the Oasis we can’t find here.”

“Zea?” asks a familiar male voice from behind.

My heart turns a somersault in my chest, and I tilt my head up. Standing among the cacti is Ryce Wintergreen, Captain of the Red Runners, and the object of my deepest desire. His pale, blue eyes burn with determination, and his features are grave. I’ve never seen Ryce so much as quirk the corners of his lips. One day, I’ll be the one who makes Ryce smile.

“I heard you took out a border guard.” Ryce’s gaze is assessing, as though he’s looking at me for the first time.

His voice touches all corners of my heart, and heat rises to my cheeks.

“She was amazing,” says Forelle, her voice full of enthusiastic cheer.

“I’m beginning to appreciate Zea’s talents,” Ryce says, not sparing her the slightest glance. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that turns my insides into mush. “Will you excuse us for a moment, please? Zea and I have urgent business.”

CHAPTER 2

F orelle stands and disappears behind a cactus, leaving me kneeling in the dirt and staring into the eyes of Ryce Wintergreen.

He looms above me, and sunlight shines through his chocolate-brown hair, turning its ends as red as the burnt sienna mom uses to make paints. For a moment, it looks like a halo, and the little moisture in my throat evaporates.

Ryce offers me his hand. “Good work, soldier.”

My heart soars, and I let him pull me to my feet. Ryce’s sweet, earthy scent fills my nostrils, reminding me of sugar beet. We stand so close that his breath fans across my face.

Ryce and I share a terrible history, a shared tragedy that has blighted my soul. Seven years ago, I witnessed the murder of Ryce’s father. Afterward, Dad brought me over to the Wintergreen house to tell him and Carolina what I saw.

Ryce had been eleven, angry, and full of accusations. If I had been up the tree, why hadn’t I shot at the guard with my poisoned darts? Dad and Carolina had stepped between us, but Ryce had been right. I had let the guard attack that Harvester girl and hadn’t done anything to help Mr. Wintergreen when he had intervened and gotten himself beaten to death.

He steps back and pulls a small bottle gourd from his pocket. “I brought you something.”

My lips part. “What?”

“Krim sent you home without rations.” He shakes the gourd, sloshing its contents. “Have mine.”

“But—”

“What you did today was outstanding. Heroic acts need to be rewarded, not punished. The revolution depends on brave soldiers.” Ryce pauses and seems to look into my soul. “Like you.”

My throat dries, and butterflies thrash their wings against the lining of my stomach, urging me to accept his gift. Ryce’s gaze turns expectant.

“Thanks.” I take the gourd, pop its cork, and place its opening to my lips. Cool, sweet bliss slides down my throat and moistens my parched mucous membranes. My chest vibrates with an appreciative moan. Water after a hot day in the sun is sweeter than chocolate, sweeter than the ripest fruit, but nothing is sweeter than Ryce Wintergreen watching me drink.

I pull the gourd from my lips and gulp. “Here, you have some.”

He takes the water and sips. “I heard that the guard was still unconscious when they carried him away. What did you use?”

“Mandragon berries,” I reply.

“Deadly?” He raises a brow.

I shake my head. “Apothecaries use them in sleeping draughts, but the darkest berries at the top of the tree are the most potent. Nobody buys them because of their unpredictable effects.”

He nods, seeming to understand.

Dad’s the expert on medicinal plants. When he’s not working, he’s gathering herbs or tending to his micro gardens in shaded spots around Rugosa. He maintains them with wastewater he collects from our house and from neighbors who he pays with produce.

I still go out with Dad, tend to plants and gather herbs that grow wild in fields and around ancient trees. But it was Mom who taught me to use the blowgun. In the Barrens, hunting was the only way to survive.

Ryce finishes his drink and asks, “May I see your weapon?”

I pull my blowgun from the deep pocket of my skirt. It’s twelve inches, made of bamboo, and the smallest in my collection. I hand it to Ryce, who weighs it in his hand with his brows raised. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that something that looks like a drinking straw can kill.

Before I can show him my quiver and poisoned darts, a desert runner swoops down from the sky. Ryce beckons for it to come close. The bird lands, curling its talons around his forearm.

Desert runners are reddish-brown birds with long, muscular legs that make excellent meat. They hunt with beaks as sharp as daggers and can run faster than a solar jeep. The Red Runners raise them from eggs and train them to pass messages. This desert runner has a red talon, which is a summons to headquarters.

Ryce raises his brow. “Mother probably wants to congratulate you herself.”

After I wave goodbye to Sharqi and her chicks, Ryce and I walk to the furthest end of the yard, where the cacti stand only knee-high. I’ve never been to the headquarters of the Red Runners, and my heart beats twice as fast as our hurried steps.

The sun burns bright in the cloudless sky. In a few hours, it will set, and the wind will cool. We pass through the narrow patch of land that separates our garden from the Braeburns’, neighbors who supply Dad with wastewater.

“Could you teach me to use the blowpipe?” Ryce asks in a low voice. “A weapon like that could be vital for stealth missions.”

Curiosity burns through my insides. I had never thought of the Red Runners infiltrating enemy territory to perform covert operations. I conjure up images of old movies played on OasisVision, relics from the world before bombs and drought and ecological disasters.

As we step onto the dirt road that winds around the outskirts of Rugosa, I whisper, “What kinds of missions?”

Ryce raises a brow, and I place my fingers over my lips. I know better than to ask that kind of question out in public.

A stagecoach trundles past, pulled by a pair of giant pronghorns. They’re seven-foot-tall antelopes covered in brown-and-beige zebra stripes and grow two-pronged horns on kangaroo-like faces. Pronghorns can outrun everything from desert runners to horses.

At the back of the stagecoach sit two-dozen dirt-covered Harvester men, who reek of manure. They are soil builders, who prepare the desert for crops. It’s smelly, back-breaking drudgery, and the more arable land they create, the more Phangloria expands.

I give Ryce an apologetic shrug for asking such a delicate question outside. Even when nobody seems to pay attention, someone is always listening.

Ryce takes my hand as we cross the stretch of dirt track that leads to the cornfield. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You’re not to mention what you see to anyone, is that understood?”

I nod, and we continue through the expanse of corn. The lines of stalks stretch on forever, a lush, forest green with a smattering of golden cornsilk, and their tall leaves form a shady canopy. We continue in silence through the field, and my pulse thuds with the promise of adventure.

Hundreds of feet ahead stands a baobab tree with a trunk thick enough to fill the entire house. Dark-limbs protrude from its crown-like tentacles, which twist and split into branches and the thinnest twigs. That baobab tree has been struck by lightning so many times that the earth around it has turned barren.

“Don’t be alarmed.” Ryce lets go of my hand, approaches the tree, slips into its hollow, and disappears.

“Ryce?” I try to keep the tremble from my voice.

He doesn’t answer, and I squeeze my eyes shut and blow out a long breath through my nostrils. This is a test. Ryce probably wants to judge my worth to see if I can be trusted with a stealth mission. Wiping my damp palms on the sides of my skirt, I glance over my shoulder and follow him inside.

Darkness engulfs my senses, and an electrical charge makes my skin tingle. The fine hairs on my body stand on end, and I suck in a shocked breath. It’s so quiet inside the tree that the thud of my pulse becomes deafening. One foot stumbles after the other, and I fall forward, only to land in strong arms.

“Careful.” Ryce wraps an arm around my back. “I should have warned you about the uneven floor.”

My nose grazes his neck, and I can almost taste the salt on his skin. Heat flares across my cheeks, and my throat dries. Right now, I’m glad there’s no source of light in the tree.

“What is this place?” I whisper.

“The entrance to the Red Runner headquarters.”

Ryce takes my hand, and every knot of tension that has formed on my muscles unwinds. He guides me a few feet forward, then down a ladder and down an underground hallway, warning me that the passage is fraught with traps. I stay close for safety, but his steady presence at my side is intoxicating.

I’m not sure if we’re traveling away from Rugosa or toward it but eventually, lights flood the passageway, making me blink.

Ryce places a hand on a door screen that scans his print. The technology is alarmingly similar to the ignition used in solar jeeps. “She’s waiting for you in here.”

The door clicks open. A whirr of fans fill my ears, and the scent of stale coffee invades my nostrils. Ryce steps into what I can only describe as a monitoring station, a hexagonal room with two massive screens on each wall displaying footage from all sixteen towns within the Harvester region.

Six people wearing black clothes sit in the middle of the room at work stations that contain four monitors. My gaze lands on the screen flashing images from Rugosa Square, our street, and the cornfields, and of a truck arriving into our town. The young man observing them raises his head, and his entire lower jaw appears missing.

Shock flashes through my insides like lightning, and I clamp my lips together to hold back a gasp. Swallowing hard, I blank my reaction.

What is a Foundling doing in the Harvester region? I’m not complaining—I’m not, but the Guardians would never let someone who looked like him into Phangloria.

My throat dries, and I drop my gaze to the ground. There’s a special group of Guardians called midwives that don’t help women give birth. They assess babies’ viability based on a range of unexplained tests and criteria.

Three years ago, a young Harvester woman with a healthy child birthed a baby that required two midwife visits. Nobody knows what was wrong with the baby, but the entire family disappeared overnight.

“Zea-Mays Calico.” Carolina steps out from a doorway on my right.

Her features have hardened over the years. The unfairness of having a husband brutally killed and his murder dismissed can do that to a person.

As usual, guilt tightens my chest at the sight of Carolina. I hadn’t seen the guard’s face. I hadn’t been able to identify the monster who had slammed the butt of his rifle into Mr. Wintergreen’s head until it split open like a watermelon. Because I had been paralyzed with terror, there had been no justice.

Carolina places her hands on her hips, and her assessing gaze roves my form. “What did you do to that guard this afternoon?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the people watching the monitors turn, but my gaze fixes on Carolina. Pride straightens my posture, pulls my shoulders back, and lightens my chest.

I’m about to answer when Ryce rushes forward and tells his mother about the mandragon berries. My insides deflate a little at losing my chance to shine in front of the Red Runners’ leader, but it makes my heart swell that Ryce has listened so carefully to my account of today’s events.

Carolina nods throughout Ryce’s explanation, and I step back and watch. She paces up and down the room, firing questions at him, and seeming more like a general than a mother. It’s a stark contrast to how they interact in public.

In Red Runner meetings, Carolina is our fearless leader, the aggrieved widow. She wants to free Phangloria for the benefit of the Harvesters, the Foundlings, and those downtrodden by the Nobles. She always pauses to smile at Ryce, which softens the sharp edges to her personality, but today, she’s all business.

Finally, she turns to me, flicks her head to a doorway and strides in its direction. “Walk with me.”

I glance at Ryce, who sweeps his arm out in a gesture for me to follow his mother. Carolina disappears into another hexagonal room, which is larger than the floor space of my entire house. Floor-to-ceiling racks line the walls, each laden with rifles, handguns, grenades, and metallic disc-like weapons I can’t begin to describe.

My mouth drops open. “Where did you get these?”

Carolina doesn’t answer but stands with her hands behind her back and rocks forward on her heels. My shoulders deflate at the obvious question. Most members of the Red Runners already know that this armory is the culmination of over half a century of pilfering weapons.

My gaze fixes on a short-barreled machine gun positioned lengthwise mounted along one wall. With thick, twelve-inch-long magazines, it looks nothing like border guard rifles. I want to ask Carolina how she obtained such sophisticated firearms, but she wouldn’t answer.

“We have enough weapons here and in our other stores to arm a thousand Harvesters,” she says.

I suck in a breath through my teeth and nod, flattered that Carolina has brought me into her confidence. It’s hard to picture so many armed rebels, but there are easily that many people in Rugosa Square every day.

“Can the revolution happen soon?” I ask.

Ryce stands at my side and places a hand on my arm. The strobe light harshens his earnest features. “There are fifty thousand Guardians in Phangloria, and five-thousand of them operate within the Oasis.”

My spirits deflate. It would take an eternity for any kind of revolution that doesn’t result in massive Harvester deaths. I bite down on my lip and glance at Ryce. Despite the pessimistic numbers he just presented, his eyes dance with excitement. Why?

I glance at Carolina, who stares at me with the same eager expression as her son. My heart skips. What I did today with my poisoned dart has given them some kind of hope.

Camel reed grows in the water filtration plants and around the expanse of drylands separating Rugosa from the Barrens, as does bamboo. They’re both types of grasses with hollow stems and are plentiful. Plentiful enough to equip thousands of Harvesters with blowguns.

Hope thrums through my insides, and I clear my throat. “Do you want me to make—”

Carolina raises a finger, making my mouth click shut. “Two hundred guard the palace.”

She steps back, and a cool smile crosses her features. It’s the barest curve of the lips without an ounce of mirth or warmth, but her breathing quickens, and her blue eyes become manic.

What is she talking about? I drop my gaze to the thickest machine gun on the wall, whose scope looks long enough to shoot a person from a thousand feet.

Ryce’s large hand slides around my waist, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to fall into a gibbering heap. His warmth seeps through the fabric of my dress, and his earthy scent fills my nostrils, making my heart pound so hard that its reverberations reach my fingertips.

I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on the situation. This isn’t real. If Ryce Wintergreen wanted to make a move on me, he wouldn’t do it in front of his mother.

A thousand armed rebels could subdue two hundred palace guards, but Carolina’s suggestion is flawed. Even if we traveled through Phangloria undetected, we would never get through the palace gates. Nobody gets to enter that building unless they’re royals, ambassadors from the other kingdoms, or nobles. Or…

My head snaps up. “The Princess Trials.”

Ryce steps away with an approving nod. “I told you Zea would be perfect for this mission.”

“Me?” I slap my hand to my chest.

“Why not?” Ryce walks around me in a circle. “You’re pretty enough to reach the finals. Committed enough to find a hidden passageway into the palace. Brave enough to lead the revolution.”

“A spy mission?” My voice shakes.

Carolina nods. “You’re the only Harvester girl in the age bracket we can trust.”

A sharp breath whistles through my teeth. All these years, I thought myself an anonymous foot soldier. Carolina and Ryce barely acknowledged me after I had failed to identify Mr. Wintergreen’s murderer. No matter how hard I trained in Ryce’s youth cell, I had felt beneath their notice.

Ryce stops circling and places both hands on my shoulders. “You’ve grown from a frightened girl to a warrior brave enough to risk her life to save another.”

Carolina stands at his side and dabs a knuckle at the corner of her eye. “Just like my Sylvester.”

The reminder of Mr. Wintergreen makes my heart still. For a moment, I’m that quaking little girl who stepped into Carolina’s kitchen to share the terrible news. Dad had held onto my shoulders to keep me from falling into a sobbing heap as I spluttered out the words. Seeing Carolina howl with grief had nearly been as bad as witnessing the guard’s attack on poor Mr. Wintergreen.

“You can do this.” Ryce squeezes my shoulders.

His words snap me into the present, and I’m lost in his eyes. They’re the same color as mine but on the opposite spectrum of blue—pale as the horizon with flecks of white, reminding me of the sky before the rainy season. His pupils contract, and his hand lands on my shoulder, slides up my neck, and cups my face.

My pulse flutters in my throat in time with the butterflies in my stomach. Ryce Wintergreen has never looked at me like this, as though I’m the answer to a longing deep within his heart.

“When you lead us into the revolution, Harvesters like us will be free to choose more than one path.” His gaze drops to my lips. “I’ve never courted a girl. Do you know why?”

Every instinct tells me that his interest in me is moving too quickly. Mom would warn me that this was just a ploy to get me to agree to something reckless. Despite this, I find myself whispering, “Why?”

“Phangloria is no place for a Harvester to start a family,” he says. “I won’t condemn a child to a life of hunger and hard labor.”

His words stir up the well of dissatisfaction in my heart. It no longer matters if Ryce Wintergreen is faking an interest to get me to perform a mission. I’m a Harvester and a Red Runner committed to the revolution. This might be our one chance to smash the oppressive Echelon system.

I break eye contact. “What do you want me to do?”

Ryce steps away, and Carolina’s harsh features fill my vision. The strobe light turns the blue in her eyes white. “Infiltrate the palace, find the hidden entrances, and don’t fall in love with the handsome prince.”

CHAPTER 3

C arolina and Ryce stare at me, their postures taut and their eyes bright with expectation. The racks of weapons gleam under the strobe light, and I can now picture them in the arms of brave rebels. Of all the Harvester girls in the kingdom, the leaders of the Red Runners have chosen me to open the gates to the revolution.

My lungs fill with deep, satisfied breaths, and I bask in their attention. This is the proudest moment in all my sixteen years.

If I succeed in this mission, it will erase the cowardice that taints my soul. It will be for Mr. Wintergreen, for all the Harvester girls who have ever suffered at the hands of a guard, for those Foundlings who survive in shanties by the Great Wall because they’re not deemed genetically fit to live in Phangloria.

Mom will be surprised when she discovers that I’ve taken her advice. One girl can make a difference, and that girl is going to be me.

Raising my chin, I say, “I’ll do it.”

Carolina wraps me into a hug. Her arms are wiry, her chest bony, and she squeezes as tight as rope. “Your name will be remembered in the new democracy.”

As we draw away, my gaze meets Ryce’s. One corner of his lips rise, and he gives me an approving nod. “I’ll take care of your kakapo—”

“Sharqi,” I blurt.

His eyes soften. “I’ll make sure Sharqi and her chicks have everything they need while you’re in the palace.”

A siren blares before I can thank him. It’s an early roll-call, ordering every able-bodied person in town to Rugosa Square.

Ryce wraps a hand around my forearm. “Come with me.”

We rush through a door that leads into another darkened hallway, and I stumble blindly at his side.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“This region is filled with underground caverns, did you know that?” he asks.

“No—”

“My family has been in Rugosa for five generations, but it was my great-grandfather who discovered a network of tunnels under the town. He thought their purpose was for removing excess water from the streets.”

“I can’t picture that much rain ever falling.”

“It’s hard to imagine that the Mississippi River ran through this place centuries ago.”

As we hurry down a maze of dark passages, Ryce explains that the discovery of these tunnels was what started the Red Runners. His great-grandfather had confided in a fellow soil-builder about his find, who told another harvester, who told someone else. Eventually, word reached the guards, who took everyone who even suspected the tunnels’ existence to the Oasis.

Ryce stops and places my hands on a wooden ladder. We climb up in the dark, and he explains that an urn of ashes one day appeared outside his great-grandmother’s house. It had been a warning to everyone else never to venture into the tunnels.

At the top of the ladder, he reaches past me and pushes at something in the ceiling. It gives way, and light and a musty scent floods the ladder, making me squint.

I stare up at the wooden roof of an outhouse. To the left of my head sits an earthenware chamber pot. I turn around, and Ryce gives me an encouraging nod.

The outhouse is in the backyard containing dwarf date palms with oversized fruit bunches that hang from thick stalks. I blow out a breath through my teeth. The soil where we live is only suitable for growing cacti.

“This way.” He places his hand on the small of my back, and for a moment, it feels like we’ve been together forever.

The sun is an incandescent ball of light half obscured by the horizon, and the oppressive heat of the day fades to a gentle warmth. Mingled scents of pomegranates and pears and persimmons carry in the breeze, which sweeps dark strands of hair off my face.

We step out from the garden and join a road of houses made of mud bricks. The white rendering has faded to brown over the years, but these homes are much older than ours and closer to Rugosa square.

Whole families of Harvesters pile out of their houses toward the stairs. The Nobles encourage us with extra water rations to marry early and reproduce, but very few households contain more than three children.

“What do you think this roll call is about?” I ask. “The trials?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Ryce pauses for a field manager on horseback, who wears a white shirt with his beige pants. Pink patches appear on the older man’s cheeks through his peeling brown skin. He tips the brim of his straw hat at Ryce, who offers back an acknowledging nod.

The square is one of the few paved areas within Rugosa. It’s a vast space that can accommodate all seven-thousand of us, with floodlights on the surrounding streets that also contain speakers.

There are no stores or boutiques in Rugosa except for a huge geodesic dome. One half consists of triangular panels that give a clear view of the OasisVision screen. The other half is a white polymer that both protects from the sun and projects the screen on its exterior. That way, everyone in Rugosa gets a chance to watch important announcements, even when the dome is full.

Harvesters spill into the streets, a mass of beiges and browns and burned umber. The dome doors are closed with at least a thousand people crowding around its front and back. As we cross the street, our steps falter—not at the crowd but at a marquee that stands at its side with guards flanking its closed doors. Even more alarming are the eight black trucks parked on that side of the square. There’s no mistaking who or what they contain.

Anxiety clutches at my insides. The last time the guards erected a marquee, it was to round up the participants of an illicit distillery. No one has seen those Harvester men and women in the two years since they were taken.

“Do you know what that structure is about?” I whisper.

Ryce shakes his head and guides me to the furthest end of the square in view of the screen.

By now, the last vestiges of sunlight filter through the distant haze, turning the sky the color of freshly spilled blood. Dozens of guards step out of their vehicles, each clad in black armor and each carrying automatic rifles. I edge closer to Ryce, hoping that they’re here to supervise the Harvester portion of the Princess Trials.

The national anthem blares through the overhead speakers, and the Phangloria insignia appears on the screen. It’s a tree with multiple curling branches that stretch out into a semicircle and matching roots that extend the same length as the branches. At its trunk is a single eye. It’s supposed to belong to Gaia, the goddess the Nobles worship, but the double crowns that make up her eyelashes make me wonder if the Nobles believe that the monarchs are the gods.

The image fades, replaced by Jimeno Montana, the Minister of Media and OasisVision. His blue-black hair identifies him as a Noble, and he wears it swept off his face and in a braid that extends beyond his lower back. Nobody knows his age, and it’s hard to tell with his deep, terra-cotta skin obscuring any fine lines or wrinkles. Dad can remember his father claiming to have watched Montana on the screens as a boy.

“Good evening, Phangloria!” He pauses, but nobody in the crowd returns his greeting. “And now, for today’s news.”

Montana shares the usual updates, which are mostly productivity levels of the Harvesters and the Industrials, those who work in the factories in the expanse of land between our region and the Oasis. It’s tedious and designed to make us compete instead of cooperate, but whichever town produces the most output gets a dozen crates of beer and bonus water rations for the next day. For us, this water can mean the difference between our home produce succeeding or drying on the vines.

Next is news that the Amstraad ambassador has arrived to supervise the building of a new hospital and to negotiate the sale of five-thousand health monitors. My gaze wanders to the lights blinking on and off on Montana’s ear cuff. He has probably had his monitor since grandfather was still alive and young.

“How many of those devices will trickle down to the Harvesters?” I mutter, already knowing the answer.

Ryce leans close and whispers, “No Harvester would get any work done with all those dehydration alarms blazing in the fields.”

I snort. Thirst is a constant companion here. The Nobles allow us just enough water to labor.

Montana launches into a speech about how a young acolyte of Gaia spent weeks in isolation during one of the many plagues of the twenty-first century. Gaia showed him a vision of the destruction of the world and told him to gather followers to build a new land.

I tune out because it’s the story of Noah, but instead of a flood, there are nuclear bombs, natural disasters, and oceans swallowing the coast. Instead of an ark and two of each animal, there’s an underground bunker filled with the ancestors of the Nobles.

When he introduces the Princess Trials section of the news, he explains that Phangloria is a place where anyone can ascend to royalty. In each generation, girls from every Echelon get the chance to become the queen.

Ryce leans into me and mutters, “Guess how many Industrials and Harvesters have won the Princess Trials?”

“The same amount who get Amstraad monitors?” I ask.

One corner of his lip curls into the barest of smiles.

Montana clasps his hands together. “And now, news from the Princess Trials. Everyone give a round of applause to Circi Aster, lady-at-arms to Queen Damascena!”

A woman steps onscreen with deep mahogany skin, cropped black hair, and eyes as green as malachite. She wears a fuchsia jacket with a high collar that wraps around her neck, nearly skimming the Amstraad monitor on her ear. The golden crown, eye, and tree insignia on her epaulets mark her as a general.

“Thank you.” She inclines her head but doesn’t smile. Circi Aster is as serious as the weapons she wields.

The camera pans out to reveal the rest of her garment, a catsuit that hugs her waist and skims her hips. Holsters wrap around it like corsets, and I count four handguns. Circi Aster is the queen’s lady-in-waiting, bodyguard, and closest confidant wrapped in a beautiful, deadly package.

Ryce’s arm wraps around my waist, and he pulls me into his side. “Thank you, Zea for securing our life together.”

All the air leaves my lungs in a shocked breath. I turn away from the screen to gauge his expression. “What do you mean?”

In the fading light, Ryce’s eyes are like the morning sky, filled with the promise of a better day. “Someone’s going to be at my side after the revolution. Who better than the brave warrior who paved the way for our freedom?”

As Lady Circi and Montana continue to chat onscreen, I bite down on my bottom lip and examine Ryce’s features. Nothing in his expression says that his words are a ploy to make me complete my mission. I already agreed to enter the trials. What’s the point of promising a future together unless my attack on that guard had finally caught his attention?

His brows draw together, and the arm around my waist falls. “Sorry if that was presumptuous—”

“It isn’t,” I say.

Ryce nods and turns to the screen. I can barely concentrate on Lady Circi’s words. Montana asks her about all the girls who have already entered the pageant, and her face twists into a wry smile.

I turn back to Ryce. “How far have they gotten with the Trials?”

“They selected which Nobles will compete in the palace on Monday,” he replies, still staring at the screen. “On Tuesday, they chose the Artisans, yesterday the Guardians, and today the Industrials. Harvesters are tomorrow.”

I don’t bother to ask about the Foundlings. The Nobles are so peculiar about genetic perfection that they probably wouldn’t want to breathe the same air as someone without generations of careful screening.

Montana switches to a clip of the royal family in an opulent drawing room with tall windows that overlook a rose garden. Outside, fountains that spray plumes of water into the air. My lips tighten at the flagrant waste, and I focus on the royal family.

Queen Damascena is clad in an ivory gown that blends with her pale features. Wearing her golden hair in a chignon with large curls framing an oval face with high cheekbones, her face is painted to perfection, highlighting her huge, violet eyes. She’s the winner of the last Princess Trials. Although the pageant took place years before my birth, OasisVision occasionally shows highlights of her victory.

A shudder runs down my spine at the thought of parading myself in front of every citizen of Phangloria in a slinky gown with my face painted and my hair pinned and primped like a doll’s. My lips twist with distaste as Queen Damascena allows Montana to kiss her hand.

Next to her sits King Arias, whose face is a stoic mask. He wears a royal blue officer’s tunic with gold braid trim running around its collar, down its placket, and on the cuffs. King Arias looks like something from half a millennium ago when people fought wars with swords and cannons instead of nuclear missiles. With his neatly trimmed beard and the red sash around his jacket, the effect is elegant and heroic.

I shake my head as the camera pans left to their only son.

It’s rare to see Prince Kevon on OasisVision, and it’s clear from the rigid set of his shoulders that he’d rather be out doing what Royals do when they’re not posing for the camera. He wears a less ornate version of his father’s jacket and looks like he hasn’t so much as picked up a shovel. Glossy, blue-black hair sweeps over a strong brow and curls around prominent cheekbones. He combines Queen Damascena’s beauty with the rugged masculinity of King Arias. His eyes are so dark, it’s hard to tell if they’re blue or brown or black.

Ryce turns to me. “What do you think?”

I grimace and glance at the other Harvesters in the crowd. Some of the younger girls stand with their hands clasped together in prayer to His Royal Pamperedness, and others sigh as though he was the most handsome young man in Phangloria. He isn’t.

With enough sustenance, rest, and an army of beauticians, anyone can look as good as Prince Kevon. Ryce works out in the sun all day, and he is breathtaking.

Leaning into him, I say, “He’s too pretty for my tastes.”

Ryce returns his hand on the small of my back, and all the tension leaves me in an instant.

“Your Highness,” says an unseen, sycophantic voice. “Do you have a message for the young hopefuls vying to become your bride?”

I’m not sure why, but I’m holding my breath.

“Good luck,” he enunciates in the clipped accent everyone uses on OasisVision. “I look forward to meeting you all in person.”

The camera pans back to Queen Damascena, and the voice asks, “As a former winner of the Princess Trials, what advice can you share with the Harvester girls competing for one of the remaining six places?”

I whirl around and whisper, “Six?”

Someone behind us hisses at me to be quiet. Ryce raises a shoulder. “Only five Echelons qualify, and thirty girls will be invited to the palace. It’s an equal split.”

I clench my teeth. Five-thousand Nobles live in Phangloria. At a rough estimate, ten percent of them are aged sixteen to twenty-one. With half of them being male, that means two-hundred-and fifty Noble girls competing for six places.

There are about two-hundred-and-twenty-thousand Harvesters. I clutch my temple and blink the spots out of my eyes. Using the calculations above, eleven-thousand girls will compete for six places. Nausea roils in my stomach, and all thoughts of a glorious revolution evaporate into the ether.

Music restarts, snapping me out of my musings, and Montana winks at the camera. “Good luck, ladies of the Harvest. Please make your way to the marquees set up in each of your towns where your carriage awaits. I look forward to meeting you all at the Oasis!”

My throat dries, and I picture the largest possible vehicles in Phangloria—long-distance stagecoaches that transport guards to the border hold sixty-four passengers. Since the Harvester region holds sixteen towns, it means that only four girls will be selected from Rugosa.

Ryce claps me on the back. “Fall out, soldier. Mother will station someone close to the capital. Report back as soon as you find the hidden passages.”

I nod and turn to the marquee, where every single Harvester—young, old, male, and female—are also heading. The crowd surges forward, leaving no gaps. I run around the perimeter, looking for an opening, but they’ve already formed a tight, impenetrable huddle.

People spill out of the dome, but they can’t move beyond the crowd blocking the marquee’s entrance. Excited cheers and shouts fill my ears and make them ring. My jaw clenches. At this rate, they will have already selected which girls will make it to the carriage. If I don’t do something drastic, I might be withered and old before our next chance for a revolution.

Gunshots explode around the square’s perimeter, and everybody stops.

“Everybody back,” roars a voice over the speakers. “Only girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one may approach.”

Guards force the crowd back, and there’s enough space for me to squeeze through the other Harvesters. Time is running out. The screen switches to a gorgeous flaxen-haired Harvester girl walking through the door with two equally beautiful twins who can only be her sisters. They have similar delicate features to Queen Damascena. I’ve seen them around Rugosa. This footage has to be our square. I’ve got to hurry before they fill their quota.

A quartet of oafish men steps in my path, their huge bodies an impenetrable wall.

Just before I yell at them to step aside, someone behind me cries out. The crowd parts to reveal a pair of guards looping their arms around a dark-skinned man. They’re dragging him toward a black van. He falls to the ground and loses his cap.

When they hoist him up, it’s Krim.

And my supervisor’s eyes lock with mine, mirroring my horror.

Blood drains from my face and settles in my pounding heart. This arrest had to be about the guard I attacked earlier. I rush forward, my arms outstretched. “Hey, it wasn’t—”

Something catches my foot. I trip and stumble onto my hands and knees.

“What do you think you’re doing?” says a girl who kneels at my side and helps me to my feet.

I meet Forelle’s wide, gray eyes and blurt, “They’re taking Krim—”

“And you want to tell them about your poisoned darts?” she hisses into my ear. With the strength of a girl used to digging trenches in hard, dry earth, she hauls me away from Krim and into the crowd.

Guilt lances through my heart, and I twist around. A guard punches Krim on the back, making him cry out and arch.

“I’ve got to help him.”

“You’ll condemn us all.” Forelle’s arm tightens around my waist.

My muscles go slack. “What?”

“We already gave statements.” She pulls me through the crowd. “If you contradict us with the truth, it means trouble for every single person working the tomato fields.”

Stumbling toward the marquee at Forelle’s side, I glanced through the crowds for signs of Krim, but the crowd closes around us, blocking any view of my supervisor’s fate.

A chill settles on my shoulders. How on earth am I going to help Krim?

CHAPTER 4

A  guard’s meaty hand wraps around my forearm. I spin around. The crowd behind us has parted to let them through, and two armored guards stand at our backs. There’s no sign of Krim, but my immediate suspicion is that he has told them the truth.

He grins at me from behind a visor. “You look like a girl who needs help.”

“Let go.” I pull at my arm, but his grip is solid.

“Come on, flatfeet.” He marches forward, grabs Forelle, and yells at the crowd to make a path.

Everybody around us steps back, creating a few feet of space for us to advance toward the marquee. Forelle visibly relaxes, but the escort only makes my heart rate quicken. Guards never help Harvesters, so why are they helping us?

As I jog to keep up with his long strides, the crowd’s shouts and cheers quieten to whispers. They’re probably thinking the same thing as me, and for a moment, I wonder if the marquee conceals something terrible.

A line of about three-dozen girls gather around its entrance. Women wearing outfits similar to Lady Circi stand at the door assessing girls. There’s no pattern to who they allow inside and who they reject. I lean forward and shoot Forelle a panicked glance, which she returns with a grimace.

If I don’t get through that door, the mission will fail before it even starts. Ryce’s admiration—faked or not—will disappear along with any chances of a revolution.

“Thanks.” I use my sweetest voice to the guard, who stares down at me with smiling eyes. “How are they choosing which girls get inside?”

He grins. “What would you give me if I got you inside?”

I snatch my gaze away, and he laughs. What a creep.

He chuckles. “You were tripping over yourself earlier to get to the prince. Why have you suddenly turned shy?”

My teeth clench and a dozen scenarios whizz through my mind. I already tried breaking away, and that didn’t work. He’s wearing a helmet, so slapping him would only hurt my hand and get me arrested, and I would probably end up in the back of a vehicle with Corporal Can’t-Keep-His-Big-Mouth-Shut.

“I’ll take my chances with the door ladies, thank you,” I say in clipped tones.

The guard behind him snorts, and I turn around to shoot him my filthiest glare. He’s silver-blond with eyes greener than the cornfields, but it’s at odds with his olive skin. My lips tighten with disapproval. The Nobles must pay guards well if they get to use cosmetics.

After what feels like an eternity, we reach the crowd of hopefuls at the door. The guard releases my arm but doesn’t return to his duties. Instead, he and his companion usher the girls forward.

All vestiges of sunlight have disappeared, and the spotlights provide no heat to compensate for the drop in temperature. A cool, dusty breeze meanders through the crowd, and I regret not taking a jacket. Forelle and I huddle close, occasionally stealing glances at the guard, who stands close to his companion and surveys us the way people deliberate over which goat they think might produce the most milk.

Four women stand at the door, grabbing Harvester girls’ faces, turning them from left to right, and examining their features. They allow some in through the white door but turn away most. Frustration wells in my chest faster than I can push it out with my harried breaths. What are we, pieces of fruit to be inspected for flaws?

As the crowd before us thins to a handful of girls, Forelle’s fingers curl around mine. “We’re next.”

“Yeah,” I rasp. The water Ryce gave me earlier has already worked its way through my system and escaped my body through its pores. My bladder is empty, and I feel an ache in my kidneys.

A rough pair of gloved hands grabs my chin, and a light shines in my face.

“Smile,” says a voice. “Let me see your teeth.”

All thoughts of being scrutinized like goats or pieces of fruit evaporate into the night air. They think we’re horses. Squinting, I pull my features into what I hope is a grin.

Her hand drops from my face, and she ushers me toward the white door. “Go through.”

Before I can turn around for a glimpse of Forelle, the door opens, and another gloved hand pulls me inside. The marquee’s interior is as white as a hospital, with a bank of six desks in front. Behind them, a dozen perspex booths run down each side and are filled with medical staff clad in blue hazard-suits. They lead girls in and out of the opaque structures.

My feet stop moving, and Forelle bumps into my back.

She has to hold onto my shoulders to keep from knocking us to the ground. “What the—”

“Name,” snaps a woman with a blond chignon. She sits at a desk, wearing a pale blue version of Lady Circi’s catsuit and holds a thin computer tablet.

A woman at another desk barks questions at Forelle, who steps to the side to answer. It’s the usual inquiries guards make to identify us against the census records, but with a few additions.

“When was the last time you had sexual intercourse?” asks my interrogator.

Every muscle in my body stiffens, and I blurt out, “What?”

“Answer the question, Miss Calico.” Her voice hardens.

Hot shame spreads across my skin like poisoned ants. “I’ve never.”

The questions continue along this vein, and she wants to know if I’ve ever kissed a boy on the mouth and on other places too intimate to repeat. When she moves onto alcohol use and recreational drugs, my body relaxes. We couldn’t afford moonshine even if we wanted, and it’s difficult enough to obtain medicinal drugs here in Rugosa, let alone the ones people take for fun.

The computer transcribes my words into responses. When the interview finishes, the women line us against the wall and take photos. Camera flashes fill my vision, turning it an electric white.

“For the duration of the Princess Trials, you will wear an Amstraad bracelet until your elimination,” says a woman in rapid, clipped words.

“What?” I blink the light from my eyes.

Another woman slams a piece of metal on my wrist, which expands and forms a closed band that tightens around me. A hundred needles prick my skin, and I howl. “What is this?”

She ushers me through the bank of desks to the hospital part of the marquee, where a tall, female medic awaits with another computer tablet. I can only see her eyes with the hooded suit and surgical mask obscuring her other features. “Zea-Mays Calico, sixteen, neophyte.”

“What’s a neophyte?” My voice rises two octaves.

Ignoring me, the medic hurries to a booth in the middle of the room. “This way, Calico.”

A glance over my shoulder tells me that Forelle also gets fitted with one of those bracelets. Her pretty face contorts with the same kind of terror from earlier today when I pricked her with a poisoned dart. I turn around and follow the medic.

Her booth contains a bed-sized, perspex platform, and she stands with her gloved hands resting on a trolley filled with trays of plastic instruments that make my heart flip.

“Take off your underpants and lie down for your internal exam,” she says.

A bolt of shock jolts my heart, and I wrap the unmonitored arm around my waist. “Why?”

“Anyone who enters the Oasis must be deemed healthy and free of contaminants.”

“What kind of—”

“This is strictly a voluntary procedure,” the medic snaps. “Withdraw your consent, so I can release your monitor and let you leave.”

“And the Trials?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Nobody enters the Oasis without being deemed—”

“Alright, I get it.” I step into the booth and grit my teeth. This is for the revolution, and when it comes, the Oasis and its precious supply of water will be for everyone and not just a group of Nobles and those they deem clean enough to serve them.

Once I’m in position, blue, sanitizing light fills the booth. I guess it's for the protection of the medic, who frowns as though she’s just about to handle dangerous chemicals. She murmurs orders, telling me to place my wrist on an armrest that blips in time with my pounding heart.

The internal exam aches and pinches and stretches places no human has seen, and my insides burn with rage and humiliation. Who will examine Prince Kevon to make sure he’s clean enough for us?

“No,” screams a girl in the other booth. “That can’t be right!”

I raise my head off the platform and rest my weight on my elbows. “What’s happening?”

“It could be anything,” mutters the medic. “Pregnancy, toxins, disease, anatomical anomaly, genetic masculinity.”

My insides clench. “What?”

“Lie still and relax, or I’ll have to start over again.”

The girl next to me isn’t the only one to scream. Whatever these tests do, they’re weeding out girls faster than I can pluck dandelion shoots from a field of tomato trees. My eyes squeeze shut, and I breathe hard as a narrow instrument burrows a path of agony through my insides.

Eventually, the lights turn from blue to white, and the ordeal ends. “Get dressed,” says the medic. “Walk to the end of the room and take a seat.”

“Did I pass the test?” I ask.

She has already left the booth.

The next room is a quarter of the size of our kitchen and is lined with long benches. A trio of flaxen-haired sisters sits together at the far end by another perspex door. I’ve seen them around town but don’t know their names. The tallest is the older sister, and the other two are identical twins.

All three raise their heads but don’t say hello. Right now, I want to curl up somewhere and fall asleep. Nausea swirls through my insides, which throb and spasm in time with my pulse. I lower myself onto the bench furthest away from the sisters and stare into my hands.

No man is worth enduring this level of torture and humiliation, and I wonder if the Noble girls or candidates from any of the other Echelons had to suffer anything like this the day before their trial started. The Harvester region is next to the Foundlings, which is on the other side of the Great Wall and its horrors beyond. Was this why they subjected us to these tests?

Forelle’s words from the backyard rattle through my skull. If I hadn’t taken out the guard, he would have made her ineligible for the Princess Trials. She had probably known what would happen in the marquee. But that guard kissed her. Would that be grounds for disqualification?

The door opens, and my head snaps up. Two girls enter. One short and stout with a mop of purplish curls, and the other a willowy girl with red hair. It's more of a strawberry blonde than the carrot-orange of Forelle’s. She walks unsteadily, looking as though the wind could blow her away like a dandelion seed.

“By Gaia,” she says, her voice rising in pitch. “That was awful. These people are monsters and perverts lower than Foundlings!”

I dip my head and examine the blinking lights on my wrist cuff. She’s right, but talk like that can get a person taken away for sedition. The door opens again, and Forelle steps in, her face as pale as a sun-bleached bone.

Tears glisten on her gray eyes, and a lump forms in my throat. What a day she has had. I hadn’t tussled with a guard, yet my insides feel about to shatter.

“How was it?” I whisper.

She shakes her head, drops onto the bench next to me, and winces.

“Same here.”

The red-haired girl’s rant picks up in volume until she’s screeching her anger at the violation. At the far corner, the girl with the mop of curls claps her hands to her ears and squeezes her eyes shut.

My insides cringe. At this rate, she’s going to alert the guards.

“Stop it,” I say.

She rushes at me with her teeth bared. “Is that what you want? Do you think it's fair that Harvester girls get violated for the benefit of one spoiled little prince?”

If this was the secure environment of a Red Runner cell, I would rant alongside her, but it’s not. “Someone’s going to hear you.”

The girl straightens. “Maybe they should. Maybe all those people standing in squares thinking that the Princess Trials are the biggest opportunity in a generation should know what the Nobles do behind closed doors to innocent girls.”

Forelle whimpers and huddles to my side.

“This is subversion,” I hiss.

The door opens, and a guard steps in with his bleached blond companion. It's the one from earlier, who grabbed my arm, only this time, his eyes aren’t smiling.

“Out,” he says to the girl. “You’ve disqualified yourself from the trials.”

She bares her teeth and snarls, “Not before I’ve had my say.”

My heart flips, and every instinct screams at me to jump up and stand between this Harvester girl and the pair. But that would ruin my mission and help no-one. Instead, I clench my fists and glower.

“Do you know what they did in there?” she screeches.

The guard scowls. “A routine fertility test? Do you know how many women in the other Echelons struggling to conceive would kill for such an advanced medical procedure?”

My skin crawls, and I feel like a sickly tomato sapling covered in aphids. I shake my head from side to side and scratch at the sides of my face. Was this a lie or the might of Amstraad technology?

The dark-haired guard grabs her arms and marches her out of the room. Forelle wraps her hand around mine, and I squeeze back. They won’t kill her. Not for words, but the events of the afternoon rush to the front of my mind.

I lurch forward, and Forelle pulls me back.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

“I’ve got to check—”

“You’ll get yourself arrested and disqualified from the trials.”

The back of my eyes sting, and my chest tightens. Mother’s voice rings in my ears, telling me that I can’t protect everyone, and Carolina’s voice tells me to focus on the mission.

The rest of us sit in silence, no one daring to speculate on that girl’s fate. At best, they will tie her to the whipping post for a public lashing. I don’t want to think about the worst.

The scars on my back throb with remembered pain, and I suck deep lungfuls of air to keep calm. I’m doing this for girls like her, girls like my former self, who witnessed too much at a young age, and the two-hundred-thousand-plus Harvesters surviving on the brink of dehydration.

“Sixteen girls,” drawls a voice. “This was more than expected.”

I glance up to find a pale woman in a cerise catsuit flanked by two women in white. Each stare down at us with cold smiles. Behind them stands two Harvester women: the mayor’s wife and Carolina Wintergreen, his assistant.

“There are four places for Rugosa on the coach and thirteen girls whose beauty and health qualify them for the Princess Trials.” The catsuited woman’s smile turns down around the edges. “One of you has already eliminated herself and will await an appropriate reprimand.”

My throat thickens, and it takes an effort to continue breathing. Carolina’s face hardens into a blank mask, and I guess she’s also frustrated at not being able to run to the girl’s rescue.

The woman continues. “We have evaluated your applications. Those of you whose names I don’t call out will be eligible for servitude at the Oasis, should you desire to move up in our society.”

I tear my gaze from Carolina and wait for the woman in cerise to stop drawing out the suspense.

“The following girls will leave through the doors at the end and enter the coach. Forelle Pyrus.”

My friend squeaks and raises her hand.

“Vitelotte Solar.”

The stout girl with the purple curls nods.

“Emmera and Polenta Hull.”

Two of the three blonde sisters wrap their arms around each other and squeal.

Every ounce of hope escapes through my nostrils, and I deflate like an empty bladder. I failed.

“Why?” The rejected twin shoots up, leaving her sisters staring at each other. “I’m identical to Lina, why didn’t you call out my name, too?”

The woman glances down at her tablet. “I see,” she says, not sounding like she understands why she chose one twin and not the other. “Let me consult my notes.”

“Mistress Broadleaf.” Carolina speaks to the woman with uncharacteristic deference. “The Hull sisters are beautiful, but are you sure about admitting twins? A queen with an identical counterpart might be disruptive to the peace of our nation.”

The woman taps her bottom lip and stares into the screen, not seeming to have heard Carolina’s words.

One of the women in white pipes up. “Prunella, I have an idea. Why don’t we ditch the twin? The older sister is far prettier, and Prince Kevon isn’t going to need three girls who look the same.”

“An excellent idea!” Prunella Broadleaf’s head snaps up.

I steal a glance at Carolina, whose brows flicker with the barest trace of annoyance.

“Mistress Broadleaf.” I stand and dip into an awkward curtsey. “There’s a blonde, a redhead, and a girl with purple hair. How about a brunette?”

“And you are?” she asks.

“Zea-Mays Calico, Mistress.”

Prunella Broadleaf glances around the small room at the other girls who passed this first obstacle of the Princess Trials. Vitelotte and Forelle stare at me, their eyes wide, but Emmera, the sister of the twins glowers. She probably thinks I ruined their chances. If the girl who hadn’t been chosen had kept quiet, nobody would have noticed her twin. My pulse echoes in my ears, and it feels like my entire head is pounding with anticipation.

I urge Carolina to say something—anything to push the decision in my favor. Prunella Broadleaf must choose me, or there will be no revolution.

“Fine.” She gives her hand a dismissive wave. “Send for their parents.”

Hope springs through my insides. I’ve passed my first obstacle. If my luck continues at this rate, I’ll be in the palace for the trials by sunset tomorrow.

CHAPTER 5

A s Prunella Broadleaf and her entourage leave the waiting room and the door clicks shut behind them, her words burrow into part of my mind that deals with paranoia. What do they want with our parents?

My breaths quicken, my fingers tighten around the bench, and my heel won’t stop bobbing up and down. The white floor blurs before my eyes, as I imagine the most likely scenario.

Forelle rubs her hands back and forth over the apron of her dress. She’s probably as anxious as I am, but the noise grates on my nerves. With each passing moment, my chest tightens until only I can make only the shallowest of breaths.

If the organizers performed fertility and other kinds of tests on us, it makes sense for them to want to check our parents. A shudder travels down my spine at the thought of either of them in that medical booth.

The sound of another door clicking open breaks me out of my thoughts, and the two guards from before walk in through the door they dragged out that protester.

One of them raises a gloved hand and beckons. “Winners, follow us.”

As the other girls stand, Emmera, the twins’ sister, hisses at me with a venomous look that makes a breath catch in the back of my throat. Of course, she blames me for her sisters not getting through to the next round.

What she doesn’t understand is that these trials will be meaningless. When the revolution comes, life will be better for every Harvester, not just a select few who get to eat excellent food at the palace.

I stand, pull back my shoulders, and push thoughts of what might be happening to Mom and Dad to the back of my mind. The organizers might just want to take photos or ask if we had tantrums or were well-behaved as children. If I succumb to paranoia, I’ll never complete my mission.

The dark-haired guard leads us through another part of the marquee with perspex wall dividers that stretch up to the ceiling with four evenly spaced doors. I’m the last to leave the waiting room and pass the platinum-blond guard, who takes up the rear.

As we reach the first door, the blond places a hand on my shoulder. “This room is yours.”

I glance at the next door, which his colleague opens for Forelle.

“What’s happening next?” I whisper.

“The assistants will pick your family out of the crowd and give you a chance to say goodbye in private.”

“Oh.” All the tension around my chest releases in an outward breath.

He grins. “Were you expecting an interrogation?”

A laugh that I think is more relief than mirth escapes my lips, and my gaze skims the three stripes on his arm that marks him as a sergeant.

“This entire day has been unexpected,” I say.

He opens the door to another white room with the kind of stuffed armchairs I’ve only ever seen on Sundays when they play old movies or shows on OasisVision. The familiarity eases a little of the tension, but now my stomach flutters at the thought of facing Mom and Dad. I can’t predict how they will react to my joining the Princess Trials without their permission.

I step inside, and he closes the door with the click. The slide of a mechanism turning in a lock is no surprise.

On legs that feel like wooden pegs, I walk to the armchair furthest from the door. The seat is harder than expected, but maybe this firm surface is what I need to calm before I face Mom and Dad.

I close my eyes and suck in deep, meditative breaths the way Ryce teaches us at the beginning and end of each Red Runner meeting. Inhale through the nose until the ribcage expands, hold for a count of five, and then a slow exhale through the mouth.

The door opens, and the guard lets in Mom, whose eyes are wide and filled with tears. She’s alone.

I scramble to my feet. “Where are Dad and the twins?”

“Zea.” She hugs me so tightly that all the breath leaves my lungs, and her insides shake with sobs. There’s a garbled explanation that I’m allowed ten minutes with four visitors, so they’re each going to say goodbye on their own.

Mom’s never broken down like this. Not even when the guards wouldn’t send her father’s ashes after his death in the Barrens. She’s always the optimistic one in the family, the one who keeps us together, the one who makes desserts from cactus fruits and can turn lizards into delicious casseroles.

My chest tightens. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

She draws back with the most dazzling smile. “You listened.”

My mind blanks, and it takes a heartbeat to realize that she’s referring to our conversation from earlier in the day. She thinks that her speech about joining the Trials to influence the Nobles actually worked, and I feel like a fraud.

The only reason I’m sitting here is because of Carolina. Once I’m in the palace, I won’t even spare Prince Kevon a second thought. The mission requires me to find a way for the Red Runners to enter, and I want to be eliminated the moment that mission is complete.

Mom’s hands tighten around my forearms. “I’m so proud of you.” She guides us to the sofa, tears still streaming from her eyes. “Our teachers showed us parts of the last Princess Trials, and it seemed like another world. I couldn’t even imagine myself serving at the palace, let alone having a daughter compete to be the next Queen of Phangloria.”

Nausea churns in my gut. Mom’s unique childhood will forever make her grateful to the Nobles for her life in the Harvester Echelon, but all I can see are the injustices.

I lower my gaze and raise a shoulder. “It’s not like I have a chance of winning.”

“Don’t talk like that.” She squeezes my arm. “Everyone invited to the Oasis wins. Did you know that most contestants rise above the echelons of their birth?”

My brows draw together. “You never told me that.”

“Because you never showed any interest.” Mom wipes her face with a handkerchief. “Mistress Melrose competed in the trials when the previous king came of age.”

I lean forward. Mom always speaks fondly of the Noble who taught the Foundling children Modern History. Carolina and Ryce call the class Modern Propaganda, which is a more accurate description.

Modern History is all about how Phangloria expanded its territory over time by moving the Great Wall. It’s also about how grateful we should all be because the Nobles gave our ancestors sanctuary from the barren and polluted wasteland beyond Phangloria.

The textbooks are a constant reminder that we’re guests of Phangloria and so transparently biased. What about the other countries, and those who live wild beyond the wall who survived without the Nobles’ help?

“If you can focus on befriending Prince Kevon and let everyone see the brave, beautiful, and kind girl beneath that scowl, you can win.”

My lips form a tight line. I can’t let Mom think I’m serious about the Trials, or she’ll be upset when I’m not clamoring for the prince. But speaking out with guards outside the door might lead to my disqualification before even reaching the Oasis.

“Mom…” I struggle for a way to communicate the truth. “Prince Kevon probably prefers the Noble—”

“Mistress Melrose told us the real reasons for the Princess Trials,” she blurts. “Do you remember the House of Habsburg?”

I draw back and remember a painting of a king with a severe underbite. “The royals from Old Europe who kept marrying their cousins?”

“Yes. The Noble Echelon all descended from a small group of people. Most of them are related in some way.”

Irritation spreads across my skin, and I clench my hands around my knees. This feels like one of the speeches she makes when trying to justify rationing and quotas. “Mom—”

“Listen to me.” She squeezes my hand. “Mistress Melrose said that Phangloria was built on the ruins of a world of excesses. We’ve learned from the mistakes of our ancestors and don’t mine the earth, destroy forests, or create industrial waste. Another important lesson we learned was genetic diversity.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “So, Prince Kevon needs a bride who isn’t his cousin several times removed?”

“Don’t turn this into a joke.” Her voice is unusually sharp, and I glance into her flashing eyes. “Did they test your blood? Perform internal examinations?”

Heat rises to my cheeks. “How did you know?”

“Foundlings go through rigorous tests before we’re allowed through the Minor Wall.”

I swallow hard. Mom’s referring to the electrified fence that separates the Harvester Region from the Barrens. According to Modern History, the Barrens is the largest expanse of land within Phangloria as the wall continually expands. Eventually, soil builders will turn that wasteland into fertile soil for building crops.

She crossed over when she was thirteen, and my chest tightens at the thought of a young girl undergoing the same invasive and humiliating examinations.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

Mom shakes her head. “What’s a brief moment of discomfort compared to a whole life beyond imagination?”

My gaze drops to my lap, and I force myself not to react. Conditions in the Barrens must be terrible if she thinks that drudgery and starvation are aspirational living.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders and presses a kiss on my temple. “You’re clever and beautiful and genetically perfect. The royals need an infusion of new blood. Why can’t it be yours? And when you’re in the palace, you can suggest all the reforms you want.”

The door opens, and a pair of footsteps rush inside.

“Zea!” chorus two identical voices.

I glance up into the tear-streaked faces of Flint and Yoseph. They crash into me and bury their heads into my chest.

“What’s wrong?” I stroke their little, blonde heads.

Flint points at the guard. “He wouldn’t let us go in together.”

“He’s mean!” shouts Yoseph.

“Boys,” Mom and I both hiss.

At the door, the blond guard raises both hands and grins. “As you can see, they’re both together and present.”

Mom and I both exhale relieved breaths. Even though most guards just want to do their jobs and return to their barracks, even Mom can’t deny that some guards revel in the power they hold over Harvesters. Guards like the one who murdered Mr. Wintergreen. Guards like the one who tried to abduct Forelle.

“Mrs. Calico,” says the blond sergeant. “It’s time to leave.”

Mom presses a kiss on my temple and rises. She walks to the exit and murmurs, “Good luck.”

As soon as the guard shuts the door, two identical faces with the same missing tooth grin up at me. A laugh huffs out from my chest, and I roll my eyes. The blond-haired guard clearly isn’t used to the sneaky tactics of little kids.

For the next ten minutes, Flint gives me a list of things to bring back from the palace, while Yoseph demands that I ask Prince Kevon to take them over the mountains to see the ships. My little brothers are too young to understand things like Echelons, and Mom shields them from the worst of Harvester life.

They think I’m going for an adventure when it’s really a mission that will change all our lives. Warmth fills my chest as I gaze into their innocent, hazel eyes. Thanks to Carolina and Ryce, Flint and Yoseph won’t ever grow up knowing hunger or thirst or toil.

The door opens again, and Dad stands in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest. He isn’t smiling or snarling or scowling, and a knot tightens in my stomach. I can’t imagine what he’s going to say, but where Mom is optimistic and grateful to the Nobles, Dad is not.

He’s the same height as the guard but broader, even though he’s wearing regulation brown overalls and a shirt that has yellowed from age. Dad and I share the same mahogany hair, but his eyes are the same shade of hazel as the twins. To everyone else, he’s the dedicated superior of cornfield twenty-two, but at home, Dad is all smiles and hugs.

His restrained expression and the tense set of his jaw and shoulders tell me that he is displeased.

“Time’s up, boys,” says the blond guard.

“No,” Flint howls from my lap.

“No,” Yoseph howls from the floor, where he’s sitting on my feet.

My throat spasms, and I hope the guard lets my brothers remain as a buffer between Dad and me.

Dad fixes them with a stern glare. “Go to your mother.”

I know that tone. It’s the if-you-don’t-do-what-I-say-this-instant-I’ll-swat-your-behind tone, which Dad hasn’t used on me in a decade. Both boys stop howling and scramble to their feet.

After a lingering hug, they rush out of the door, and the sergeant shuts me in with Dad, who won’t look at me. His gaze fixes on the armchair opposite, a sign that he’s struggling for control.

I chew on the inside of my lip. Nobody is allowed to discuss their membership of the Red Runners. We’re a secret group, and the mere mention of our existence—even to a family member—might expose our group to the guards.

Nobody wants to risk a slew of mass executions, which is what Carolina says will happen at the merest hint of treason. I think he’s also part of another Red Runner cell. That, or he’s sympathetic to the cause.

It was Dad who cradled Carolina and Ryce as they cried about the death of Mr. Wintergreen. Dad, who reported the shooting to the mayor, the guards, and even wrote on behalf of the widow and her son for Mr. Wintergreen’s ashes. Because Dad kept the murdered man’s name on everyone’s lips, they awarded Carolina an easy job as the mayor’s assistant.

After a long minute of silence, he walks to the end of the sofa and sits.

“What have you done?” His words are more sigh than speech.

My throat dries, and I swallow hard. What on earth does he know? “Dad…” My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. “I—”

“What were you thinking?” he says from between clenched teeth.

“It’s just a beauty pageant.”

Suddenly, I’m twelve years old again and trembling. This time, it’s not because I’m traumatized by what I’ve seen. Now, I’m terrified at what Dad isn’t telling me.

“I was your age the last Princess Trials,” he mumbles.

“What was it like—”

“They’ll tell you it’s just pretty girls in ball gowns, but it’s not.”

My breath quickens, and I lean forward, my eyes wide. “What happens?”

“They form alliances.” He raises a thick finger. “Sometimes Nobles with other Echelons, other times, the Echelons stick to themselves.”

I clasp my hands, waiting for him to elaborate. So far, it doesn’t sound dangerous.

“Queen Damascena won last time because she allied with one of the cleverest and most beautiful girls in the Princess Trials.”

“What happened to the other girl?” I whisper.

“She became the Lady-at-arms.”

My head tilts to the side. “Lady Circi was in the trials?”

Dad nods. “From the Guardian Echelon, if I remember right, and the favorite of King Arias.”

“Why didn’t she win?” I ask.

Dad’s lips tighten. It’s the expression he makes each time I ask a question when the answer is obvious.

If Lady Circi was a Guardian, the previous king probably wouldn’t want her to become the next queen. But if she stepped back and let her Noble ally take center stage, then Lady Circi would get an important role in the new royal court.

“They made a deal?” I whisper.

Dad nods. “The skills your mother and I taught you should have set you up for a decent life within our Echelon, but if you have aspirations for more, neither of us will object.”

My mouth drops open. Dad thinks I’m serious about the Trials. I glance at the door, wondering if I should say something, but I remember the mission and let my mouth click shut.

“Don’t aim to be the queen,” he says. “Make friends with all the girls, and maybe the winner will like you well enough to serve at her court.”

“But I—”

“Zea,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

I jolt at the ferocity in his tone. “Dad?”

“The bird that stays under cover of the leaves never gets shot. Why?”

My throat convulses. “Because nobody sees it.”

“Don’t be the bird who launches herself out of the trees. Do you hear me?”

I nod, but I can’t work out if he’s trying to warn me not to become the queen or because the other girls might shoot me down or because there’s going to be a revolution. Now, I regret obeying Ryce’s orders to keep my membership of the Red Runners a secret from Dad.

The door opens, and Carolina stands in the doorway with Ryce. Dad’s jaw drops, and all the color leaches from his face. The panicked look he gives me tells me everything.

One, he knows that Carolina leads the Red Runners. Two, he now knows that I’m a member. And three, he also knows that I have joined the Princess Trials on a mission.

“Alright, Mr. Calico,” says the blond sergeant. “It’s Mrs. Wintergreen’s turn.”

No one else can see his expression because his back is to the door, but it’s the same helpless rage he holds back each time I get whipped. Something in my heart crumbles. I’m no longer the girl he knew, and I’m not sure that even the prospect of a revolution will ease Dad’s suffering.

“Mr. Calico?” says the guard.

Dad stands. This time, he’s not avoiding my gaze. The accusation in his eyes slices through me like a scythe. If I fail my mission, if I get caught, it won’t just be me facing execution.

Without a word, he turns and walks out of the room. Carolina’s gaze slides towards Dad as he passes, but from her unchanged expression, I don’t think he made any eye contact.

“We came to wish you the best of luck.” Carolina claps her hands together.

When the door clicks shut behind Dad, the older woman rushes at me for a hug. She’s all bones and angles like me, and it’s more awkward than the soft comfort of Mom or Dad. One of her hands runs down my arm, and her long fingers wrap around my hand.

This is getting awkward. I try to step away, but her grip on me tightens, and she’s interlacing her fingers with mine. My gaze darts to Ryce, who nods and smiles. Carolina presses something warm and metallic into the pad of my thumb, which pulses.

I glance at Ryce again, who gives me the same amiable nod.

Realization slaps me upside the head. It’s a device. As soon as I wrap my fingers around it, Carolina releases me and steps back.

“Congratulations, my dear,” she says in the voice she uses in public. It’s more matronly than a grandmother’s and sounds more patriotic than anything I’ve heard on OasisVision. “I always knew you were destined for greatness!”

“Thank you.” It’s a struggle to keep the tremble out of my voice. I glance at Ryce. “Would you like to sit?”

Carolina clasps my hand and guides me to the sofa, while Ryce takes the armchair opposite and adopts the posture of a king. My heart sinks at the distance between us, but maybe it’s for the best. I’m supposed to be eager to marry Prince Kevon, and the cameras shouldn’t pick up any evidence of our affection.

Ryce places his hands on the chair’s arms. “Well done, Zea.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Thank you. I want to make Rugosa proud.”

The slight curve of his lips says he knows that I’m using Rugosa as a code word for Ryce.

Carolina turns to her son. “I wonder if the people at the trials will permit you to send letters from Zea’s family?”

My breath catches. Ryce is a deliverer, one of the few Harvesters permitted to leave the region. His work often involves loading wagons, but he sometimes transports food to the Oasis and even beyond the mountains to Royal Navy ships.

“Do you think that could be possible?” I ask.

“There’s no harm in making a request.” Carolina twists her wedding ring.

I can only nod and imagine Ryce sneaking into the Oasis for midnight trysts. “When do you think—”

The ring buzzes. It’s Vail code—a system of single and double pulses—that spells out the word DOUBTFUL.

My brows draw together. Is Carolina trying to tell me that Ryce will be at the Oasis? I glance across the room, and the gleam in Ryce’s eyes says everything. As the mayor’s assistant, Carolina is responsible for detailed scheduling and can send any of the deliverers to far-flung places.

Warmth fills my chest, and I press my lips together to hold back my elation. With regular visits from Ryce, I’ll have something more to look forward to than the revolution.

Carolina tilts her head to the side and smiles. “What were you going to say, my dear?”

“I was wondering when I would appear on OasisVision.”

“Tomorrow evening, I hope,” says Ryce. “I’ll watch the Princess Trials every day.”

“As will I.” Carolina stands.

My heart pulses a rapid beat. Is she going to leave us alone? I glance at Ryce, who also stands.

Carolina places both hands on my shoulder. “I will pray every night for Gaia to send you guidance through this exciting time.”

“Thank you—”

“Gaia will bless you if you look for the signs,” she adds.

I nod. This is a common phrase old Harvesters use, but Carolina’s tone implies that she and Ryce will communicate using more than the ring.

“Prince Kevon will be a wonderful leader,” Carolina says, but I’m sure she’s referring to her son. “And I pray to Gaia that you will be the one to lead with His Highness.”

The door creaks open behind us. Carolina kisses both my cheeks and steps to the side.

Ryce’s eyes glimmer with barely restrained excitement. “I can’t wait to see you on OasisVision.” He kisses one cheek. “You’re going to make a great queen.”

I wait for the second kiss, but the blond sergeant tells them it’s time to leave.

Ryce murmurs goodbye and follows Carolina out of the room. The guard steps aside to let him leave, and I notice that Ryce is slighter than the blond man, but that’s because Ryce is not padding himself with armor.

“Is he a relative?” asks the blond guard.

“Carolina Wintergreen is like a second mother.” It’s not exactly a lie, as she is my mentor.

“So, he’s a big brother?”

I smile and nod. Dad’s stricken reaction fades to the back of my mind. Naturally, he worries about my involvement with the Red Runners, but they’re going to look out for me while I’m in the Oasis.

The sergeant places a hand on my shoulder. “Wait here while I gather up the other girls.”

When the door clicks shut, the ring in my palm pulses out the code for REVOLUTION.

CHAPTER 6

We step out into the floodlit night, onto a red carpet that leads to a shiny, black stagecoach. Men wearing camera goggles film us as we pass, and the roar of the crowd makes my spirits soar.

Guards flank our carpet from the door to the entrance to the coach. This is the second time today that pride swells my chest. I beam at Forelle, who returns a dazzling smile.

Emmera is the first to walk the carpet. “Thank you,” she yells without a trace of the bitterness from before. “I love you all!”

Vitelotte Solar trudges behind her and raises a hand. I can’t see her expression, but from the stiffness in her posture, she doesn’t feel comfortable with the attention.

“You first,” I say to Forelle.

With a sharp nod, she strides forward, displaying the same grace as Emmera. I wonder if Prince Kevon likes redheads or blondes like his mother.

A moment later, it’s my turn to walk, and my heart rate doubles. All the moisture leaves my throat and gathers on the palms of my hands. Imagining the footage being used one day to explain to children of the new democracy how it all began, I pull my shoulders back and smile.

The carpet’s thick tread gives under my jute espadrilles, and I glide forward with the poise and grace of a woman worthy of capturing Ryce Wintergreen’s heart.

Harvesters crowd behind the walls of guards. I glance into the crowd for signs of Mom, Dad, or the twins, and meet nothing but a mass of faces. My heart sinks, but I hold my expression into a smile. If things go right, I might return to them by the end of the week.

When we step into the stagecoach, nearly forty other Harvester girls sit in the back seats, and I wonder when Montana’s announcement started among the other towns. From the bored looks of some of the girls, they’ve been here since the morning.

“Ha,” says a male voice. “I told you that skinny one would be a virgin.”

I whirl around and glare at a pair of guards. “What?”

One of them takes off his helmet and leers. It’s the guard who helped us through the crowd. “We saw you tripping over yourself to get to the front. You must be eager to meet that prince.”

I raise my chin and glower into his mocking, brown eyes. “What are you, jealous?”

His grin widens. “Hardly. But it looks like you might be jealous of all the beautiful women on board.”

Prickly heat rises to my cheeks. I long for the day when I’m the one holding the gun so I can throw the truth in his ugly, grinning face. His friend, the sergeant with the silver-blond hair takes off his helmet and shakes his head, but I’m too busy glowering at Corporal Clown to see his expression.

The dark-haired guard nudges his friend, who I decide to call Sergeant Silver. “What do you think of this one?”

“You’ve dyed your hair black to look like Prince Kevon,” I say in a baby voice. “But nobody wants a cheap imitation.”

Sergeant Silver chokes down a laugh.

“Zea!” Forelle pulls me into a seat, and I sink into its cushioned depths. “What are you doing?”

“He’s so annoying.”

Her gaze flickers to the pair who are now standing above us with annoyingly wide grins, and her pretty features morph into a tight frown. She stands and holds onto the backrest of the seat in front. “Swap places.”

“Why?”

“He won’t annoy you if you’re at the window.”

“Fine.” I scoot to the seat furthest from the aisle and notice the refrigerator beneath the armrests of the places in front. I open it, enjoying the freezing air that puffs out, and grab a water bottle from the armrest. It’s nearly a pint—over half a day’s rations. The seal opens with a crack, and I take my first sip of what tastes like nectar.

“Smoky Water,” I read out loud on the label. “Filtered through layers of ancient rock and infused with watermelon, kiwi, and lime.”

Forelle takes a sip and hums. “Even the Oasis water tastes better.”

My throat closes. I had always pictured the Nobles eating and living better than the other Echelons, but drinking water that tastes of fruit? I shake my head and sip another mouthful of Smoky Water. I couldn’t wait for everyone at home to try it, too.

Emmera Hull, the twins’ sister, sits with Vitelotte Pyrus in the seats in front of ours. She sticks her head in the gap between the backrests. “Hey.”

I exchange a glance with Forelle.

“You,” she hisses. “The skinny attention-seeker.”

“What?” I snap.

“You stole my sister’s place.”

Before I can reply, Forelle says, “They were never going to let a twin onto the coach.”

Emmera points through the gap and scowls. “I won’t forget this.”

I purse my lips. Soon, she’ll understand that marrying Prince Kevon won’t lead to anything more but a place beside him in his cell.

The carriage speeds out of town, and I glance out of the window at wheat fields lit by the half-moon. We’re headed in the direction of Panicum, which grows mostly millet. I’ve been there a few times with Dad to barter wild herbs with the apothecaries, but I’ve never left the Harvester region.

Corporal Cringe sits in the seat opposite and leans across. Forelle straightens, blocking his view of me.

“You like Prince Kevon, huh?” he asks.

Forelle makes a choked giggle. “These trials are a good opportunity to see if we’re a match.”

“Why would you apply if you don’t know him?”

I sit back in my seat and roll my eyes. That’s a question he needs to pose to his superiors, not to girls at the lowest Echelon of society and desperate for a day off work. A laugh bubbles from my chest. It catches at the back of my throat, and my lips curl into a smile. If only Prince Kevon knew.

We pass acres of crop fields that stretch out into the dark. Roads in the Harvester region aren’t lit. That would be a waste of energy considering everyone’s usually in bed to start work before the sun becomes too hot.

Forelle continues chatting with the guard for the next twenty or so minutes until the bus slows, and we enter Panicum town center. I wait for him to step off the coach before speaking.

“Do you need to swap places?” I ask Forelle.

“Why?”

“Aren’t you tired of Corporal Creep?”

A smile curves the corners of her lips. “He’s not that bad.”

“Alright.” I raise a shoulder and glance out of the window as we approach a crowded town square and stop at the back of a marquee. Apart from the trees in the distance, this could be Rugosa.

The door opens, and the roar of the crowd fills the coach. As soon as four new Harvester girls board, we head for the next town. I twist around, count the number of passengers, and close my eyes—five more towns before we can even begin to head to the Oasis.

Hours later, a bump in the road jolts me out of sleep. Sunlight seeps out from beyond the horizon, coloring the meadows.

The black-haired guard stands in the aisle, chatting with Forelle about his apprenticeship with the Guardians. From what I overhear, his name is Garrett, he’s seventeen—the same age as Forelle, and he must complete three months in uniform before progressing to his wanted vocation: medicine.

That’s how the Guardian Echelon differs from ours. While Harvesters must work the land or tend to livestock, Guardians can choose a range of professions.

At the bottom are those who guard the border, and at the top are those who take care of Phangloria’s infrastructure. Architects, engineers, scientists, and medics all count as Guardians as well as the naval officers who safeguard the country from the turbulent seas beyond the Great Smoky Mountains.

An orange haze seeps over the jagged, black horizon, which pales to yellow and turns green as it bleeds into the indigo sky. It’s an hour before dawn, around the time we wake from Mondays to Saturdays.

Sergeant Silver strides down the aisle and places a gloved hand on Garrett’s shoulder. “Get to work, lover boy.”

Garrett grins and follows his companion to the front. The coach slows to a floodlit square where a subdued mass of Harvesters awaits. I stretch and stifle a yawn, hoping that they hadn’t been standing outside all night.

“What?” says Forelle.

My brows rise. “What?”

“Each time you wake, you glare at Garret.”

A denial rushes to my lips, but I shake it off. “Why are you even talking to him when you’ve got a chance to become the Queen of Phangloria?”

“Everyone on this bus is here for show,” she says. “I’ve looked it up. Each queen regent has come from the Nobles or was a distant member of the royal family.”

“Same thing.” I clap my hand over my mouth to hide a wide yawn.

Annoyance crosses her features. “It’s just a conversation. Garrett’s different from the other guards.”

“Really.” My voice is flat, but Forelle does have a point. Having a Harvester queen would mean a fairer distribution of resources to those who need it the most. We would rather drink water than watch it spout prettily from a fountain.

Emmera sticks her head through the gap. “You’re right.”

Her pinched expression tells me she’s still sore because her sister didn’t get through to the next stage of the trials. Whatever she will say next will be a rant or a veiled insult. I glance out of the window at meadows that stretch for miles. The only thing growing on them are buttercups, which glow in the morning haze.

“Neither of you have a chance of winning these trials,” she whispers. “I doubt you’ll even get into the palace.”

“Careful, Em,” I say. “If you make a sour expression at dawn, it will stay on your face until sunset.”

Her eyes bulge, and she disappears into her seat.

“I hope she isn’t going to be like this in the Oasis,” whispers Forelle.

“I hope she continues.”

“Why?”

“The sooner they see what she’s like, the sooner they’ll send her home,” I whisper back.

Not everyone in Rugosa supports the Red Runners. Mom doesn’t because she thinks the Harvester region is some kind of paradise, but there are a few who direct their animosity toward the other towns. If Panicum wins the water bonus, then they’re the enemy. They’re too small-minded to turn their anger to the one withholding the water. Emmera reminds me of that type of person.

Four more Harvester girls join us, but they’re different from the others. Their hair is glossier, their cheeks rounder, pinker, and they have a vitality I’ve only seen on guards.

“Wow,” says Forelle.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Bos.”

“Ah.” Now it makes sense. These girls live close to the Cumberland Dam and handle livestock. Just like we’re free to harvest seeds from fallen fruit, they must get a chance to consume some of the excess milk and offal.

Moments later, the doors close, and Garrett returns to Forelle’s side. “You’re awake.” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Looking forward to meeting Prince Kevon?”

“Looking forward to stretching my legs,” I say in my sweetest voice. “How many stops until we reach the Oasis?”

“Bos was the last.”

Sergeant Silver drags Garrett to the front, and he glances over his shoulder and winks at Forelle, who giggles. I slide further into my seat and rotate my ankles.

Forelle had only tried to stop that guard from harassing me, and now he won’t leave her alone. Being pretty has its disadvantages, like becoming a magnet for unwanted attention.

The coach drives down a highway and into what I can only describe as gloom. I’ve seen sandstorms, dust storms, and solar eclipses, but I’ve never seen fog. It’s dense enough to blot the rising sun.

Smokestacks twice as tall as the vast buildings spew gasses into the sky. I clap a hand over my mouth to suppress a gasp. Around me, all the other Harvester girls are doing the same. This can only be the Industrial region.

Forelle leans across my seat and peers out of the window. “How can anyone live without clean air?”

The answer comes as we pass a troop of guards standing beneath bright floodlights. Below the usual facemask on their helmets are respirators with two huge protruding filters on the left and right. They herd a group of shabbily dressed workers who tie kerchiefs around their noses and mouths. Some of them cover their faces with rags.

“This is terrible,” I whisper. We may not have enough water, but at least we can breathe. As soon as I can get a message to Carolina, I will ask if the Red Runners extend to the Industrial region. This place makes Rugosa look like heaven.

We pass through this region, and the air clears, revealing the morning sun. We pass by a paved city consisting of large corrugated iron structures that remind me of storehouses. They last for another half hour before the coach stops again.

Everybody groans. This is the longest I’ve sat in my life, and the Oasis seems a lifetime away.

“Roadblock,” says Garrett from the aisle. “Excuse me, ladies.”

The door opens, and guards clad in black armor step into the coach, each clutching hand-held monitors.

“Show your bracelets,” bellows the one in front.

I stare down at the blinking device. Did they think one of us has counterfeited our way onto this coach? The guards scan the bracelets of the girls in front, scan ours, and then move to the girls sitting at the back.

“Found one!” says a triumphant voice from behind.

“What?” I turn around.

An ash-blonde Harvester girl shrieks as a guard hauls her out of the back seat. “What did I do?”

They march her off the coach without explanation.

As Sergeant Silver passes, I lean across and whisper, “Excuse me, what just happened?”

He frowns. “Your Amstraad bracelets have been monitoring your health for hours. Some of the conditions it screens for take that much time to detect. Those guards found something that disqualifies her for entry into the Oasis.”

“What’s going to happen to her?” I ask.

“If it’s curable, they will take her to an infirmary.” The blond guard excuses himself and walks to the front of the coach.

Forelle and I share a look. From the pain etched around her eyes, I can tell she’s also wondering if the guards will take the easy route and make that girl disappear.

After passing through swathes of countryside filled with deer, wild horses, herds of buffalo, and even lush forests, we pass through a meadow. By now, the sun is halfway to its zenith, and it lights up a poppy field. It’s a vivid array of red and purple that fills my heart.

I release my joy in a wistful sigh. Nobody grows ornamental plants in the Harvester region. Dad’s cacti soak up rain and wastewater through their shallow roots and store liquid in their stems. They’re a source of nutrition should life ever become dire.

We drive toward a wall of interconnected domes that stand four times as high as the one in Rugosa Square and stretch out for miles. It’s just like the pictures I saw projected at school, but until now, I hadn’t realized the scale of the glass structures that surround the Oasis.

Forelle clutches my arm. “Is that—”

“The botanical gardens,” I whisper.

Excited chatter explodes through the coach’s subdued atmosphere as everyone leans to the window to take a better look. This is the source of every seed ever grown in Phangloria and the birthplace of our country.

All thoughts of revolution tumble to the back of my mind. “I wish we could stop and take a look.”

“What I wouldn’t give to spend a day in the gardens,” says Forelle with a sad sigh.

Garrett appears at our side. “I can take you.”

Forelle’s lips part and mine purse. Her mouth opens and closes and she seems to flounder for words. I hold my breath, waiting for her to respond, but she smiles and says, “After the trials?”

“Of course.” He grins. “I’ll even show you my favorite spot.”

I turn to the window. Garret has just acknowledged that no Harvester girl stands a chance with Prince Kevon. Not that it matters, as there will be no need for monarchs in the new democracy.

An archway opens up between two of the domes, where there’s another checkpoint. The guards scan our bracelets once more before letting us through. I glare at the glowing object, hoping it doesn’t also monitor our locations. With all the sneaking about I’ll be doing in the palace at night, I can’t let myself get caught.

Beyond the dome, a train emerges from the ground and speeds along a track. I follow its progress along swathes of meadows that lead to a forest.

I shake my head and exhale an awed breath. “Have you ever seen so many trees?”

Emmera pokes her head through and glances from me to Forelle. “We have orchards in the Harvester region, you know.”

“But these trees aren’t growing in straight lines.” I point at the wooded area. “And they’re all different.”

Her face softens. “I didn’t know land could be so beautiful.”

“Yeah.” I stare at a lake whose surface shimmers in the morning sun. There’s so much water just lying there and no sign of any pumps. The Oasis is green and lush and a perfect growing environment, but I can’t see any crops. It’s such a flagrant waste of resources.

I press my head to the window, my gaze fixed on the distant city. Tall, pale buildings loom from the top of a distant hill. They sparkle in the gold sheen of the morning sun. Considering that the land outside Phangloria is a desert wasteland, I can understand why our capital city is called the Oasis.

Emmera launches into a monologue about everything she wants to see during the trial, not giving Vitelotte a chance to respond. I haven’t seen the purple-haired girl since we boarded the coach, and I hope she hasn’t crumbled under Emmera’s attention.

Eventually, the road leads to a street lined with trees that don’t appear to grow anything apart from pink and red flowers. Behind the trees stands seven-story stone buildings with iron balconies.

“Is that where the Nobles live?” asks Forelle.

“I always imagined them in castles,” I reply.

The further the coach drives us into the city, the greener it becomes until I feel we’re driving through a park from an old documentary. Lush, green lawn covers the landscape with the occasional fountain and flower bed. We pass hundreds of feet away from stone mansions, which I guess answers Forelle’s question.

“Which one is the palace?” she asks.

They all look like palaces to me, but none have the ostentatious fountain.

The coach drives alongside a lake that seems to stretch into the horizon, and I bite down on my lip. How big is the Oasis? Even driving at a slower rate, it appears larger than Rugosa. It’s hard to tell, but I suspect the maps we learned in geography class aren’t entirely accurate.

We pass over a bridge that gives us another view of the city. Tall trees with dense foliage hide all the dwellings, but I suppose the architects have designed the Oasis to offer maximum privacy and comfort for its inhabitants.

On the other side of the bridge is a built-up area that reminds me a little of Rugosa Square, except that there’s a river running through it and ancient stone buildings with spires that curve around to a fountain far bigger and more wasteful than I could ever imagine.

“Look at…” Forelle’s voice trails off because there are no words to describe it.

A stone Gaia stands on a podium in the middle with her arms outstretched. She’s pregnant with a crown of flowers. Around her, statues of people hold up offerings of water that cascade over the goddess.

Sergeant Silver stands in the middle of the aisle. “Ladies of the harvest, thank you for your patience during this long journey and welcome to the Oasis. Congratulations on passing the first round of the Princess Trials. We are approaching the Gloria Concert Hall for the televised auditions.”

Up ahead lies a large pond with a bridge that leads to another stone building. This one is larger than the others in the Oasis with double-height floors and a round, vaulted roof that reminds me of the Rugosa Dome.

My throat dries, and I no longer want to get off the coach. In all my sixteen years, I’ve only seen guards and other Harvesters. Everyone here wears different colors and styles, and it’s a level of freedom I’ve only seen in Sunday movies played on OasisVision.

A band of panic tightens around my chest, cutting my air supply to the shallowest breaths. The Oasis is too noisy, too bright, too violent. If I step off this vehicle, I might crumble under the newness of this world.

CHAPTER 7

T  he coach stops outside the concert hall, and there’s another red carpet that stretches up its stone steps.

Everyone sighs with relief, and we all form a line down the aisle. Emmera pushes in front of us, and I roll my eyes. She can’t continue blaming me for her sister’s rejection.

Sergeant Silver and Garrett are the first to step out. They stand at both sides of the door, a buffer to the madness outside.

People holding cameras gather on both sides of the red carpet. Their camera flashes fill my sight, and it's worse than the summer lightning storm that once burned down Dad’s cornfield.

They shout out our names, and I imagine that they already broadcasted our details all over Phangloria, but it’s hard to do anything with my vision dazzled and my legs aching from the long ride.

I imagined there would be a crowd of people awaiting us in a stark and modern interior like the Rugosa Square dome, but this is like an entrance hall from the Old World. It’s the size of sixteen Harvester homes and eight times as high. A marble floor stretches out to a grand staircase as wide as our house with over two dozen steps and a landing that splits into two separate staircases.

Flanking the stairs stand twin statues of Gaia, each balancing the Phangloria Tree on their outstretched palms. I glance at the lights shining at the end of every branch and can’t help thinking about us having to travel through the dark after sundown.

The girls spread out, all turning their heads up and to the left and right to take in the stone columns that stretch to a ceiling consisting of arched cornices and carved moldings. I only know these words because Mom is obsessed with anything related to fairy tales, including castles.

Gasping, Forelle places a hand on her chest. “It’s…”

“Breathtaking, yeah,” I whisper.

A side-door hidden within the stone wall opens, and a woman wearing a teal catsuit scurries out. She glances at her computer tablet before saying, “This way, girls.”

She leads us into a dim hallway, which isn’t quite as grand as the entrance hall but looks better than anything from home. The floors here creak underfoot, and the scent of applewood fills my nostrils. Lights blaze out from an open door at the end of the passage, and my stomach rumbles.

“Was that you?” Forelle asks with a giggle.

I rub my belly. “It’s strange to feel hungry after sitting around all night.”

“A light breakfast is available in the green room,” says the woman.

We step into a waiting room with groups of comfortable-looking black sofas arranged around low tables in U-shapes. Each holds a vast platter of fruit, sliced cheese, meat, and toast. My mouth waters at the banquet that would keep my family fed for days.

“Everybody, sit and eat,” she says. “The show starts in an hour, and our co-hosts will join you momentarily and record profiles on the most promising candidates. Please cooperate to give yourself the best chance of winning.”

There are more than enough tables for each town to occupy a section, and Emmera marches to the nearest sofa and plucks a piece of toast from the tray. Forelle, Vitelotte, and I follow her and fill our plates.

Vitelotte points at a slice of pink meat. “What’s that?”

My brows draw together. “Ham, I think.”

An arrogant voice behind us snorts. “Beef carpaccio. Don’t you vegetables know anything?”

I twist around and glare at the owner of the voice, one of the fresh-faced girls from Bos. “We don’t get delicacies in Rugosa.”

Her gaze wanders down to my modest chest. “Clearly, you don’t.”

Fury surges through my veins, and something Carolina said reaches my ears. The Nobles design daily quotas that make us compete against each other for rations for maximum rivalry. They want us too busy fighting each other to band together and fight them.

All resentment drains from my system in an outward breath, and I say, “We’d appreciate an introduction to all these meats. Do you cure them yourselves?”

Her face drops, and she glances at the other girls in her town as if looking for reassurance. They’re too busy enjoying the banquet to engage in hostilities.

“Sure.” She walks around and introduces herself as Corrie Barzona.

Applause fills the room, the far wall turns black, and the Phangloria insignia appears. The national anthem blares out, and the screen fades to an orchestra. Its conductor and musicians wear the black and white of Artisans, the Echelon valued for their ability to create beauty.

The camera cuts to Montana, who wears an electric blue tuxedo coat with tails that sweep on the stage floor. Instead of a shirt and bowtie, he dons a black one-piece outfit with blue buttons that match his coat.

He stands with his arms spread and bobs his head along with the orchestra, as though it's the most moving piece of music he’s ever heard.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” he says over the fading strains of the music. “A round of applause for Her Majesty Queen Damascena and His Excellency Ambassador Pascal of Amstraad!”

Now the screen shows the queen sitting in a royal box clad in an ivory dress that clings to her figure. Its asymmetric neckline wraps around her neck like a snake. She wears a diamond crown with drop earrings.

Next to her sits the ambassador, a small man with a weak chin and round spectacles that dangle over the bridge of his long nose. The glass picks up the light with a rippling effect. I don’t know enough about technology to work out what that means.

He’s the first Amstraadi I have ever seen and wears a leather jacket with buttons running up his torso in a diagonal line. It’s secured with a tight, leather neckband adorned by a row of flashing lights that make me wonder if the jacket is the one that’s actually alive and the ambassador is the garment.

Two women dressed in teal catsuits stand behind them along with a pair of guards whose uniforms look metallic. They probably also came from Amstraad.

Forelle leans into my side and whispers, “Where’s Prince Kevon?”

I raise a shoulder. The king is also missing from the royal box. “Maybe he’s one of the judges?”

Montana appears back on the camera. “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Harvester Round of the Princess Trials!”

He explains that sixty girls made it to the auditorium, and today a lucky six will be chosen based on beauty, poise, intelligence, and charm. I wipe my damp palms on my skirt and glance around the room. The other girls look pale and tired and nervous—like me.

Few of us take long-distance journeys, and if they had given us a day to acclimatize, we might be in better spirits.

As Montana reminisces with the audience about the previous Princess Trials, a group of people wearing red uniforms enters with trolleys, filling the room with the mingled scents of tea and coffee. My mouth waters and I take a bite of a fruit toast with butter and cheese.

Forelle gasps and points at the screen. “There’s Princess Briar!”

My head snaps up. The last time we saw Prince Kevon’s older sister was at the royal wedding five years ago when she married the son of the Amstraadi president.

She sits on the judges’ table, clad in a high-necked leather dress whose neckline flashes on and off with those creepy lights. To the princess’s left sits Circi Aster, the queen’s lady-at-arms, and on her right is Prunella Broadleaf.

I suppress a groan. That’s the woman who ignored Carolina only to pay attention when someone else voiced her suggestion. Hopefully, she won’t be nearly as dismissive with the Harvester girls when we’re onstage.

An assistant rushes into the room. “Corrie Barzona? You’re next.”

The girl from Bos stands and smoothes down her outfit. It’s the same as mine except she fills it better, and it contains fewer stains.

“Good luck,” I whisper along with everyone else.

Corrie nods, straightens her back, and walks out with the assistant.

Silence descends through the room as Montana attempts to chat with Princess Briar about her life in Amstraad. She offers one-word answers, making smooth conversation near impossible. He turns to Lady Circi, but the dark-skinned woman is too busy reading her tablet computer to engage in conversation.

Prunella Broadleaf gushes that she’s honored to help choose the next Queen of Phangloria.

Forelle leans into me and whispers, “Isn’t that Prince Kevon’s job?”

“Probably,” I mutter through a mouthful of apricot pastry.

Sugar and fruit and spices explode on my tongue, and I hum my appreciation. It’s sweet and fatty and juicy. I wash it down with a mouthful of freshly brewed coffee and sigh. If Harvesters ate and drank like this every day, we’d be too sated to revolt.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!” Corrie jogs onstage and waves, and the crowd bursts into applause. “My name is Corrie Barzona, and it’s wonderful to meet you all.”

Prunella Broadleaf leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “What do you do?”

“I’m a milkmaid,” Corrie answers with a dazzling smile. “And I’m a proud maker of artisan cheese, cream, yogurt, and butter.”

This makes the audience cheer. I lean into my seat and groan, trying to think up something endearing to say. Forelle picks tomatoes, but I’m just a weeder.

Emmera bolts out of her seat. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Throughout Corrie’s exchange with Prunella Broadleaf, Lady Circi reads from her tablet computer, and Princess Briar stares ahead with glazed eyes. If she has been here since Monday, I’m not surprised she’s bored.

“Excuse me, ladies.” A man holding a microphone approaches our table. Behind him stand two women with cameras. “May I interrupt your breakfast for a chat?”

Forelle straightens, and her face splits into a wide grin. “Sure.”

He focuses on Forelle and asks her about life in Rugosa. After several minutes of conversation, it’s clear that he isn’t going to speak to anyone else at our table. I glance at Vitelotte, who grimaces.

One of the camera women steps forward and makes eye contact. “Excuse me.”

Excitement fills my chest, and I offer what I hope is a dazzling smile. “Yes?”

“Could you move across to the other sofa so that I can get a better shot of your pretty friend?”

My breath hitches, and I cover my disappointment by scooting around toward where Vitelotte sits. The other girl shrugs and picks up a braided pastry. It’s strange. Until now, I didn’t care about being the darling of the camera. I was anonymous and beneath the notice of anyone but my family, and the occasional belligerent guard.

Ryce and Carolina’s praise was addictive. Somewhere in the depths of my heart, a part of my heart believes that Ryce might fall in love with me if I’m on camera. A server in red approaches with a coffee jug and a jug of cream. I pick up my cup and give her an eager nod.

“I came here with a friend.” Forelle sweeps her arm in my direction. “Her name is Zea.”

One of the cameras turns to me, and I inhale a shocked breath through my teeth.

“How nice of you to come along for moral support.” The co-host finally makes eye contact. “What do you think of a possible Queen Forelle?”

His implication hits me like a punch to the gut. I don’t have a chance in this contest of even making it to the palace round. He isn’t even acknowledging me as a possible candidate, even though I was one of the few who made it through that awful marquee.

But he’s asked me a question on camera, and I have to answer. “Phangloria will benefit from a kind and compassionate person like Forelle as its queen.”

He turns back to Forelle, and my heart sinks. I might have held his attention if I’d said something witty, but charisma isn’t one of my strengths.

“Zea would make a great queen,” says Forelle. “She’s caring and brave—”

“How charming.” The co-host turns to the front camera. “Did you see that, ladies and gentlemen. Generosity and humility in a beautiful Harvester package. Thank you, Forelle Pyrus.”

The interviewer and the camera women rise and approach another bank of sofas. He casts a dismissive glance at the quartet from Panicum and moves onto some better-dressed girls, who I imagine come from one of the towns centered on animal husbandry.

“That was demoralizing,” mumbles Vitelotte.

“Yeah,” I reply.

Emmera flounces across the room, her cheeks flushing purple to contrast with her flaxen hair. “How did you get an interview?”

“What are you talking about?” I say.

Ignoring me, Emmera curls her fists. “You were flirting with that interviewer, just like you flirted with that guard.”

“What?” hisses Forelle.

“You have a reputation in Rugosa.” She places her hands on her hips. “Do you want me to share it with all of Phangloria?”

Forelle’s mouth drops open, and I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. This has to be a lie. I turn around and find a camera trained on us. When I turn back, Emmera’s eyes gleam with triumph.

“Emmera,” I snap. “We’re on camera!”

Her mouth widens into a smile. “Prince Kevon should know.”

The co-host ditches the girl he was interviewing to rush at Emmera with a camerawoman at his heels. “Miss?”

“My name is Emmera Hull.” She rocks forward on her heels and grins. “I’m from Rugosa, where I live with my mother, father, and four sisters.”

“What were you going to say about this girl?” he asks.

“I would make a brilliant queen because I want to feed the whole of Phangloria. Working in the cornfields has taught me a lot about life.”

“Oh, my Gaia,” mutters Forelle.

I shake my head. “She just caused a dust storm to get on camera.”

Vitelotte leans forward. “The Hull sisters do this all the time.”

“You know them?” Forelle asks.

Vitelotte nods and doesn’t elaborate, but my head pounds and my pulse feels jittery from overindulging in coffee. I stagger to my feet and walk around Forelle, muttering something about needing to wash my face.

I exit via another door, which I hope leads to a bathroom. Instead, it opens into a stone hallway with an OasisVision screen on the wall. One of the Harvester girls just burst into tears on stage, and her words are so garbled with sobs that I can’t make sense of what she’s saying.

“Walking out already?” says a voice.

I turn to find Sergeant Silver leaning against a wall. His helmet lies on the floor by his feet. “I need some air.”

“Contestants aren’t allowed to leave the concert hall,” he says.

My shoulders droop, and I glance over his shoulder where the sound of applause resounds from behind a set of double doors. “Is there an open window somewhere?”

“Don’t like to be cooped up?” he asks.

“That’s for chickens.”

He chuckles, revealing a dimple on his cheek. “I can open a back door, but you must promise not to escape.”

“Would I get far if I did?”

“Probably not.” He sweeps out an arm, gesturing at me to walk with him.

Normally, I wouldn’t go anywhere with a guard unless it was an ambush in my favor, but Sergeant Silver doesn’t seem the type to shirk his duties and harass girls. He was polite to everyone on the coach except to Garrett when he was slacking.

He leads me to another wooden door and opens it, revealing a balcony that overlooks the lake. Waves lap at the building’s stone walls, and the scent of wet earth and mown grass fills my nostrils.

“Thank you.” I rush out to the balcony, filling my lungs with cool, fresh air.

“Don’t jump,” he says as I pass.

Snorting, I stare out into the water. “I’ll try to control myself.”

“What do you think of the Oasis?” he asks.

Inhaling a deep breath, I think about his question, but there’s no easy answer. Before I came here, the Oasis was the epicenter of oppression, a symbol of everything I hated about my life. I wanted it reduced to rubble so we could build a new democracy on its remains. But now?

A pair of fish, the size of my forearm, swim past. One has crimson and blue scales with large flowing fins that swirl with the current. Its companion’s scales are a deep plum with vivid amber fins. Their beauty makes my throat thicken with an emotion I can’t yet name.

Without looking at the guard, I murmur, “If only more Harvesters got a chance to appreciate such splendor.”

“I got to see most of the region while collecting you girls from all sixteen towns. There were orchards, wheat fields, vast meadows. Some would envy the peace of the Harvesters.”

“But not the toil and thirst.” The words tumble from my lips before I can stop them, and I spin around, my heart pounding. That was sedition and I just said it in front of a guard.

The door behind him is shut, and there’s no way around his large, six-two frame. My fingers twitch to the darts in my pocket, but I curl them into a fist. The Red Runners taught me a little hand-to-hand combat, but I’m not strong enough to go against a grown man.

He tilts his head to the side, and his strange eyes narrow with scrutiny. “May I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” my voice rasps, and I press my spine against the balcony’s stone wall.

“Why did you join the Trials?”

The lie tumbles from my lips. “For the opportunity to marry Prince Kevon.”

“What about him makes you think he could be good for you?”

My tight chest loosens, and a breath whooshes from my lungs. Sergeant Silver is just curious. Nothing more.

Turning my head, I bite down on my lip and stare into the pond. Sunlight bounces off the water’s surface, and it’s mesmerizing, just like Ryce Wintergreen. Until yesterday, Ryce hasn’t given me the opportunity to know him, but I can’t help the way I feel.

I turn back to the guard, who stares at me with a strange intensity. He looks about eighteen, but he could be older. I wonder if he’s like Garrett, who wants to do something else in the Guardian Echelon or if this is his permanent role.

“You want to know why I really signed up?” I ask.

He nods.

“Sometimes, you can see a person from afar and know how they feel,” I say, remembering the day Dad brought me to the Wintergreen home and Ryce’s reaction to my failure to save his father.

Ryce barely looked at me over the following years, but his tragic story gripped my heart. He turned devastation to determination, and when Carolina appointed him the leader of a Red Runners cell, I couldn’t help but join.

“You see their struggles, their strengths, and their triumphs.” My heart fills with inspiration, and I straighten. “He carries the troubles of Phangloria on his shoulders because he’s going to lead. I would like to be the person at his side who helps carry his burden.”

“Can anyone be that selfless?” he asks.

I meet the guard’s green eyes. “This is an opportunity for my happiness, too. I’m not sure about my chances, but if I don’t try, it’s something I will regret forever.”

“And the status doesn’t hurt?” A wry smile curves his lips.

His words snap me back to reality, and annoyance prickles my skin that I’ve opened my heart to a guard. “Do you know what I long for every day?”

“Tell me,” he says.

“Water.”

He frowns. “What?”

“Have you ever worked in the Harvester region?”

He shakes his head. “My apprenticeship took me to the border. Afterward, I worked in the navy.”

My brows draw together. “What is it like outside?”

“The desert?” he asks.

I nod.

“There are towers at the wall where you can view the wilderness for miles.” He fixes me with solemn eyes. “Some of the images of the land outside the desert are beyond description. I’m amazed that people survive that hell and reach the gates.”

My mind drifts to Mom, whose parents traveled across the desert to reach Phangloria. She never talks about the hardship she experienced in the Barrens or about what she might have seen at the wall, so it’s fascinating to hear Sergeant Silver’s account.

“Do the guards ever turn people away?” I ask.

Sergeant Silver shakes his head. “Nobody civilized is denied shelter, no matter their physical state.” He draws in a deep breath. “I have the utmost admiration for anyone determined enough to cross such a hostile environment to reach Phangloria.”

My gaze turns to the ripples of water. There are two types of people who make it to the Great Wall. The first is Foundlings, like Mom’s parents and the man with the jawless mouth working in Carolina’s underground hideout. The second are humans who have regressed to a feral state, who we refer to as wild men.

From what I learned in Modern History classes, they don’t have a language, but they can create tools and weapons and will eat anything, including their own kind.

“What’s it like to live in the most tranquil region within Phangloria?” Sergeant Silver asks.

“We don’t have lakes or ponds or even streams. Everything is piped from the Oasis.” I sweep out a hand over our surroundings. “You say the Harvester region is beautiful, but there’s only enough water for crops. Everyone gets the government recommended allowance, but I’ve never swum in fresh water or soaked in a private bath.”

His brows rise, but he doesn’t comment. Maybe it’s because he thinks I’m hankering over something trivial, but I would like to see him swap his fruit-infused Smoky Water for the metallic-tasting liquid we get at home.

“What would make me happiest is a better future for everyone in Phangloria. I think we can make this a reality together.”

He blows out a breath. “Prince Kevon is a lucky fellow to have such a committed admirer.”

My bracelet beeps, jolting me out of my musings. “What’s that?”

“You’re wanted onstage.” Sergeant Silver opens the door. “I’ll show you the way.”

CHAPTER 8

We rush through a darkened hallway at the end of which stand two women with headphones attached to screens on their heads. They are fussing around a petite Harvester girl, fluffing up her hair and telling her to take deep breaths.

“Good,” says Sergeant Silver. “It looks like you’re still on time.”

They both turn around. The red lights hanging over the door marked STAGE makes their frowns appear like scowls, and the Harvester girl looks pale enough to faint.

“Where have you been?” one of them hisses. “We had to arrange an early interval because you weren’t in place.”

“Sorry,” I mutter.

The lights turn green, and she spins away, not giving me a chance to muster up an excuse. I turn to thank the guard, but he’s already gone.

One of the stagehands places both hands on the girl’s shoulders. “You saw the previous girls. Follow Montana’s leads, be polite to the judges, and smile.”

She nods, and her face hardens with determination. The door opens, and she walks through to a round of lackluster applause. I’m not sure how many girls the audience has seen already. Fatigue and nerves and the unfamiliar surroundings have pushed my sense of time off-kilter, but I suspect they’re tired of seeing different girls wearing the same outfits and talking about producing food.

The taller of the stagehands turns to me. She’s a stern-faced woman with iridescent violet eyes that catch the light. “Watch carefully. After the break, you’re next.”

Gulping hard, I nod.

She projects OasisVision onto the wall, but there’s no sound. The Harvester girl is blinking rapidly and has stretched out a palm the way some people do when they’re trying to look in the distance when the sun is too harsh. I make a mental note to keep my hands at my sides.

Montana is his usual chatty self, but the panel of judges seems bored. It’s probably because they know that the Harvester portion of the Princess Trials won’t lead to anything but false hope for our Echelon.

I imagine everyone huddled around Rugosa Square, watching out for the four of us, and my heart aches. What are Mom and Dad doing now? Are they worrying about me? I suck in a long breath and hope he will one day understand I joined these trials for a larger purpose.

Prunella Broadleaf appears back onscreen. She leans forward with her fingers steepled and stares into the camera with narrowed eyes. Next, the camera switches to the girl, whose mouth drops open.

“What are they saying?”

“Pru’s having a little fun with the girls,” replies the stagehand.

I glance at her headphones. “Can I listen?”

Her face twists with disgust, and she steps away from me as though I’ve proposed something indecent.

The Harvester girl gives the judges a sharp nod and takes several steps back. I lean forward and frown, wondering what on earth she is doing. Then she takes a running jump, stretches out her arms, and performs one cartwheel after another.

Applause seeps through the stage doors, and a boulder of dread drops into my stomach. I lean against the wall and stare at the screen.

“She’s dancing,” I whisper.

“Someone has to break up the monotony,” the stagehand mutters.

Tremors make the ends of my fingers vibrate, and I curl them into fists. The judges could at least make it look like they took us seriously. “Did the Noble girls have to perform?”

Her colleague’s lips tighten, and she looks at me as though I’m something that has soaked through the sole of her espadrilles. “When one is educated and poised, it’s enough to entertain the crowd with wit.”

My stomach churns, and my heart pounds so hard, I forget to flinch. I can’t dance or sing or recite poems, but I have a good eye, and I’m accurate with distance weapons. But I won’t reveal the blowgun in my pocket or the poisoned darts.

I’ll just have to refuse if Prunella Broadleaf asks me to amuse those Nobles. The Harvester girl skips around the stage, kicking her legs up and treating the audience to a view of her ankles and calves. I shake my head and feel bad for her parents, who must be horrified at the display of flesh. I won’t perform. I won’t make a national fool of myself for Mom, Dad, and the twins, to watch on OasisVision.

“You’d better start thinking of something interesting to win the audience’s vote,” says the stagehand who projects the image. “This girl is winning everyone’s hearts.”

“Will dancing like that help me become the Queen of Phangloria?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“No, but it will get you to the palace round,” she replies. “You might even meet someone special at one of the balls.”

The mention of the palace round strengthens my resolve. Public humiliation is a small sacrifice to complete my mission. When the revolution comes, the Nobles’ cheers will turn to screams. They’ll want to dance jigs for our amusement.

My shoulders slump, and I run trembling fingers through my hair. I still don’t have a talent I can share with the audience.

The shorter stagehand places a hand on my brow. “You’re clammy.”

“I am?”

She places her fingers on my pulse. “Are you going to faint on us?”

“No?”

“Are you prone to swooning?” she asks.

“Swoon—” My brows furrow. “I’ve had enough water if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Drink more.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a water bottle.

“What is it?”

She twists the lid with a crack of its seal and places the bottle to my lips. “Smoky Free.”

I rear back and glance at the mountains on its label. “Smoky Water?”

“You get that in the Harvester District?” she asks.

“On the coach.” My fingers wrap around the bottle, and I take a sip.

Soft moisture floods my dry mouth. It reminds me of being young, tilting my head to the skies, and welcoming the first drops of rain on my tongue. There’s no flavor to this water, yet it’s the best I have ever tasted. I gulp down mouthfuls and squeeze my eyes shut.

For this blissful moment, there’s no Princess Trials, no OasisVision cameras, and no audience of Nobles baying for me to perform acrobatics. It’s just me, this water, and the hope that I’ll provide Carolina with vital intelligence that starts the revolution. When it’s over, Ryce and I will take our places together in the new democracy, and he’ll remember me as the girl who brought him peace.

I swallow the last drops of water and exhale a long, satisfied breath. “Thanks.”

“Feeling better?” asks the stagehand with a grin.

“Much.”

By now, the Phangloria emblem is onscreen, and the co-host from earlier broadcasts from the waiting room. He’s standing with the Harvester girl who just did the cartwheels, and she’s looking dazed.

“You drank double the amount as the last girl,” she says.

“Huh?” I stare at the bottle, but my vision blurs. “I can’t see—”

“Oh, dear,” she says.

“What?”

“You’re one of the zero point two-five percent who react badly to Free.”

“To water?”

“No,” she snaps. “Free is a stimulant that releases inhibitions. It’s to stop girls from freezing onstage.”

My heart cartwheels with panic, and I clutch at my chest. Violent palpitations vibrate against my palm. “You drugged me?”

She places both hands on my shoulders. “Stop panicking. It will only make things worse.”

“Wor…” My throat closes up, choking off my words, and I stare up at the stagehand with bulging eyes.

Strong hands push me down so I’m bent over double. One of the stagehands thumps my back, and I cough out a breath. My vision clears a little, and I fill my lungs, but the moment I raise my head, my vision swims, and it feels like my brain has turned to clouds.

It takes several minutes of heavy breathing to clear the lightheadedness, and when I glare up at the stagehand, I can see her wide eyes. “How could you—”

“When you joined the Princess Trials, you agreed to medical procedures, including taking supplements for your wellbeing and health. Didn’t you read the small print?”

I had pressed my palm on a blank screen, but that had been for identification purposes. There hadn’t been any talk of drugs. “They skipped over that part.”

“It’s done, now.” The stagehand helps me straighten. “Deep breaths. It’s almost time for your grand debut.”

“Has it worn off?” I ask.

“The side effects?” She tilts her head to the side. “Sure.”

The door opens, and before I have the chance to clarify that I had been talking about the Mountain Free, her companion places a hand between my shoulder blades and shoves me into blinding, white light.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Montana’s voice sounds like a drumroll. “Her Majesty and His Excellency, please welcome our next contestant!”

My retinas sting. I don’t know if the stage lights are particularly bright or whatever was in the Free Water has made me light sensitive, but I won’t raise my hand like the other girl. Applause fills my ears as I step forward. It’s like walking into the sun, and I can’t stop blinking. The stage is hotter than I imagined, and tiny beads of sweat form on my skin.

The applause fades, and I continue walking on legs that won’t stop shaking. I can’t see Montana, the judges’ table, or any cameras, but I know from watching in the screens that they’re trained on me and broadcasting this moment to everyone in Phangloria.

“Where are you going?” A pair of large hands grab my shoulders and turn me ninety degrees to the left. “We’re over here.”

The audience laughs.

My heart sinks. Ten seconds onstage, and I’m already a laughingstock.

“Hel—” My throat catches, and I cough into my hand. “Hello, Phangloria!”

A few people in the audience clap, but when nobody else joins them, they stop. My throat dries, and I blink through watery eyes. My vision clears.

The orchestra sits one level below the stage, each member clutching a shiny instrument. Behind them are levels upon levels of raised seating platforms that stretch out an eighth of a mile. There’s a hundred or more, but I’m too nervous to count.

Balconies lit by candelabra wall sconces fill the curved walls, and they’re crammed with silhouetted figures. In the middle is the curtained arch that makes up the royal box.

It feels like every single one of Phangloria’s five-thousand Nobles is sitting in the audience, which makes sense, considering that they don’t actually do any of the work.

“What’s your name, my dear, and where are you from?” says Prunella Broadleaf.

I turn to the judges’ table on my right. My vision clears a little more, and I can tell that the dark figure on the far left is Lady Circi. The one on the far right must be Prunella.

“Zea. Zea-Mays Calico, Mistress,” I say. “And I come from Rugosa and work in the tomato fields.”

Someone barks out a laugh, and I know why. Most Harvester names are crop-related, and we’re the largest grower of corn in Phangloria. Mom fell in love with the Latin name for corn and thought it would be great to name me after the field where she met Dad. Before I can stop myself, the story tumbles from my lips.

The audience coos, and my cheeks heat. That information had been personal and not fodder for the amusement of a bunch of idle Nobles.

Lady Circi clears her throat. “Your juvenile record is interesting. You were whipped at the age of twelve and fourteen for assaulting guards with—” She pauses as though not believing what she sees. “A slingshot?”

I gulp, and the crowd whispers. Why would she dredge up my past to the whole of Phangloria? My gaze darts to the audience, who is waiting for my reply.

“They were attacking Harvester girls.” The words tumble from my mouth. “I wanted them to stop.”

A hush falls across the auditorium, and the only sound is the pulse pounding between my ears. This is nothing like the warm applause they gave Corrie Barzona from Bos or the amused cheers they offered to the cartwheeling girl.

If I don’t do something now, Lady Circi will turn the voters against me. I square my shoulders and say, “Juvenile records are supposed to be erased when a person comes of age. I’ve matured since then.”

The dark-skinned woman leans forward and drawls, “Indeed?”

I offer an eager nod.

“What would you do now if you saw a guard attacking a girl?” she asks.

My teeth clamp shut. If that stupid drug makes me blurt out the events of yesterday, I will end up in a cell with poor Krim. Forelle and everyone else who covered up for my criminal act would join me. I breathe hard, forcing my survival instinct to overcome my lack of inhibitions.

“I would ask them to stop, but isn’t the bigger problem—”

“And if he didn’t?” Lady Circi asks.

“Then I would call another guard to help.”

Laughter fills the auditorium, and my head pounds to the beat of a war drum. I have no clue why they thought that was funny. Anyone intervening with a guard’s fun gets threatened or attacked or killed like Mr. Wintergreen. Calling a second guard would only double the girl’s suffering, but there’s no other solution I can offer that won’t label me as rebellious.

“Zea-Mays is right,” says Princess Briar, sounding bored. “Juvenile records have no bearing on the Princess Trials.”

A relieved breath slides from between my lips, and I send the princess a silent word of thanks.

“Then let’s move to genetic background,” drawls Lady Circi. “Your mother is a Foundling?”

Her words land like a kick to the gut, and I flinch. Blood roars through my ears, and the pounding in my head is louder than the audience’s gasping disapproval. Nobody—I don’t care if they are Harvester, guard, or Prince Kevon himself—nobody mocks Mom.

“Second generation,” I snap back, all notions of self-preservation evaporating in the heat of my fury. “She was born in Phangloria and moved out of the Barrens after passing the Genetic Acceptability Test.”

The audience grumbles. Everyone is probably picturing the type of people so misshapen by genetic abnormalities that they barely look human or the tribes of cannibalistic wild men that attack our borders. Foundlings aren’t anything like that.

Border Guards only allow those who look sane and rational through the Great Wall. And Foundlings have to stay in the Barrens for decades—and sometimes generations—until they test free of radiation. Most of them never progress to the Harvester region, but their offspring might if they’re genetically pure.

“Dear me.” Prunella Broadleaf places a handkerchief to her face, reminding me of the Industrials protecting themselves from the smog. “Does she have six feet? Webbed toes?”

The audience roars with mocking laughter, and Princess Briar huffs out an exasperated breath while Prunella smirks. Lady Circi shakes her head and returns to reading her computer tablet. The pressure pounding through my skull explodes.

“Mistress Broadleaf,” I say in my snippiest voice. “Are you suggesting the Guardians’ security measures are inadequate?”

She stiffens. “Of course, not.”

By now, my vision clears completely, and I see the woman. Prunella Broadleaf’s features consist of a pointed nose, hard eyes, and pinched lips, all set within a broad face. She’s twisted them in a mockery of disapproval, but her throat bobs up and down, revealing her discomfort.

Her black hair dye doesn’t quite match the blue-black sheen that comes with Princess Briar’s Noble birth. Prunella Broadleaf is a social climber, desperate to ingratiate herself with the elite.

Disgust at her pathetic mockery makes my lip curl. “Any Foundling allowed into the Echelons has passed the Genetic Acceptability Test, which is more than I can say about you.”

Prunella bristles, baring clenched teeth, but I don’t care. Mom is the same as everyone else—better because she is certifiably free of defects. Better, because she worked herself out of the Barrens, educated herself on a variety of subjects, and passed on that knowledge to us. How many of the people laughing at me could make the same claim?

“Miss Calico. You’re dismissed,” says Prunella.

Hostility crackles in the air. Montana steps back, his palms raised, acting as though he has no part in this situation.

I’ve ruined my chances of ever getting through to the palace round of the trials. It hadn’t bothered me that the contest was rigged in favor of the Nobles and that its organizers only brought us here for some sick sense of entertainment, but there’s something I need to say before being sent back to Rugosa in disgrace.

“Before I leave, I have a question.”

Prunella Broadleaf beckons, and a pair of security guards step onstage. Unfortunately, neither of them look like Garrett or Sergeant Silver.

“We aren’t interested in a parting rant,” says Prunella. “Get out with a modicum of dignity.”

“What was the point of bringing me here if you already knew my juvenile record and genetic background?” I shout.

Prunella holds up a hand, and the guards stop. “What are you suggesting—”

“We went through extensive and painful testing yesterday, endured a long coach ride, and for what? To make us perform like circus lizards for your amusement?”

A few people in the audience boo.

I turn to them and snarl, “We work hard to supply you with food. The least you can offer in return is respect.”

Something small and dark flies out from the audience. I sidestep, and a tomato splats onto the stage. It explodes into a starburst with flesh oozing onto the white floor. This is the final insult. The fruits of Harvester labor wasted at my feet.

Nobody moves, not even the guards sent to drag me away. Whoever threw this wants me to rant some more, and something deep inside me shuts down. My mission has failed, and I won’t entertain these Nobles for a moment longer.

I pick up the tomato’s remains. “Thanks for the seeds.”

Prunella Broadleaf approaches from across the stage, holding a pitcher of water. “Let’s cool this young lady down.”

My vision turns red. Before I can stop myself, the squashed tomato flies through the air and lands between her eyes. Prunella shrieks, clutches her face and twists around.

Roars fill my ear. By now, I’m too frazzled to tell if it’s laughter or outrage or demands for my flogging.

Rough hands grab my arms, and a guard hauls me off the stage. I don’t resist. I catch sight of Montana, who looks down at me with disapproval in his dark eyes. If he didn’t want a spectacle, he shouldn’t have let his stagehands feed the girls anti-inhibition drugs.

“Wait!” A male voice booms from the speakers, and the guard pauses.

Montana steps forward. “Do you have something to add, Your Excellency?

The Amstraad ambassador rises from his seat and stands at the edge of the royal box. “I have not laughed so much in decades.”

“I’m glad you found Miss Calico amusing, Your Excellency,” replies Montana, his voice unusually guarded.

“I will see more of this girl,” says the strange man. “Please forward her to the palace round.”

My mouth drops open, and a huff of air escaped my throat. If I could get to the palace and find those secret entryways, I still might bring about the revolution. And Ryce might forgive my outburst.

Montana frowns. “Your Excellency—”

“I will sponsor a troupe of girls for the trial’s entertainment.” The ambassador counts on his fingers. “A hundred new health monitors to have this girl as the bucking bronco, and that big brute who gatecrashed will be the underdog.” His face splits into a wide grin. “And Gemini Pixel, the scapegoat.”

Cheers fill the auditorium, and I glance around the stage. Lady Circi stares straight at me, but I can’t make out her expression. Princess Briar bows her head, and Prunella Broadleaf beams. Everyone but me seems to understand these terms.

“What is a bucking bronco?” Nobody can hear me because they’ve cut my microphone.

The guard clamps a hand around my bicep and pulls me offstage. Bucking bronco. Underdog. Scapegoat. I know the definition of these terms, and only one of them is good, but what on earth do they mean for the Princess Trials?

CHAPTER 9

L aughter rings in my ears as the guards march me through a set of doors, and my head pounds in time with my heart’s frantic beat.

As soon as the door slams shut, the relative silence of the hallway clears my head, and regret crushes my chest. I should never have trusted those stagehands with that Smoky Water bottle.

Ryce would be disappointed with my performance. If it hadn’t been for the Ambassador’s last-minute request, I would be tied to a whipping post and lashed for attacking Prunella Broadleaf with a tomato.

“What’s happening?” I say to the guard who clutches my arm.

His lack of answer makes my heart sink, but the Free still running through my veins causes me to blurt, “Have they cut your tongue?”

He glares down at me through his visor and snorts. “I’m going to enjoy watching you act the bronco.”

“What’s a bronco?”

The guard stares straight ahead. He’s probably enjoying my turmoil, considering that I have a record for assaulting two of his colleagues. Three, but I’m not about to blurt that out.

At the end of the hallway is another set of doors, which leads to the seats where I found Sergeant Silver. The chairs are empty, but OasisVision blares out from the screen.

Montana has already introduced the next girl, and the audience reverts to its lackluster applause. It’s stupid, but annoyance plucks at my nerves that I made such an insignificant impact on those Nobles.

“Are you taking me to the palace?” Hope fills my chest and lightens my voice. I might have disgraced my family, but I’m one step closer to fulfilling my mission.

“I’ve got your royal chambers right here, bronco.” His colleague opens the door to a white room. It’s empty apart from a wooden bench and the wall that broadcasts a Harvester girl who looks like she’s going to faint.

With all the dignity I can muster, I walk into the room and take a seat. There’s no point in asking questions or pleading. I’m exactly where I need to be.

I rest my head on the wall and stare at the screen. Prunella Broadleaf is the only person acknowledging the girl. Someone has cleaned her face of tomato, but the olive makeup thins around the forehead and eyes, revealing her naturally pale skin.

The Harvester girl onscreen is pretty with wavy, brown hair and bright eyes the color of hazelnuts. There’s no sound, so I can’t hear what Prunella is asking her, but the girl’s eyes darts to the audience, and she smoothes down her dress.

My gaze drops to my crumpled skirt. It’s as though they wanted us to look our worst for the Trials. I wish I had ventured out to Rugosa Square at least once this week instead of staying in to play with Sharqi and her chicks.

The girl onscreen tightens her face and her bottom lip wobbles. She’s trying not to cry, and I ache to know what Prunella said. If my mission succeeds, I want to blow a poisoned dart right where I smacked her with the tomato.

“Wait there,” says a gruff voice at the door.

A girl with pale blonde hair steps inside. I can’t see her face because she’s bowing her head. Behind her, the doors close, but she doesn’t sit. She is wearing a white cotton nightgown that trails around her ankles.

“Hello?” I say.

She raises her head, revealing eyes puffy and bloodshot from days of crying.

“Are you alright?”

The girl doesn’t answer.

“Do you want to sit down?”

Still no response.

My shoulders droop. What’s wrong with her? I ask her a bunch of questions. I try prompting her to speak by asking her name, where she lives, and if she’s in the trials, but she sinks to her knees and sobs.

“Sorry.” I scoot over the row of chairs. “Was I asking too much?

She crouches on all fours, resting her cheek on the stone floor between her flat palms. It’s the strangest sight I’ve ever seen, and she reminds me of an old widow who once stumbled into Rugosa Square one Sunday, so delirious with thirst that she lay on the hot paving stones.

I kneel at her side, stroking pale strands of nearly white hair off her face. Apart from the deathly pallor of her skin, the swollen, red eyes, and her pink nose, she appears unhurt.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

Moments later, the door opens, and the largest girl I have ever seen enters. She’s as tall and broad-shouldered as the guards, except that they are wearing armor, and she is wearing a long, black dress. Freckles sprinkle on her nose and cheeks, but that’s the extent of her cuteness.

The girl turns to the guard. “Thanks, guys.”

They nod back and close the door.

“Hi,” I say. “Can you help—”

“Is that Gemini Pixel?” The big girl tilts her head to the side and frowns. “I wouldn’t bother with that lost cause.”

I glance down at the crying girl. “You know her?”

“Only through the treasonous acts of her dad, Leonidas Pixel. Network geniuses are rare, and he’s too useful for execution, so she’s taking his place in the firing squad.”

My brows furrow. “The Amstraad ambassador mentioned something about her joining the palace round as a scapegoat.”

She rolls her eyes and heads toward the seat closest to the wall screen. “What are you, then? The sitting duck or the gopher?”

I flinch. “Bucking bronco. Do you know what that means?”

“Don’t you get AmstraadTV out in the sticks?”

“The…” I have to pause to understand what she’s saying. “If you mean the Harvester Region, our dome only broadcasts OasisVision.”

“What’s that?”

My lips part, and I sweep my gaze down this girl’s outfit. She wears black bangles that match her dress, which might indicate that she’s an Artisan, but there’s nothing artistic about her manner.

“Do you know Jimeno Montana?” I ask.

She leans forward with her elbows resting on her thighs. “Oh, you’re talking about the government news channel. Don’t you get anything else apart from the official news?”

They play documentaries and the occasional relic from the past on OasisVision, but I shake my head and stare down at Gemini Pixel. At least now I know why she’s lost herself to despair. “What’s going to happen to her?”

“I don’t know.” The girl reaches down and yanks Gemini upright. “Sit down and stop sniveling, will you?”

“Hey—”

“I don’t see you picking her off the floor.” After plonking poor Gemini on one of the seats, she reaches for me, but I scoot back across the stone floor and stand. Her outstretched hand moves up, then I realize she wasn’t trying to lift me or anything weird. “Berta Ridgeback. And you are?”

I shake her hand and wince at the firm grip. The rough skin on her palm reminds me of Dad’s hands. “Zea. Zea-Mays Calico.”

She sits, leaving a chair between herself and Gemini. “I can’t say it’s good to meet you.”

My lips tighten, but I don’t comment on her rudeness. She probably isn’t pleased to be in this room and was clumsy with her phrasing. “What’s a bucking bronco?”

“It’s a term used in Amstrad TV shows. Most of the ones they broadcast here are competitions where people compete for some kind of prize.” She raises a massive shoulder. “A year’s supply of Smoky Water, a pig roast, or a bolt of silk.” She turns to me to make sure I’m following.

I nod, even though I’m not sure she’s answered my question.

“To make the shows more exciting, the producers place extra contestants into the show.” Berta scratches the side of her face, and I glance away when it sounds like the rasp of a nail against stubble. “They’re not supposed to win or anything, but they amuse the audience while the legitimate contestant focuses on winning. Get it?”

“No.”

She huffs out an exasperated breath, and my insides squirm with the kind of awkwardness I got at school when getting an answer wrong.

“Alright.” She points at Gemini. “You said she’s the scapegoat, right?”

“Yes.”

“At some point during the trial, she’s going to die.”

Gemini makes a choked cry, and my heart flips upside-down. “I thought you said—”

“They announced her father’s execution by proxy last week, but now it’s going to take place in the Trials.”

All the blood drains from my face, and I’m glad to be sitting because I’m not sure that my legs can hold up my body weight. I can’t look at Gemini because it feels like I’m about to be sick. This is—I have no words to describe my horror.

“Why?” I whisper.

“She’s going to die anyway, so why not spice up the trials, Amstraad style?”

I clench my teeth, breathing through my emotions. Whoever sentenced an innocent girl to death is the one who needs a public execution. “How can you talk about it so casually?”

Berta shrugs and turns back to the screen, where a Harvester girl talks directly to the camera. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want to know the answers.”

Gemini’s head remains bowed. Teardrops splatter on her nightgown, and my throat aches with sympathy. If we can start the revolution before her execution date, we might save her from an undeserved death.

My lips part to utter words of comfort to the girl, but no sound comes out. I can’t give her false hope, and most importantly, I can’t speak freely in front of someone who callously agrees with the slaughter of an innocent.

Later, I ask, “What’s the role of a bucking bronco, then?”

“Someone who provides the laughs by throwing a tantrum every time the contestants pranks her,” she says. “Like a raging bull but scrawnier.”

“The ambassador said you were the underdog.”

She scowls. “That figures. It’s not like I have any chance of winning this stupid trial.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, biting back the question on my lips. Turning my gaze from Berta, I glance at the screen. Vitelotte stands onstage, her expression serene. The camera cuts to Lady Circi, who points at something on the screen of her tablet.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Berta barks.

“What?” I turn back to the large girl.

“Why would a brute like me join a trial when she isn’t small or feminine or beautiful?”

“I wasn’t—”

“As soon as they announced the trials, my mother wouldn’t stop whining at me to apply.” She claps her hands to her chest and says in a high voice, “Oh, Bertie, you should try out. Oh, Bertie, you’re being too hard on yourself. Oh, Bertie, you’re perfectly beautiful. Any young gentleman would be lucky to have you as his wife!”

My gaze drops to my stained apron. “Oh.”

“I was sick of her wittering on and spouting crap. She had to see my humiliation broadcasted across the nation before it would sink into her thick skull that I’m not like other girls.”

“You passed the first round in the marquee?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow. “What are you saying, that I’m ugly?”

“No.”

“A genetic male?” Her huge hands curl into fists.

“Stop putting words in my mouth!” I twist back to the screen, where Vitelotte stands with her arms folded across her chest. Whatever they’re saying to her, she’s staying cool and fighting back with words. “You’re the one who brought up the subject. I just want to watch my friend.”

Berta remains quiet as Vitelotte inclines her head and walks off stage with her head high. The camera cuts to Montana, who beams. Irritation surges through my veins. What on earth had they said to each other?

“I snuck into the concert hall and walked onstage,” says Berta.

My head whips around. “What?”

Berta shrugs. “It earned me a whipping, but Prunella Broadleaf’s scathing insults made it worthwhile.”

“And your mother?”

“Devastated.” She snorts. “Mocked by all her friends. But she won’t be forcing me to get married in a hurry.”

I don’t bother to ask what they said to Berta onstage. My own humiliation still stings, and I’m not interested in re-living someone else’s. “Do you live in the Oasis?”

“In the north barracks.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder, which I guess indicates the compass direction. “My dad is in charge of the aerodrome.”

Berta tells me that her apprenticeship starts in January, after she turns sixteen. I press my lips together, trying to process my reaction. She doesn’t sound remotely sorry about having been whipped. A tough girl like that could have just stood up to her mother’s nagging. Why didn’t she just say no?

Berta stares at the screen and blows a stray strand of blonde hair out of her face. “This is so boring. These girls all look the same.”

Tuning out her griping, I stare at the screen and wait for Emmera and Forelle to come onstage. The door creaks open, and guards step inside to allow stagehands to bring bowls of beef stew and dumplings, but no matter how much I try to coax Gemini to eat, she jerks her head away and cries.

I take a mouthful of the stew, but can’t appreciate its taste. At least in the Harvester Region, a person gets punished for their own acts. Things are so different in the Oasis.

During the breaks, they show highlights from the different towns of the Harvester region, including footage from last night that makes me look like I was so desperate to sign up for the trials that I tripped over my own feet. Berta slaps her thigh and laughs, and even Gemini glances up at the screen and gives me a sad smile. I stare at the door, wondering when the interviews will ever end.

Hours later, Berta works out how to operate the wall screen’s volume in time for us to catch Montana thank everyone for watching the Harvester portion of the Princess Trials. There’s a short interval where the audience casts their votes, during which footage from Prince Kevon appears onscreen.

He’s sitting at the waterfall wearing a burgundy military jacket, and his blue-black hair is tied loosely at the nape of his neck, making him look less stuffy. I lean forward and squint, wishing the camera would make a closeup. He thanks all the lovely ladies for their participation in the Princess Trials and wishes the semi-finalists luck in the palace round.

“Shouldn’t Prince Kevon get to choose which of the girls he likes?” I turn to Berta. “Why would he let other people decide?”

She folds her arms across her chest. “Don’t you read the gossip rags?”

“Rags?” My mind conjures an image of the shirt I caught on a cactus that I ripped beyond repair.

Berta rolls her eyes. “Save me from backward yokels.”

I tilt my head to the side and mirror her folded arms. “How am I supposed to know about everything you have in the Oasis if Harvesters can’t leave the region without a permit?”

The superior expression melts a little, and she says, “Prince Kevon spent a lot of time with Rafaela van Eyck. She’s an actress on one of the most popular shows in Phangloria.”

I lean forward and nod, eager for her to continue. Footage of girls shoving each other to get to the marquee shows on the wall screen. One hits another with a bucket, splattering milk everywhere, and I wonder if the camera is showing Bos or one of the other livestock-centered towns.

“The gossip rags—they’re newspapers that report on social events. Who was seen on whose arm and wearing what.” Berta turns to me to check that I’m following, but I’m struggling to understand why anyone would want to waste time reading something so trivial. “Anyway, the king and queen didn’t approve of their son associating with a beautiful actress—”

“Why?”

“The rags always implied she had lots of lovers, I suppose,” she says with a shrug.

I rub my temples. This story is taking so long, I’ve forgotten why Berta started telling me about the rags.

“If Prince Kevon had to choose a girl to marry, it would be Rafaela. No question about it.”

“He let his parents organize these trials when he’s already in love with someone else?”

“Rafaela competed on Monday. She was the first to win the vote.”

“Did the rags report—”

“Quiet.” Berta holds up a palm. “They’re about to announce the finalists.”

On the screen, Montana claps his hands together. “Welcome back, Your Majesty and His Excellency, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for casting your votes. Now, here are the six Harvester girls who will move into the palace tomorrow.”

The camera cuts to the orchestra, where a man in a tuxedo rolls a drum wider than a barrel.

“In order of popularity, we have Corrie Barzona.”

Footage of the milkmaid from Bos flashes up on a screen behind Montana, with closeups of her time onstage. I can’t even say she got chosen because she was the first girl interviewed. Corrie is in the full bloom of health with glossy black hair, glowing skin, and a full figure.

Next to be chosen is Emmera Hull, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. She is undoubtedly beautiful with her flaxen hair and perfect features, and with some good Oasis food, she will be even more stunning than Corrie. However, I’m still annoyed with her for hurling accusations at Forelle in the waiting room.

The cartwheel-turning girl is next. Her name is Brunnea Pomifera from Morus, where they grow horse apples, mulberries, and keep silkworms. She has burnt orange-colored hair that forms natural waves.

I can’t remember the other two girls from the coach, but they’re Angeline Hereford and Cintra Mukota, both from Sus. It’s the town next to Bos and they raise pigs. My hands ball into fists, and I hope Forelle is the final candidate.

“And last is Vitelotte Solar, the girl with the rapier wit!” Montana says as her footage flashes on the screen.

My shoulders droop, and I slump into my seat. What on earth happened to Forelle?

CHAPTER 10

By the time the guards open the door to what I’ve come to think of as our cell, my eyelids droop, and my head slumps to my chest then jolts me awake. Their presence washes away all fatigue, and I spring to my feet.

“Bedtime.” One of them beckons with a gloved hand.

“Where are you taking us?” I ask.

“Let’s go.” Berta pushes past, knocking me to one side.

The guards march us out of the room, down the concert hall stairs, and into a vast, underground chamber littered with dozens of the same black vehicles that patrol the Harvester region. One of the men opens the door to a windowless van, revealing nothing but a single bench set within white space.

Berta hops inside and sits. She folds her arms and stretches out her legs as though getting into the back of armored vans is a daily occurrence.

I climb inside, taking my cue from Berta and try to relax, but it’s hard with Gemini’s sobs filling my ears. As the van turns a corner, her trembling body leans to my side, and she flinches whenever I offer comfort. Her misery is a constant reminder of how important it is for me to find those hidden passageways so that the Red Runners can save her life.

Ten minutes later, the van stops, the doors open, and we’re in a similar space only smaller and with fewer vehicles. The guards march us up six flights of stairs, down a hallway, and into a sparse room.

It’s twice the size of mine with four beds, each with white sheets tucked taut over thin mattresses. At the foot of each bed is a small trunk on top of which lie folded clothes. I walk to the bed by the window and peer outside. Tall lamp posts illuminate flower-bearing trees we saw on the way to the Concert hall.

“This isn’t the palace,” I murmur.

Berta snorts. “Is this yokel humor?”

Just for that comment, I take the bed by the window, which at least has a decent view.

“Ha.” She unfolds one of the garments at the foot of the bed. It’s a long nightgown. “At least Pixel won’t need to get changed.”

I lie in bed, trying to fall asleep. The bed is softer than my straw mattress, but there’s a metal frame with no give. Berta snores, Gemini sobs, and I can’t stop twisting the ring around my finger and wondering how Ryce will react to my performance at the audition.

As I drift off, my finger pulses, and I jolt awake and decipher the code.

ITS RYCE.

My eyes snap open, and I raise my head. Moonlight drifts in through the window, lighting up our room. Berta is still sleeping, and Gemini is silent. I stare down at my finger, wondering if he’s close.

CONGRATULATIONS. ARE YOU SEARCHING THE PALACE?

I gulp and squeeze the ring. We never learned about these devices in the Red Runners. I only know Vail code because it’s the system we use for tapping out messages with our fingers. How can I explain to him that they took us somewhere else?

COMPLETE YOUR MISSION SOON. YOU WERE SO STRONG AND BEAUTIFUL TONIGHT. I AM DYING TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

My eyes flutter shut. I lean against the headrest and sigh. I’m so glad Ryce approves of how I dealt with Prunella Broadleaf. Carolina would probably scold me for reacting in the face of provocation, but Ryce understands.

I slide under the covers and wait for him to say something else. Ryce seems to be holding out for the perfect woman. He has to choose me. I yearn to fight by his side during the revolution and rule gracefully beside him when he eventually takes leadership of the new democracy.

My thoughts drift to Forelle, who I expect is furious that Emmera ruined her chances for getting through to the next round. If anyone deserved a luxury break with food and water and rest, it was her.

Soon, exhaustion pulls me into a deep, dreamless sleep that keeps me under until the first rays of sun shine on my eyelids. I sit up in bed and glance around the room. Berta lies still, neither snoring nor breathing loudly, and Gemini sleeps. It’s the most peaceful I’ve seen the girl since she arrived in that room last night.

I glance at my ring for signs of activity, but when no message arrives, I swing my legs out of bed and look out of the window. Beyond the trees is a long, stone building that takes up an entire block. It might be the same one we passed yesterday morning.

“Trying to escape?” Berta asks.

“Why would I want to do that?” I turn and lean against the windowpane.

Berta sits upright. She pulls her long, ash-blonde hair into a braid, which accentuates her strong features. Her eyes have an owlish, unblinking stare. They’re set far apart, and a thick nose bridge fills the gap. I can’t say that she’s unattractive—she isn’t, but it’s her harsh words and blunt personality that make her unlikeable.

“Your face last night when I told you about the bucking bronco. You looked like someone holding back a wet fart.”

I wrinkle my nose. “That perfectly describes your feelings about being the underdog.”

Her face twists into a scowl. “Even if Prince Kevon liked you, they’d never allow him to marry a Harvester.”

One corner of my lip twitches. It’s the same expression Ryce makes when something should make him smile. Berta probably thinks I’m a backward country girl who believes in fairytale romances. If only she knew.

She leans forward. “What?”

“Let’s just say I’m optimistic about the future.”

“What does that mean?

I turn back to the window. “You wouldn’t be interested. It’s just a yokel phrase.”

She huffs and moves around the room, cursing at the crappy selection of clothes. A loud slam makes me spin around, and I turn to find that she has left. There’s a second door, which probably leads to a bathroom.

Gemini jolts awake. We lock eyes for a heartbeat, and then her face crumples. My shoulders droop, and I blow out a long, tired breath. With Berta in the other room, I might be able to offer her some hope by sharing my plans, but it might be premature. We’re not in the palace, and there’s no guarantee that Gemini won’t try to barter the information to save herself.

Eventually, Berta emerges from the other room, her hair glowing with health. She wears a jumpsuit that’s tight around the chest and shoulders.

My brows draw together. “What’s—”

“They’re going to make us wear this uniform for the trials.” She spreads her arms wide. “These pants are flapping around my shins.”

I glance down at the bottoms of her jumpsuit, which end five inches above her ankles. “Can you tuck them into your boots?”

“It’s not regulation.” She walks over to her side of the room and makes her bed.

I take the pile of clothes on my trunk and walk into the bathroom. It’s four times the size of the one we use at home, covered in glossy tiles, and divided into four shower cubicles. A wide mirror hangs on the wall closest to the door, in front of which sits four benches with a perspex counter.

After placing my new outfit on the table, I undress and stand under the shower, which rains a torrent of warm water onto my head. It’s warm and more powerful than anything I’ve ever experienced.

I tilt my head toward the spray, letting the water pummel my skin. Once a month on a Sunday, each family gets to visit the public baths, where they can shower or take a swim in over-chlorinated water. This shower makes my Sunday treat feel lame.

A heavy fist thumps on the door, and I realize how much time I’ve spent in the water. Guilt creeps across my skin, combined with the shame at having wasted so much of a valuable resource. I step out of the shower, which turns itself off, and quickly get dressed.

When I return to the room, Prunella Broadleaf is standing inside with a pair of assistants. She wears a royal blue two-piece suit consisting of a jacket with similar gold brocade to the one King Arias wore on OasisVision.

“Good morning, ladies,” she says, not looking any of us in the eye.

Nobody replies. I glance at Berta, whose scowl makes me wonder if the scathing comments Prunella made to her onstage cut deep.

“Your actions have earned yourselves special roles in an interim round of the Princess Trials.”

“Isn’t this the palace round?” I ask.

Her gaze darts to me, and the corners of her lips twitch with distaste. “There’ll be an announcement about that later.”

I wrap my arms around my middle and lower myself onto the spare bed. The jumpsuit is form-fitting and makes me feel like a scarecrow that has lost its stuffing. “What’s happening?”

“You three will form the comic relief.” She recounts something similar to Berta’s explanation of Amstraad contests, except her description sounds a little more humiliating. The producers of the show will put me in situations that will incite my anger, they will enhance Berta’s unattractiveness at every opportunity, and Gemini will still die.

By the time Prunella stops speaking, even Berta is pale. I’m beginning to despise Amstraad as much as I hate the Nobles. I save my animosity for Lady Circi, who dredged up my background and for Prunella, who outlines our predicament as though putting two girls through humiliation and one to death is a matter of entertainment.

Prunella’s gaze sharpens as she turns it to Gemini. “Your father will watch highlights of the Princess Trials as part of his punishment. If you do not cooperate, we will broadcast your whipping.”

Less than twenty minutes later, Prunella’s assistants walk us down the stairs to a large dining room. A head table takes center stage on a raised platform with thirteen seats. In the main part of the room are eight round tables.

Closest to the stage are three tables arranged in a row. The two at the front left and right remain unoccupied, as is one at the back of the room. An entourage of assistants, including camerawomen and yesterday’s co-host stand by the far wall.

I pause at the doorway, surveying my surroundings. Every girl wears identical jumpsuits, but it’s not difficult to tell who belongs to which Echelon.

Most of the Nobles have blue-black hair, save for one whose glossy chestnut hair forms gentle waves around her delicate features. They sit elegantly with their elbows off the table but don’t engage in conversation.

Behind them and to the left, the Artisans’ hairstyles are more varied, and they chat amiably among themselves. Next are the Guardians, who sit stiffly in their seats, but they don’t have the same hard-faced expressions as Berta.

At the far end of that row are the Industrials, who sit with stooped postures and dark circles under their eyes. They look the oldest of the Echelons and remind me of plants that have wilted beyond saving. The Harvesters, who sit in the back row, look radiant compared to the girls forced to breathe polluted air.

Berta marches to the empty table at the back of the room and sits. Gemini follows. The smaller girl squares her shoulders and curls her fists. I trail after her, wondering if she’s trying to look brave because the footage forms part of her father’s punishment.

Prunella stands on the podium. “Ladies, please settle for a pre-production announcement.”

“Why aren’t we at the palace?” asks the Noble girl with the chestnut hair.

“There has been a change of plan. Twelve girls from all reaches of the Amstraad Republic will join us for an interim round.”

Berta sucks in a deep breath. Even Gemini leans forward to gape. Angry chatter explodes around the tables as girls protest against the new addition.

I turn to Berta. “Interim round. What does this mean?”

“This won’t be a beauty contest for much longer,” she mutters.

“Why?” I ask.

“There’s one thing I didn’t tell you about Amstraadi contests.” Berta pauses, and her lips tighten with annoyance. “They can get extremely violent. You and I should be fine, though. Those Amstraadi girls will only go after those with the best chance of winning.”

Despite my relief, a tiny piece of me bristles at Berta lumping me in the same category as her. I shake off the petty annoyance and ask, “Why?”

Berta raises her brows. “Do you know how precious their technology is to us?”

Before I can ask another question, one of the girls with blue-black hair from the Noble table shouts, “What’s happening? I didn’t sign up for an Amstraadi contest.”

“Neither did I.” The sole brown-haired Noble stands. She’s tall with a figure as slender as mine, but where I’m awkward, her movements have a flowing, willowy grace.

The other girls on her table grumble. I bite down on my lip. If Prunella gives into their demands to exclude the Amstraadi girls, it might mean getting rid of us. Gemini sniffles at my side. Her only chance of survival is if the revolution happens before her public execution.

“Ladies,” Prunella shouts, clapping her palms together. “Ladies! The matter is out of my hands. Anyone who objects to the interim round may bow out now and forfeit her space to a suitable young lady in her echelon.”

Silence spreads around the dining room, and the Noble girls sit.

Prunella exhales a long breath, and the tenseness in her posture relaxes. After rolling her shoulders, she nods at the co-host from yesterday, who hurries forward with his entourage of camerawomen, and Prunella’s harried expression morphs into an excited smile.

The co-host introduces himself as Byron Blake and asks Prunella about the exciting new development to the Princess Trials.

She beams into the camera. “With all these charming new contestants, it’s time to shake things up!”

My eyes bulge. The Trials haven’t even started yet, and she’s already adding obstacles to my mission.

“What can these young ladies expect?” asks Byron Blake.

“An exciting new trial with an educational twist.” Prunella raises a manicured finger.

I lean forward, hoping she’s talking about a written test, but considering everyone’s reaction about the Princess Trials turning into an Amstraad contest, it’s probably going to be dangerous enough to get Gemini killed.

“When the girls have finished their trials, they’ll attend a ball in honor of the Republic of Amstraad. His Excellency, Ambassador Pascal, will bring thirty of his finest young gentlemen to waltz with our young ladies.”

My brows draw together. How precious could this Amstraadi technology be if they’re allowing this ambassador so much influence over the Princess Trials?

“Fascinating.” Byron rubs his chin. “Then what?”

“Then, the public will decide who will join Prince Kevon in the palace for another round of the Princess Trials!”

My ears perk up. Whatever happens, I’ve got to make the public like me enough to be one of the thirty who reach the palace round. I hope the cameras broadcast this to Rugosa, because the last thing I want Carolina and Ryce to think is that I’ve failed.

Byron gives Prunella a knowing wink. “There’s one more change that will delight our viewers.”

Prunella bounces on the balls of her feet. “His Excellency has agreed to supply Phangloria’s hospitals with a year’s supply of medicines in exchange for giving twelve Amstraadi beauties the chance to compete for the hand of Prince Kevon.”

The assistants around the room applaud. Some of them turn to us and raise their palms in a motion encouraging us to do the same. We all ignore her. If there are thirty places at the palace, adding the twelve Amstraadi means that two or three from each Echelon will have to go home. It’s a massive disappointment considering everything we’ve endured to get here.

“Will our foreign guests join us for the palace round?” asks Byron with far too much enthusiasm.

“Would you like to meet them?” Prunella replies.

He turns to the camera with wide eyes and an exaggerated gasp. “Are they here already?”

“They certainly are.” Prunella beckons at the camera. “Come in, ladies!”

A door behind us opens, and a statuesque girl with ebony skin and bleached blonde curls walks out. She’s wearing the same jumpsuits as us, except she fills hers even better than the Nobles. Behind her is a pale blonde with platinum hair, and behind her is a girl with similar skin but red hair and freckles.

“They’ve brought every color of the rainbow,” mutters Berta.

She’s not joking. The girls represent every possible shade of skin, and two of them resemble Nobles with their blue-black hair. I chew on the inside of my cheek. They must have pre-arranged this surprise entry because it doesn’t seem possible to arrange extra outfits and this interim building overnight.

I drum my fingers on the table, watching the procession of beauties march down the room. The Amstraad Republic is at the far north-west of the continent, four-thousand miles from Phangloria. Even with the best solar vehicles, it would take them nearly a month to travel to us in the south-east.

Behind them walks Lady Circi wearing her usual black catsuit and a scowl more ferocious than her firearms. Somehow, I don’t think she was informed of the new arrangements. I turn around to see if Queen Damascena or Ambassador Pascal will join us, but they are conveniently absent.

The cameras follow the Amstraadi girls, who form a line at the top of the room and smile winningly for the camera. Afterward, they lower themselves into the seats at the front tables.

“Welcome, honored guests,” says Prunella with a tight grin. “Ladies, please stand for the young gentleman who has captured our hearts, Prince Kevon of Phangloria!”

Another set of doors opens, and Garrett walks through, wearing black civilian clothes. His blue-black hair is slicked back, much like how Prince Kevon styled his hair in the clip they showed of him with King Arias.

I suck in a sharp breath. Garrett can’t be the prince. He’s far too annoying.

He holds the door open, and another young man walks in. Everything about him is familiar, except he’s not the Prince Kevon I saw on OasisVision. I have to blink to focus. He has the blue-black hair of a Noble and dark eyes, but his features belong to someone else: Sergeant Silver.

My stomach drops.

Sergeant Silver is Prince Kevon.

He’s the guard who heard me talk about wanting to be with Ryce as he leads the country. He’s also the guard who told me that Prince Kevon was a lucky man to have a committed admirer.

Prince Kevon pauses at the door and surveys the room. For a moment, our eyes meet, and he raises his brows. I drop my gaze and realize I’m the only person in the room not applauding.

As he walks down the side of the room, I clap louder to compensate for my indiscretion. I might be here as entertainment, but I can’t get eliminated in this interim round. Bucking bronco or not, I will have to play my part until I reach the palace and start my mission.

Garrett trails behind Prince Kevon. From the black holsters camouflaged around his outfit, he’s some kind of bodyguard. All that talk about wanting to become a doctor had been horse manure he had dredged up to impress Forelle.

I’m almost glad my friend has returned to Rugosa. At least she’s away from the clutches of yet another guard.

Prince Kevon stands at the podium and gives a welcoming speech. I can’t hear a word of it because my pulse beats like a war drum and muffles everything but the blood roaring through my ears. Of all the underhanded tactics…

A laugh forces its way out of my chest. Why am I being such a hypocrite? I came here to destroy the monarchy, not to marry it. By the time I’m through with these people, romance will be the least of their problems.

CHAPTER 11

A t the end of his speech, Prince Kevon steps down from the podium to another round of applause. The cameras point to the tables, and this time, I force a smile and clap along with the girls.

Even though we have plans in place to topple the monarchy, I’m kicking myself for not noticing Prince Kevon earlier. I’m also kicking myself for all the time I spent ignoring Garrett when I could have gathered valuable information for the Red Runners.

The muscles in my face ache from being so fake, but I stretch my grin wider, hoping it doesn’t look like a pained grimace on camera. My mind skips back to every interaction I had with the supposed guards, but I can’t remember having said anything incriminating.

“He’s nothing special,” says Berta with a huff.

I continue my applause, not reacting to any sort of incitement to treason.

As prince Kevon passes the front tables, the brown-haired Noble rushes out from her seat. Garrett twitches but relaxes and lets her approach. She wraps her arms around his neck and presses her willowy body against his.

The Nobles and the Amstraadi are the first to stop applauding, then the girls in the lower tables cease. What’s left is the awkward hand-clapping of the few assistants around the room who aren’t holding tablets or cameras.

“Who’s that?” I whisper to Berta.

“Rafaela van Eyck.” She nods at the embracing pair. “That actress I was telling you about last night.”

“His girlfriend.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah.” She snorts. “Look at the way he’s clinging onto her. It makes the whole trial a farce, doesn’t it?”

I don’t voice my agreement, even though Berta’s words ring true. I expect annoyed grumbles to spread around the tables, but the girls keep their expressions neutral. Either the presence of the prince or the cameras trained on their faces are keeping them from protesting, but from their earlier reaction to the twelve new contestants, I guess that everyone is bristling on the inside.

Emmera, who sits on the other table in the back row, catches my gaze. Her eyes are hard, and part of me wonders if she’s still sore about her sister not reaching this round.

Prince Kevon releases the hug, cups Rafaela’s face, and says something that makes her lower her gaze to his lips. Then she parts hers, looking like she wants a kiss. I hold my breath, hoping the pair of lovers contain themselves at least until they turn off the cameras.

Someone clears their throat. I tear my gaze away to find Lady Circi striding across the room. As she passes Garrett, she shoots him a hateful glare. I bite down on my lip. Why should he get in trouble for the actions of the prince? She whispers harsh words to Rafaela and gestures toward the front table.

The girl inclines her head and glides back to her seat.

“Talk about staking her claim,” Berta mutters.

Without meaning to, I nod. Everyone in this room with a pair of eyes and a working brain knows that Prince Kevon belongs to Rafaela von Eyck. And from the defeated postures of the standing girls, they feel it, too.

Prince Kevon strolls down the left of the room with Garrett at his side. Both young men appear supremely satisfied with their defiant display. I glance at Lady Circi, whose hands curl into fists. If the object of her fury wasn’t a prince, his action might have earned him a whipping.

Prunella claps her hands together from the stage. “Thank you, Prince Kevon. Each girl has a break to Netface their families while we shoot footage of our new contestants. When you return, you may enjoy a breakfast buffet.”

Berta is already out of her seat before Prunella finishes her sentence. I turn to Gemini, who stares as though seeing me for the first time.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Zea. Zea-Mays Calico from Rugosa.”

She picks up a cup of water. “Corn Flint Corn from Sweet Corn?”

Cringing, I clear my throat at the direct translation of my name. It sounds stupid when spelled out like that. “Yeah. What’s a Netface?”

“Are guards stationed at your family home?” Gemini sips her water.

I flinch. “No.”

“There aren’t any Netface terminals in the Harvester region.”

“How do you know?” I pick up the glass of water in front of me and take a sniff. It’s not like I could smell any of that Free I drank yesterday.

“Netface is only available at the Oasis unless you’re a Guardian with remote access or pay to use one of the public terminals within a hundred-mile radius from here.”

Considering Rugosa is four-hundred miles from the Oasis, I see why she assumes we don’t have the technology. I take an experimental sip from my glass. “Should we go for a walk, then?”

Gemini’s shoulders rise and fall. I stand, waiting to see if she follows. When she stays seated, I down the contents of my glass in a few gulps and walk to the door.

Someone grabs my arm and spins me around. Emmera Hull scowls into my face, her cheeks flushed with misplaced anger. Vitelotte Pyrus and Corrie Barzona from Bos stand at her sides.

“What are you doing here?” she snarls.

I snatch my arm back. “Let go.”

Emmera glances to the left, where two women stand behind the now empty Artisan table with their cameras trained on us. I huff out a breath. They probably remember her from yesterday’s attention-seeking outburst.

Since the Amstraad ambassador placed me here for entertainment, I play along and square my shoulders. “Are you still trying to hog the camera time?”

The corner of Vitelotte’s lips curls into a tiny smile. She steps back out of the camera’s range. Corrie pulls at Emmera’s arm, but the blonde girl bats her away.

“What did you say?” Emmera snarls.

I prod Emmera in the chest. “If you want to start a lizard chase in a cornstalk, I’m ready.” Placing both hands on my hips and hoping I don’t look too much of a villain for the audience, I add, “They might have made me the bronco of this rodeo, but I’ll buck you if you come close.”

She draws back and glances at the camera. One of the assistants rotates her hand in a motion I guess means to keep going, but Emmera’s lips part without sound. A second later, she mirrors my pose. “They should have called you the donkey. You make an ass of yourself all over Rugosa.”

“Really?” I smooth my hair over my shoulder. “You must have been watching me from afar because until we boarded the coach, I never once noticed you.”

Her nostrils flare, and her arm twitches. I raise my chin, waiting for the slap. Instead, she twists, grabs a glass of water and tosses it at my face.

I dodge left, letting the water splash on the ground. “They should make you the copy cat or the hog that just wasted a precious resource.”

Emmera’s eyes widen, and she stares at the empty glass, her face frozen in a rictus of horror. She’s probably thinking the same as me. Everybody who ever worked the fields will look upon her actions with disapproval. She’s just told the whole of Phangloria that Harvesters don’t value water.

“Wonderful!” Bryon Blake rushes toward us. “Keep up the tension for the next few days, and I’m sure the viewers will vote you both into the palace round.”

The other Harvester girls walk out of the room, leaving me alone with Emmera, whose face has turned the color of corn milk.

“Why does she get to compete when she didn’t even make the vote?” she whines.

“Friends in high and foreign places.” He flashes her a grin and heads to the table of Nobles, where a short-haired girl sits with her shoulders shaking with rage.

I don’t wait around for Emmera to finish her tantrum. Instead, I hurry out of the room and follow the other girls down a hallway that leads to a huge lawn.

As I step out, the scent of warm earth mingles with the sweet aroma of grass, reminding me of Herdwick. It’s a town of shepherds, where everyone either grows herbs in huge semi-circular tunnels covered in shaded fabric or tends to sheep or goats. I went there with Dad to buy seeds for his micro gardens.

The grass in this part of the Oasis grows about an inch high, but there are no droppings on the ground to indicate the presence of ruminant animals to keep the growth so trim. Beyond this pristine meadow are shrubs and trees arranged like borders. I continue down a path of stepping stones toward a large tree with a twisting trunk. It rains down branches with tiny mauve flowers.

Footsteps strike the stepping stones. Gemini hurries behind me. “You didn’t have to play up to the cameras like that.”

“I’m the bucking bronco. That’s my job.”

She raises her thin shoulders. “At least you have a way out. Stay quiet and don’t react to anything. Nobody will vote for you, which means going home.”

It’s excellent advice, but I need to get through this round or I’ll fail my mission. A long breath heaves out of my lungs, and we continue walking the grounds in silence. I can understand why she’s advising me to go home.

“Are you a Noble?” I ask.

She shakes her head and stares down at the stones. “Guardian. My father designed Netface.”

Our footsteps thud on the stones as we head toward the tree. If it wasn’t for the explosion of mauve, I would have identified it as a weeping willow. “How does Netface work?”

“It uses similar technology to how you get the government news channel down in Rugosa,” she replies. “But it’s two-way communication, so they can see and hear you while you’re watching them.”

I shake my head. It’s something else they’re keeping from the Harvesters. “What else does it do?”

“Everyone’s Amstraad monitor contains a camera that communicates with the Royal Hospital and the Central Guard. It’s the same with every vehicle.”

My heart sinks, and I think about the guard I poisoned with my darts. We reach the huge tree, and I duck under its pendulous branches. The tree’s thick canopy blocks all but the barest chinks of sunlight and creates a cool respite from the heat. A sweet, floral scent fills my nostrils, and it’s the first time I’ve smelled something so rich and fragrant.

“Why would people agree to be watched?” I lean against the twisted trunk.

“If someone falls ill or has an accident, the monitors send a message with their location as well as images to make them easier to find.”

I bite down on my lip. Carolina has to know about this network of cameras. Her underground monitoring station must have somehow grafted itself onto a similar communication system.

The scent of the flowers become cloying, and we continue to a large, sprawling pond where four-and-a-half-foot-tall birds with hooked, black beaks stand around the banks feeding on something in the shallow water. I want to say they’re flamingos, but they’re a fluorescent green.

Gemini stops walking and frowns at the birds.

“Why do they think your father is a traitor?” I blurt.

She turns to me, her pale eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You’re the first person who didn’t call him that.”

People in Rugosa get arrested for all kinds of reasons, few of which are actually crimes. Guards throw out words like treason, sedition, and subversion, without defining them. Even looking at a guard funny can get a person locked up if the guard is in a bad mood. I rock back and forth on my feet, struggling with how to phrase what I want to say.

I shrug. “It’s hard to accuse someone without any of the facts.”

“They let me visit his cell.” She blinks, releasing the tears, then wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

I believe her. The fading scars on my back are a testament to the unfair punishments. Ten lashes for catapulting stones at a guard harassing an innocent girl. After the second whipping, I made sure that no guard would ever identify me as his attacker.

We walk a wide perimeter around the large birds and stop at a wooden bench, where we both sit. Considering there might be hidden cameras anywhere, I wait to see if Gemini wants to continue speaking.

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and stares at a pair of birds fighting. The birds bend and straighten their S-shaped necks and swipe at each other with curved beaks. If I had to guess, the taller ones fighting are the males, and the smaller birds with shorter and paler plumage necks are female.

“Queen Damascena ordered him to release some footage from an Amstraad monitor,” she whispers. “Now, he’s being punished for the illegal transmission of confidential data.”

“That’s it?”

As she nods, a tear falls down each cheek.

My chest tightens with the unfairness of her situation. “What would have happened if he refused her request?”

“Prison.” She shrugs. “And enough electro-correction to teach him not to refuse the order of a superior.”

The fighting birds take flight, and we gaze into the tranquility of the pond for several minutes. Morning sun caresses our faces, but it lacks the harsh glare from the Harvester region. There’s a humidity in the air that bathes the sinuses, and clouds hang in the sky. The Oasis would be perfect if it wasn’t for the Nobles and those who enforce their rules.

My stomach growls, and I clutch my middle. Breakfast at home is before sunrise, and my body hungers for something other than Smoky water and coffee.

“We’d better head back for breakfast.” I stand, casting the birds splashing in the water a wistful glance.

Gemini nods and follows me through the grounds and back toward the building. It’s just like the one I saw from the window early yesterday morning. Seven stories tall with large windows on a black roof and wider than my entire street in Rugosa. From behind, it’s impossible to tell that it faces a street.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“Barracks for the Royal Navy.” She turns around and points to a royal insignia I don’t recognize. “Most of them have been deployed to deal with the aftermath of the tsunami beyond the mountains.”

My thoughts pause for a second, and I recall a geography lesson about water-based natural disasters that I thought were irrelevant. Although Phangloria borders the sea, nobody lives beyond the Smoky Mountains. A wall cuts through its foothills to keep out feral animals.

We pass a clump of sunflowers with heads too small to produce edible seeds. I ask, “What happened out there?”

Gemini plucks a flowerhead. “That’s what they’re trying to find out.”

A jolt of panic shoots through my heart, and I glance from left to right. If anyone saw her theft… I shake off those thoughts. What on earth could they possibly do to a girl already under a death sentence?

As we approach a hedge, female voices ring through the air. One person shouts a command, and the others follow. It reminds me of training with the Red Runners.

The twelve Amstraadi girls form two lines of six. One of the girls in the middle, a pale red-head, shouts commands, and the girls respond with synchronized replies. They march forward in unison, punch right and hold.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Amstraad is a military society,” Gemini replies. “Everyone is very disciplined.”

I bite down on my lip and watch their next moves. The girls step forward, thrust a knee up at an invisible opponent, twist away and then back with an elbow strike. Their movements are so fast that they slice the air with whipping sounds.

My throat dries. “They’re so…”

“Formidable?” asks Gemini.

“Dangerous.” I exhale a ragged breath. “Are they soldiers?”

“Everyone in the Amstraad Republic works for the army,” she replies. “Even the people who manufacture all the healthcare devices.”

“Right,” I say, but unease settles in my belly like the spores that cause leaf mold on tomato trees.

It still makes no sense to me that the leaders of Phangloria would allow the Amstraad Republic so much influence when they work so hard to suppress the people who grow their food.

The girls make synchronized spins, flying kicks, palm thrusts, filling the air with their shouts. Tension tightens the muscles of my shoulders, and trepidation ties knots through my insides. They move like twelve bodies controlled by a single mind.

“Zea,” says a familiar voice.

Prince Kevon stares down at us. Gemini bobs into a deep curtsey, and I do the same, only without the poise.

“Walk with me,” he says. When I turn to Gemini, he adds, “Alone.”

My pulse quickens. I’m not sure if it’s because of the display of Amstraadi might, my opportunity to turn spy, or because I have the attention of a prince.

“See you later,” I say to Gemini, who nods and turns back to the Amstraadi girls.

A boulder of dread sinks into my stomach, slowing my movements. What on earth does Prince Kevon want to say to me?

CHAPTER 12

P rince Kevon walks in the opposite direction to where Prunella Broadleaf said we should return. I cast the building a final glance and follow the prince. His strides are long, making me jog to catch up. As we pass the end of the hedges, the sounds of the girls’ shouts fade, allowing him to talk, but he remains silent.

I study his profile. Wisps of black hair fall from his face and catch the light, reminding me of clear mornings when it’s still dark and slithers of light poke out from the horizon. It’s a vibrant indigo that darkens into black.

“You shouldn’t associate with a traitor,” he says.

His words snap me from my musings. “She’s innocent. Her father—”

“Gemini Pixel did nothing to report her father’s treachery and should have been loyal to Phangloria—”

“And betray her own father?”

He nods. “Of course.”

Annoyance creeps over my skin and tightens my features. Prince Kevon will never need to worry about divided loyalties. Everything that’s wrong about Phangoria benefits people like him. I preferred him as the blond guard with the bleached hair who didn’t speak.

Folding my arms across my chest, I say, “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Your Highness.”

“You may speak freely in my presence,” he replies.

“What kind of child gets their parents executed?”

His lips tighten. “You fail to understand the seriousness of Leonidas Pixel’s treason.”

My jaw clenches so hard that the muscles on the sides of my face ache. How could he speak so casually about such injustice? Every word that spills from the prince’s lips confirms what we learned in Red Runner meetings. The Nobles and Royals treat people of other Echelons as disposable tools for their selfish means.

It’s an effort to keep the fury out of my voice, but I say, “Jimeno Montana presents only good news to us down in the sticks. I only found out today that there was a tsunami.”

“Beyond the mountains, nine-hundred miles away from where you live, and not a concern for Harvesters.” He shakes his head. “My point is that the nation is watching you consort with the daughter of a traitor. Add your juvenile crimes to the mix, and you look like a rebel.”

I draw in a sharp breath between my teeth, and my shoulders stiffen. Had I been that obvious?

Prince Kevon quickly adds, “I know you’re loyal to Phangloria.” His voice is apologetic, and he fixes me with his dark eyes. With the sun on his back and his thick lashes obscuring my view, it’s hard to tell their color. “Your motives for joining the trials are pure, but no cameras caught your heartfelt words.”

I can’t hold his gaze for long. My insides squirm with the indignity of having a prince think I’m yearning for his pompous ass, so I nod at the health monitor flashing in his ear. “That Amstraad device records everything.”

He clutches it in his fingers. “Tinkering with feeds meant for medical and security purposes is what got Gemini Pixel punished.”

“And a blameless girl faces execution because a man followed orders he couldn’t refuse.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes, but he doesn’t reply.

I inhale a long, ragged breath. What have I done? My mission is to search the palace for secret entrances, not to anger the prince. Part of me is still irritated that he disguised himself as the amiable Sergeant Silver. Even though his hair and eye color have changed, I still think of him as that guard.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

He turns to me and frowns.

“For speaking out of turn,” I murmur. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Please don’t apologize for speaking your mind,” says Prince Kevon. “How am I supposed to get to know you if you treat me like a superior?”

I wonder if that was why he disguised himself as a guard, but I’ve already said enough and don’t want to ruin my chances of reaching the palace. Something about what he says makes a hysterical laugh bubble up to my throat. Prince Kevon is the superior of everyone in this Echelon system apart from his mother and father.

“You find me amusing?” he asks.

I shake my head and bite down on my lip. This is so unlike me. Maybe there’s something in the water.

“Would you care to share the joke, Zea-Mays?” His eyes twinkle.

“Um…” I lick my lips. “Do you promise not to get annoyed?”

He raises a shoulder. “I can’t make any guarantees, but I promise not to have you beheaded.”

My stomach drops. “Can you really—”

“Of course, not,” he says with mock exasperation. At least he no longer wants to know why I was laughing.

We walk alongside a row of tall, conical trees planted so close together that they form a hedge. The breeze carries a menthol scent that fills my nostrils and soothes my frazzled nerves. I can’t repeat yesterday’s outburst. It’s vital to the mission to stay calm, befriend the prince, and progress to the palace round. There might also be other benefits to faking an interest in him.

“You do realize that I don’t have the authority to hand out death sentences,” he says. “The Pixel case is a rarity.”

Something in his voice tells me he believes what he’s saying, and I’m not sure how to respond.

“You disagree?” he asks.

“Things like that are common all over Phangloria,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

I tell him the account that Krim, Forelle, and the others gave of the guard who got stung by a jimson wasp and fell unconscious. Prince Kevon furrows his brows throughout the tale, appearing to disapprove of the guard’s attempt to force himself on a Harvester girl. I don’t name Forelle. If he cared enough, he would look up the report.

“What happened to the guard?” he asks.

“I heard he got taken back to his barracks by a colleague, but later that evening, the guards arrested my supervisor.”

Prince Kevon stops walking. “For what?”

“Letting someone get stung by a wasp.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“So is his arrest,” I say. “You were there when it happened.”

He frowns and massages his temple with his fingertips. “A few Harvesters went into custody that evening. I’ll investigate this situation. Acts of nature are hardly the fault of the supervisor who tends to the field.”

I nod, not yet exhaling a sigh of relief. Prince Kevon might forget or decide not to follow through with his promise.

He offers me his arm. “Someone wishes to see you.”

My nose wrinkles. I doubt that Ryce has petitioned the prince for a clandestine meeting. “Garrett?”

“If you like.”

I only place my hand on the crook of his elbow because it might lead to Krim’s freedom. And there’s the chance of gathering information that will help the revolution.

I glance around for signs of cameras then remember that they could be anywhere—on a lamppost, in a tree, hidden deep within the hedge. There’s no limit to the number of methods they can use to spy.

We walk through a gap in the hedge and into an arched walkway filled with glossy dark-green climbing plants with white bell-shaped flowers. Cameras blink within some of their heads, indicating that we’re passing through some kind of high security.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To the back of the palace grounds.”

My heart skips. It’s not quite the information Carolina seeks. She wants a way to sneak hundreds if not a thousand Red Runners into the palace, but every little bit of intelligence helps.

“Why did you disguise yourself as a guard?” I ask.

He smirks. “Did I?”

“The blond hair, green eyes, the uniform—”

“That was the uniform I wore during my apprenticeship with the Guardians.”

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “You don’t even look the same as you did on OasisVision.”

He nods. “That will be the digital alteration.”

“What?”

When I pause, Prince Kevon also stops. Now that our feet are no longer thudding the ground, I hear tiny whirrs and clicks and buzzes. I glance up to find that one of the flowers has opened, and a small lens reflects my face. Chills creep over my skin, and I snatch my gaze away.

“If everyone in Phangloria knew my face, I would never complete an apprenticeship or travel around anonymously. That will all change once I take the throne.”

I shake my head and continue down the walkway. “It looks like you’ve already chosen the winner,” I mutter. “Why did you even bother to meet us in disguise?”

“Jealous?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Of course not!”

“Only I remember what you said yesterday.”

“That was about someone else.” The words tumble from my lips before I can stop them, and I curl my fingers into a fist to prevent my hand from clapping itself over my mouth.

Prince Kevon’s grin widens. “Sure, it was.” He places a hand on the small of my back. “I won’t embarrass you any longer.”

Every shred of dignity in my body rears up, urging me to insist that I really was talking about Ryce Wintergreen, a man who is twice as honorable as this smirking Royal. Instead, I shake my head and glance away.

Pride almost jeopardized this mission. I will play my part as the entertainment, act the fool, and strike only when I have helped the Red Runners infiltrate the palace.

The walkway leads to a gate with a screen that reminds me of the computer tablets that took our handprints. A light scans our faces, and with a click, the gate swings open.

We step through a gap in the hedge to a rectangular pool built into the landscape, its edges bordered with rocks and reeds and rushes. It smells of wet earth and sweet clover with a hint of wild mint.

A breath catches in my throat. It’s the most beautiful and verdant thing I’ve ever seen.

Weeping willows line the left of the water and conceal a thatched hut. In front of the structure lies a substantial wooden deck with four wooden loungers and four wooden chairs arranged around a small, matching table.

My gaze sweeps across the space, which is large enough to fit a block of houses in Rugosa. The pool stretches about a hundred and fifty feet and at the very far end, stands a house twice the size of our family home.

“What is this place?” I say, my voice breathy with awe.

“A guest house we’ve reserved for the duration of the trials,” he replies. “It’s one of the few that has a wild pool.”

I shake my head, not quite believing anyone would disturb such beautiful surroundings by swimming in them. “Is that safe?”

“The plants keep the water clean and are far better for the body than chlorine.” Prince Kevon chuckles and sweeps his arm up toward the reeds at the pool’s far-right.

He has the gall to tell me about a study Guardian scientists made that linked the chemicals in water to skin, eye, and lung diseases within the Industrial Echelon. This form of natural pool even contains fish, mollusks, and barnacles to keep the water pristine for the Nobles who want an outdoor swim.

I nod and clench my teeth. The Rugosa bathhouse pool always reeks of chlorine and a chemical that turns blue if anyone urinates in the water. When I was little, I used to emerge from the pool with dry skin, brittle hair, and stinging red eyes, thinking it was the price for being able to swim. Now I understand why Carolina warned us against using it.

Trying to keep the bite out of my voice, I say, “It must be nice to bathe in pure water.”

“I’m sure you’ll get an opportunity soon,” he says.

Someone shrieks at the far end of the pool. A laughing couple emerges from the water. The girl throws her arms around the boy, who tosses her into the air, making her squeal. She lands with a big splash and makes a clumsy doggy paddle toward the edge.

“Are you staying here with Garrett?” I ask.

He nods. “For the duration of the interim round.”

I want to ask what he thinks of the recent changes to the Princess Trials, but the girl climbs up a ladder. She is wearing a two-piece swimsuit with a bandeau top that clings to her curves. It looks more like underwear than anything fit for wearing in public. My gaze flicks to the clear sky, and I wonder what the sun is doing to the girl’s skin.

The water darkens her hair to a deep auburn, and as she approaches, I can make out her features.

“Forelle?” I glance at the muscular young man climbing out of the pool, who gives me a jaunty wave. “Garrett.”

“Don’t worry.” Prince Kevon pats my shoulder. “Garrett might be flirtatious, but he won’t take advantage of your friend.”

She rushes at me with her wet body, wraps her arms around my back, and squeezes tight enough to force the air out of my lungs. I hug back, remembering that this was the girl who hauled me away from the guards arresting Krim. Thanks to Forelle’s intervention, I didn’t get myself locked up, and now Prince Kevon knows about our supervisor’s unfair arrest.

Her arms loosen, and I suck in a huge breath. “What are you doing here?”

“Kevon pulled me out of the trials.” She beams and glances at Garrett, who smiles back at her with soft eyes. “I’m staying at this guesthouse for the next few days.”

“Or weeks,” adds Garrett.

I raise my brows. “Kevon?”

Garrett shakes his hair, splattering us all with droplets of water. “There are no titles among friends.”

“I thought you were his bodyguard,” I glance at Prince Kevon.

He grins. “And cousin.”

“The king and my father are brothers,” says Garrett.

“Making you a prince, too?” I ask.

Garrett shakes his head and wraps an arm around Forelle, who turns to him and beams. “Only those in the direct line of succession use their titles. I’m not even a Royal.”

I nod. Garrett is a Noble. I could have guessed that from the color of his hair. But what does he want with Forelle? I thought Nobles only consorted with their own kind.

She grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the pool. “You have to see this guest house!” My wrist cuff squeals, and Forelle snatches her am away. “What’s that?”

“We’ll have to cut the reunion short, ladies.” Prince Kevon places a hand on the small of my back. “Zea is wanted back at the barracks.”

What should be a pleasant stroll in lush, green surroundings is now a mad dash to the barracks. I don’t realize how far we walked until we need to hurry back to the Princess Trials.

As we round a hedge, the tall white building comes into sight. At the back door stands one of the production assistants flanked by a pair of camerawomen.

My stomach flips. “What’s this?”

He huffs a laugh. “An opportunity for a high-drama scene where she reprimands you for being late, I expect. It happens all the time on Amstraad shows.”

Now my insides cringe as I wonder what kind of penalty I will suffer. Prunella Broadleaf already dislikes me for making her look a fool during the auditions. None of the other girls are in the gardens, and it seems like I’m the last to return.

The production assistant rushes forward, but the camerawomen remain at the doors. She’s the one from the stage doors who didn’t give me the doctored water. “Your Highness?”

“It’s my fault that Miss Calico is late,” he says in cool, even tones. “Please ensure that she gets breakfast.”

Inclining her head, she dips into a low curtsey.

Prince Kevon takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. My heart makes a panicked jolt and a rapid breath whizzes through my nostrils.

I don’t want Ryce to see me looking so cozy with the enemy. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He excuses himself and strolls back toward the guesthouse, and a tight fist of worry squeezes my empty stomach. When we reported the guard who beat Mr. Wintergreen to death, the authorities didn’t care to investigate. If anything happens to Forelle…

The assistant places an arm over my shoulders, rushes us to the cameras, and fires questions about my time with the prince. I stutter out something about walking through the grounds because the people at home can’t know that Forelle is staying in a house with a man.

Harvesters don’t talk about premarital relations, and I don’t believe Prince Kevon for a moment that Garrett won’t take advantage of my friend. Border guards take what they want from Harvester girls by force, maybe Nobles use charm. I’ve never heard of an instance of a guard making a Harvester girl his wife, let alone someone from a higher Echelon.

The assistant frowns and lets me back into the dining room, where the girls pick at pieces of sliced fruit. She ushers me into my seat, a moment later, someone hands me a plate of apple slices.

Berta leans into my side and stares at my plate. “Are you going to eat those?”

“Yes.” I pull the plate closer and pick up an apple slice.

“Only you harvester girls are so thin, I thought—”

“If we’re slender, it’s because we work all day in the sun,” I snap.

She huffs a noisy breath. “Touchy.”

“Why don’t you go up for more?” I ask.

“We’re on rations—”

“Why?”

“Broadleaf wants us all looking our best for the ball. We’re on a special beautification diet.”

I scowl at the head table, where Prunella Broadleaf enjoys a bowlful of something more substantial than fruit slices with Byron Blake. Gemini stares down at her plate of orange segments and doesn’t eat. Maybe Berta has enough tact not to demand food from the plate of a condemned girl.

In moments, I’ve finished the fruit, and my stomach rumbles for more. Disgruntled murmurs travel across the room, and I can’t blame the other girls. What should be several days of luxury at the palace has turned into an unknown fate in the empty headquarters of the Navy. While I’m no stranger to hunger, this is the first time I’ve had to watch someone feast while being deliberately starved.

Prunella takes her time over her bowl of breakfast and taps on a screen that she shares with her co-host. I fold my arms across my chest and let my gaze drift to the table of Nobles, where the short-haired girl who I had noticed before leans across and whispers something to Rafaela Van Eyck. The actress rears back, and her pretty features twist into a rictus of rage.

My brows rise. It looks like Dad was right about the conflict between the contestants.

Mom’s voice pipes up in the back of my head. I might be hungry, but at least I don’t have to work in the heat.

“Welcome back,” Prunella says into the camera. “We have a real treat for you viewers, a trial designed to bring out the best in our young hopefuls and educate them on the world beyond the Great Wall.”

I rub my dry throat, hoping Prunella isn’t going to throw us into the desert.

Behind her, a screen displays a slideshow of a barren landscape of jagged rocks and hills. It looks like the desert, except that there’s a lake of boiling red liquid that resembles blood. My throat convulses. This can’t be a real location.

“The Detroit Depression,” Berta growls.

Gemini claps both hands over her face and whimpers.

“What is that?” I whisper.

“Didn’t you pay attention to your Environmental Studies classes?” Berta rolls her eyes. “Never mind.”

“Berta?”

“The most hostile microclimate in the continent?” Her brows rise, as though that should mean something.

I shake my head.

Her nostrils flare, and her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. “Broadleaf is taking us through the Great Wall, through tribes of wild men, out of the desert into the place that terrifies even insane cannibals.”

Cries of horror spread across the room, mirroring exactly what’s going on in my mind. Even the Amstraadi girls share nervous glances. When the slideshow switches to cracked earth where molten lava that bubbles and sparks to the surface, every ounce of moisture leaves my throat, and I clap a hand over my mouth.

What on earth is Prunella Broadleaf thinking?

CHAPTER 13

P runella leads us out of the dining room in single file with camerawomen filming our expressions. The line of girls appears longer than the forty-five sitting around the table and stretches down the long hallway.

Berta marches ahead of me, and Gemini is behind. Even though my heart flutters like the wings of a trapped bird, I pull back my shoulders and raise my head.

I hope that they show this portion of the show on OasisVision, as Carolina and Ryce are probably expecting me to have made progress on finding a secret entrance into the palace.

A lump forms in my throat. If they keep moving us about, it’s going to be impossible for Ryce to find me when he arrives at the Oasis to make a delivery.

“We’re going to die.” Gemini’s whisper makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I turn to find two camerawomen filming her reaction. That’s when I realize that Prunella is probably just trying to make us overreact to get exciting footage for her show. She would get into trouble if anything happened to the Noble girls and Ambassador Pascal’s protégées.

That thought is the only thing that keeps me going while we step out onto the street, where hoards of reporters stand on either side of a walkway lined by armed guards.

“Rafaela,” they all shout.

Up ahead is a stagecoach with blacked-out windows. All the girls board through its front door, except for one.

“Rafaela,” bellows another reporter. “Turn left.”

The brown-haired Noble stands to one side, posing in her jumpsuit for the camera. Beside her is the short-haired Noble, whose name I haven’t yet learned as the reporters haven’t shouted for her. The look on the other girl’s face is sourer than spoiled vinegar.

“Come along.” Byron Blake pats me in the back.

I follow Berta onto the bus, which is blissfully cool and already filled with frightened girls. Only the two rows in front are free, and Berta stretches out in the middle of her double seat, her splayed arms broadcasting her desire to be alone. I take the seat opposite and sit at the window, while Gemini sits at my side.

A cacophony of sounds reaches my ears. They’re mostly complaints about the meager rations, the Amstraadi additions, and not getting a chance to go to the palace. I lean back in my seat, nodding along to the complaints as these changes are endangering my mission.

Rafaela von Eyck and the other girl board the coach. The short-haired Noble takes the seat in front of us, and Rafaela glances at Berta, who shuffles across her seat to the aisle side, further marking her territory. Rafaela glances around for an alternative place, but I’m guessing there are none because her lips tighten, and she sits next to the short-haired girl.

A whistle cuts through the conversation. I raise my head to find Prunella at the front with a small screen dangling from the ceiling on her left. To her right sits Byron Blake at the driver’s seat, wearing a pair of thick goggles I assume will help him see through the blackened window.

Prunella raises both palms and beams. “Alright girls, some of you might think we’re traveling north out of Phangloria, but we’re not.”

Cries of relief fill the stagecoach, and all the tension leaves my body in an outward breath. Gemini collapses forward, resting her head on the seat in front.

Prunella’s grin widens. “We’re taking you to the next best thing.”

I glance at Gemini, whose head remains bowed and resting on the back of the front seat.

“Environmental scientists have studied the Detroit Depression for years to work out a way to neutralize its hostile climate so we can expand the Great Wall to the north.”

The screen beside Prunella shows a map of what’s left of North America after the oceans swallowed up the coast. She explains that the Great Wall of Phangloria stretches two-thousand miles from what used to be the state of New York and crosses west through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, where it travels south to Kansas, Oklahoma, and ends at the Texas coast.

I shake my head from side to side, waiting for her to get to the point. If we’re not going to the Detroit Depression, what could possibly be the next best thing? I can’t see through the blacked-out windows, but the vibrations of the coach floor indicate that we’re going fast.

About an hour later, Gemini reaches down to the refrigerator beneath the armrest and pulls out two bottles of water. She offers me one and opens a bag of something she calls trail mix. Inside are almonds, cashews, dried berries, coconut chips, and chunks of dark chocolate.

“Thanks.” I lean forward to find two empty bottles on Berta’s seat, along with four empty bags of trail mix. Now I know why she wanted to sit alone. “Do you have any ideas where we might be going?”

Gemini nods.

I twist around in my seat. “Where?”

“Not the botanical gardens.” She takes a long sip of water. “The Ministry of the Environment experimentation laboratories.”

“What’s that?” I eat a handful of the trail mix and nearly choke on the punch of flavors. Everything is either coated in salt or honey, and the combination is like a jolt to the tongue.

Gemini tilts her head to the side. “An artificial environment that looks and feels like different places on earth.”

“Okay.” I chew on my mouthful of trail mix, making a note never to eat several items at one time. “Is that dangerous?”

She nods and closes her eyes. Maybe she’s meditating, maybe she’s contemplating her fate, but I turn back to the trail mix and pick out a chunk of dark chocolate. If this place isn’t not real, then it can’t be as bad as she’s implying.

The short-haired girl in front, whose name is Ingrid, snipes at Rafaela van Eyck for wasting everyone’s time. I pick out the salted cashew and memorize the salient points of their arguments. Ingrid’s father is someone important and is on good terms with King Arias, while Rafaela’s mother has never been invited to the palace due to having been born an Artisan.

Gemini dozes at my side, oblivious to the revelations, but she has bigger worries than the goings-on of the Royal court.

Eventually, the stagecoach stops, and Prunella Broadleaf claps her hands. “Let’s go, ladies.”

I grab a fresh bottle of water and another pack of trail mix, then follow the two bickering Nobles to the front of the coach.

The scent of rotten eggs fills my nostrils, and an oppressive heat forces every pore in my body to sweat. This isn’t the dry heat of the Harvester Region, but something far worse. Comparing it to a steam room would suggest the existence of water. Whatever moisture is in this atmosphere comes from something distinctly rotten.

Harsh light stings my eyes and makes me squint as I descend the steps. It can’t be sunlight because I’ve seen countless cloudless days, and even they aren’t as bright as what’s outside. The Nobles in front gasp, as does Gemini, who stands at my back.

When my eyes adjust, the hostile landscape stretches out to what looks like infinity. I’m no painter, and my vocabulary doesn’t encompass enough colors to describe the fluorescent yellow salt crystals that form tiny pyramids across the ground. Steam billows off pastel-green puddles, which might be the source of the sulfurous stench.

Production assistants attach bands to our heads that beep. I touch the warm metal of mine, only for a spark of electricity to snap at my fingers.

“You can’t leave us here,” screeches Ingrid. “I didn’t consent to hostile simulations or out-of-Phangloria excursions.”

I nod along with the Noble, and the other girls voice their noisy protests.

A hundred feet away stands various methods of transportation. A covered jeep that can fit twelve, two topless jeeps, six quad bikes, twelve camels already laden with blue saddlebags, and six zebus, carrying the same bags. Zebus are horned cows with a massive hump used by the deliverers in Bos to transport dairy products to other towns within the Harvester Region.

One of the production assistants guides Berta, Gemini, and me over a wooden pathway to a cordoned-off platform. We’re the only group sectioned off like this, and all the other girls gather to our left and right. Maybe they’re going to ask the girls to throw things at us in revenge for my hurling a tomato at Prunella’s face during the audition.

Prunella spreads her arms wide. “Welcome to your first trial.” She turns to the camera with a solemn expression. “Look around, people. This is what lies beyond the desert, a hostile, toxic wasteland riddled with monsters warped beyond sanity by the evils of pollution.”

I glance at the polluted scenery, not knowing what to believe. The yellows are too vivid to have come from nature, the greens make me wince, and everything apart from the boiling puddles has dried to husks.

“Is this place real?” I whisper.

“We learned about it in Environmental Sciences,” Gemini whispers back.

I note that she doesn’t confirm that the Detroit Depression really exists. This feels like a propaganda message designed to remind the lower Echelons that the Nobles provide us with refuge from something worse than just the desert. Maybe this is why Mom is so grateful to be a Harvester, even if that means constant hunger and hard work. Maybe this is really what’s out there, and we’re lucky to be in Phangloria.

Prunella makes three sharp bursts with her whistle. I shake off those thoughts and focus on the rest of her announcement with the reminder that Harvesters contribute more than we consume.

“This is an exercise in teamwork.” She claps her hands together. “Form groups of six and use any means of transportation to cross the Depression and reach the Mirage, which you’ll find in the north. The first girl to enter the threshold will enjoy dinner or breakfast with Prince Kevon.”

My stomach churns at the implication that we’ll be here all day and possibly the night. All the other girls turn to each other and talk, drowning out Prunella’s words.

“Settle down,” she squawks. “Apart from this meal, there will be no opportunities for one-to-one time with His Highness until the palace round.”

Some of the girls shriek, and my head pounds from the oppressive heat and the impending dehydration. I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Prunella points a gun into the air and shoots a red flare. “Go, go, go!”

The Amstraadi girls sprint toward the largest jeep before Prunella stops speaking, while the Nobles and Guardians rush to the other two jeeps. Meanwhile, Corrie Barzona from Bos leads the Harvesters to the Zebus.

I curl my fingers around the barriers encasing us and want to spit on the ground, but three assistants point cameras at our faces. We’re the entertainment, but this situation looks like it could kill.

A moment later, the girls pile out of the jeeps.

Berta barks out a laugh.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“They’re not authorized.” She claps her hands together and watches the Guardian girls run to the solar bikes and race toward the Mirage. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

I shake my head but can’t stop staring at the mad scramble for transportation. The Amstraadi girls all vacate the covered jeep and rush to the vehicle that the Guardian girls abandoned. One of them starts the engine, and they all roar with triumph.

They split into two teams—one to drive that jeep, and the other to commandeer the vehicle that the Artisan girls can’t get to start. A moment later, they race down the wilderness.

A camera focuses on Berta, who says, “Nobody can drive a vehicle if they don’t have authorization from the onboard computer.” She points at her wrist cuff. “All our information is stored here.”

The Noble girls get the larger jeep working and drive off after the Amstraadi girls.

I shake my head. Not only is this trial rigged, but they’re not even trying to hide their blatant bias toward the Nobles. Why do they get the only covered vehicle? The Industrial and Artisan girls, who didn’t attempt to get a vehicle working, each mount a camel, and the Guardians mount the bikes.

Byron Blake opens the cordon, and I take my first step onto hot ground that crunches beneath my feet.

“How are we supposed to reach the mirage?” I ask.

One of the stagehands emerges from the other side of the coach with a herd of long-bearded goats with oversized horns that point toward the sky. Another assistant drags three backpacks across the yellow ground.

“Good luck, girls.” Byron boards the coach.

Prunella and the camerawomen follow him, then the door hisses shut, and the coach reverses out through what appears to be a black hole in the atmosphere. A swarm of hand-sized drones fly in, each carrying cameras.

“What on earth is that?” I point at the gap.

“The walls are projections,” says Gemini in a monotone. “Everything else, however, is not.”

A white screen lowers itself over the hole and completes the hellish landscape. I turn back to the goats, which wander away in all directions. “Goats aren’t even beasts of burden.”

Berta rushes after the largest one and grabs it by the horn. “They’re supposed to carry our packs, you idiot.”

Irritation flares across my skin, adding to the prickly heat. “Will you stop calling me names?”

Ignoring me, Berta wrestles her pack onto the goat’s back and guides it over the other girls’ tire tracks. She and her goat march off without a word.

I trudge toward the other two backpacks and pull one to the side. Its contents are divided into two compartments that could easily hang on both sides of a goat.

“Nobody should have to carry another’s burden,” says Gemini.

My head throbs, but words shrivel in my throat. What do you say to a girl under a death sentence for a crime she not only didn’t commit but is designed to be a punishment for her father whose skills deem him too valuable to execute? I glance at the only goat who hasn’t galloped into the distance and decide he will suffice.

“Come on, then.” I shoulder on my pack. “Let’s go.”

The goat grazes on a tuft of vegetation, and I place a hand on its warm shoulder. “Easy, now.” I shake off my bag and put it on the goat’s back. “Come with me.”

When it doesn’t move, I wrap a hand around its horn and give it a gentle tug. “Get up.”

“You can’t force it,” says Gemini.

“What if the Mirage is a long walk?”

“Then you’ll waste your time and energy, forcing a goat to carry something against its will.”

The goat pulls against my grip, jerking me forward. I stumble over my feet and land on my hands and knees. “Ouch!”

Intense heat has me scrambling to my feet. Gemini is right. Handling the goat is turning to be way too much effort, and I’m probably providing those drones with comedy footage to entertain the lazy Nobles in their mansions. I release the horn and the goat sprints with my pack toward the horizon.

“Hey!” I rush after him, but Gemini grabs my wrist.

“It won’t stop,” she says. “I think it wore a control collar. By the time whoever is operating it lets you catch up with the goat, you’ll be far from the Mirage.”

A shudder runs down my spine. I wipe my damp hands on the pants of my jumpsuit and try not to ponder if such a collar can also control humans. It’s too hot to mess around, and I walk beside Gemini in the direction Berta headed.

She and the goat are small figures in the distance, and there’s no sign of the girls riding the camels and zebu. I turn to Gemini. “Let’s take turns carrying your pack.”

We continue for what feels like an hour in the heat, never closing the distance between Berta and us. We pass the yellow salt mounds with boiling puddles and travel across rocky hills of varying shades of brown. Gemini explains that the real Detroit Depression used to be a group of freshwater lakes that became submerged by the Atlantic Ocean but dried up over the centuries.

Our footsteps crunch beneath us, and the slicing blades of the drones overhead sound like fans but provide no relief from the heat. As we travel over a field of earth so cracked and baked that it resembles curved platters, neither of us speak or pause unless it’s for sips of the water we took from the stagecoach.

We walk over a hill and toward a large figure that lies face-down on the ground. Drones surround her like mosquitos, only parting when we approach.

“What do you think happened to her?” asks Gemini.

“She’s dehydrated.” I open our shared pack and find a small version of the sunshade Krim erects over the water rations to keep them from evaporating. I set it up over Berta’s prone body and kneel at her side.

“What should I do?” asks Gemini.

“Help me roll her onto her back.”

It’s rare to see someone so far gone, as there’s usually a cactus or a kind Harvester who will give a thirsty person enough to drink to get them to the Dome for medical treatment. I pour drops of water onto Berta’s lips until she becomes conscious enough to take a sip.

Berta’s eyelids flicker, and she rasps out a breath. “Calico?”

“And Gemini,” I reply.

“How long?”

“An hour or more,” I say. “You’ve got to take tiny—” Berta snatches the bottle from my fingers and gulps its contents. “Hey!”

I try to take it back, try to tell her that we don’t have much water left, but she gives me a hard shove, and I land on my tailbone.

“What’s wrong with you?” I snap.

After draining the bottle, Berta exhales a long breath. “Got any more?”

I shoot Gemini a harsh look, silently urging her not to volunteer her water. She takes several steps back and hides the bottle behind her back. My teeth grind so hard that my jaw muscles ache, and I regret having saved the oaf.

Berta reminds me of the guards who swagger around Rugosa, acting like they’re our bosses instead of people sent to do a job. She’s rude, pushy, and mostly thinks of herself.

Hatred takes hold of my heart and expands until it cuts off my air. I dismantle the shade, place it back into the pack, and leave Berta where she sits. It’s only fair since she ditched us the second she secured herself a goat. I walk over to Gemini and place a hand on her shoulder, indicating that we should leave.

“Where are you going?” Berta asks.

“The Mirage, where do you think?” I snap.

Gemini shoots me a concerned glance, and the anger swelling through my insides deflates. I want to tell her that I wasn’t always this hard or abrasive, but it would probably be a lie. For a moment, I forgot about the Echelon system and considered Berta a comrade. She’s nothing of the sort. Gemini might be a Guardian, but she’s suffering the brunt of the corrupt system.

Berta trails after us, her breaths labored. “Don’t walk so fast.”

I glance at Gemini, who slows her steps, meaning I’ve got to do the same.

“Hey,” says Berta. “Sorry I walked off earlier.”

“Why did you do it?” I stare into the distance, where the heat makes the landscape wriggle. “Did you think we were dead weight?”

“Will you stop putting words into my mouth?” Berta snaps, mirroring something I said to her when we first met. Conveniently, she doesn’t supply an answer. She probably ditched us because she thought she had a better chance of survival on her own.

“This is a team-building exercise,” says Gemini in a quiet voice. If we can’t work together—”

Her headband hisses and emits brown gas.

“What was that?” says Berta.

I spin around. Berta is looking at something in the distance. I can’t see what because her large body is in the way, but she turns and sprints past us with a yell.

An ostrich races toward us at an alarming rate, creating clues of dust underfoot.

Panic spears through my heart. “Run!”

Gemini bolts and I sprints alongside her. Mom told me a story about being chased by a savage ostrich in the Barrens and having to stay in a tree the entire night as the creature circled her hiding place. They’re huge, deadly, and relentless with their prey.

Several strides ahead, Berta scrambles up a rocky slope, and I pick up my pace with renewed hope.

“It’s gaining on us!” screams Gemini.

We both scramble up the slope, which has enough footfalls to prevent slipping. I keep my eyes on the rock, not caring if I get blisters on my hands from its heat. Something crumbles underfoot. Gemini groans and slides down the rock face but doesn’t try to climb up.

“What are you doing?” My eyes bulge at the approaching creature. “Take my hand.”

Instead of reaching out to me, Gemini stretches her palms outward and screams.

There are only seconds left before the bird attacks. I crawl down, but a large hand grabs my arm and drags me up the slope.

“Berta,” I growl. “Let go!”

“Don’t be so trucking stupid,” Berta snarls from between clenched teeth. “This is Pixel’s execution.”

As Berta drags me to safety, my mouth opens in a silent scream.

This is no ostrich. No ostrich has a peacock-blue neck with crimson wattles, and no ostrich has a horn on the crown of its head that’s twice as thick as its beak.

The creature towers over Gemini—it’s over six feet in height—and swipes its mighty beak across her face, causing her to fall to the ground with a shriek that rings through my ears.

CHAPTER 14

I ’m half scrambling, half dangling over the rocky slope, trying to get to Gemini with Berta holding me back like I’m under arrest. Gemini’s scream wrenches at my gut.

The giant bird spreads out its broad wings, casting a shadow over Gemini and swipes at her with its beak as she tries to rise. She stumbles up with her forearms raised to shield her face, but the bird rams into Gemini and knocks her down.

“Let go.” I try to wriggle free, but Berta is too strong, too stubborn, too stupidly selfish.

“That’s a great cassowary, you twit,” she snarls.

“It’s killing her!”

“The penalty for harming an endangered species is a bullet through the brain.”

Her words hit me like a punch in the gut. This attack was deliberate. As was the brown gas that came out of her metal headband, as was the appearance of a creature that likely belongs to the Oasis Animal Sanctuary. My entire body goes slack with shock. That gas was probably some kind of pheromone.

Berta still doesn’t loosen her grip. “Now, do you see that this is an execution?

My chest tightens, and tears fill my eyes. Gemini rolls into a tight ball as the cassowary tramples over her, turns, and tramples her again. Dust clouds form around the creature’s feet as it kicks and stomps and pounds Gemini. Four of those infernal drones surround the pair, filming the destruction of an innocent girl.

The sun, or whatever is illuminating this place, brightens. I lurch forward, but Berta’s grip tightens. If I act, I’ll get myself shot and will fail the mission. If I stand here and watch, I’ll provide entertainment to sadistic Nobles and taint my soul.

“Let go of me,” I croak.

“After everything I’ve said, you still want to get yourself killed?” Her breath is hot, angry, as though anything I do might reflect badly on her.

“I need to search Gemini’s backpack.” With as much force as I can muster, I slam my elbow into her gut.

With a grunt, Berta releases her grip. I stumble forward a step, and she holds me steady.

“What’s inside?” she says as though I didn’t just deal her a painful blow.

“Some kind of gun.”

“Calico,” she growls.

It’s not like I’m going to shoot the stupid bird and get myself arrested. Gemini’s screams turn to whimpers, and time is running out.

I shoulder off the backpack and lay it flat on the slope. Several items lie in the way—the pop-up shelter, a reflective foil blanket, and some sort of device that looks like it might inflate. My fingers brush against something hard, plastic, and shaped like a gun. I pull it out.

Berta steps back and raises her hands, her gaze darting to the drone hovering close. “This is not my idea. I wanted to leave the traitor and continue to the Mirage.”

I shake my head and point the gun down the slope. There’s a time for wavering, but it’s not when someone is being trampled to death by an enraged cassowary. My muscles tighten, and I widen my stance. Ryce told me that the first time I fired a gun with live ammunition, there would be a recoil that might knock me backward.

Clenching my teeth and bracing myself for anything, I aim ten feet to the left of the cassowary and squeeze the trigger. Instead of a gunshot, a high-pitched blare pierces my eardrums.

“Cut it off!” Berta doubles over with both hands clapped over her ears. The shrill muffles her voice.

“It won’t stop,” I shout back.

My gaze drops to the bottom of the slope, where Gemini lies motionless on the ground. The cassowary sprints into the distance.

Berta snatches the noisy gun from my fingers and stomps on it with a heavy boot, but that does nothing. As she continues to attack the inanimate object, I rush down the slope, fall onto my behind, and skid my way down to Gemini.

“Hey.” I land beside her on my knees and brush blonde hair off her face. Her tears have already dried into trails of salt that highlight her reddened skin. Although blood seeps through the arms of her slashed jumpsuit, her face is unmarked. I press my fingers to her throat, which pulses with an irregular beat.

“Gemini?”

She doesn’t answer.

My throat thickens. If her bones are broken, and I rolled her to the side, would that make her recovery worse?

The drones that filmed the attack hover down, and a camera whirrs inches from my ear, presumably to get a close up of my face. If this is what they do in Amstraadi shows, it’s no wonder the Ambassador looks like an unfeeling cyborg.

“Gemini?” I repeat, even though the effort is futile.

Berta’s heavy footsteps crunch over the mound as she approaches. She hovers over me with her hands on her hips. “Is she dead?”

“We’ve got to move her in case something else attacks.” I inject as much venom in my voice without sounding treasonous.

“Calico,” she says with a sigh.

“What?” I snap, irritation spreading across my fevered skin. Right now, I wish it was Berta and her big mouth lying here injured instead of Gemini. “If this is about her death sentence—”

“She’s bad news—”

“You’re not her executioner!”

Berta steps back, her mouth slack, and her eyes wide with shock. I don’t know what my words have triggered, but I hope she finally stops thinking about herself.

“Carry her if you want, but don’t turn to me when she’s dead weight.

Berta’s watch has an app that directs us over the hill, and we trudge for what seems like hours in the heat. The sun shines brighter, evaporating all traces of moisture from my mouth, my throat, and even from the surface of my skin. This level of tiredness and dehydration is worse than working a day in the tomato fields without water.

“How big can a simulation be?” I try to keep the whine out of my voice, but the effort is futile.

“As big as the botanical gardens?” Berta croaks.

The series of domes that surround the Oasis? I’m too tired to ask, but I’ve already worked out that we could be here for days if our bodies don’t give out first.

Our surroundings are more desertlike with acres of sun-bleached earth, and the occasional fluorescent-green pool edged with white salt crystals. My dry throat rasps for me to dip my fingers into the water for a taste, but Berta warns me that the saltwater will worsen my dehydration.

My ears ring from the gun, but the clomp of our boots over the grit breaks up the sound. I can’t keep up with Berta’s longer paces, so she slings Gemini on her back.

Later, Gemini’s headband hisses again and releases green gas.

“No,” I groan.

Berta lowers Gemini to the ground. “What the hell was that?”

A dark mass approaches from the sky. Without a word, I drop the backpack and rush toward the girl on the ground. Berta snatches the bag and sprints ahead with a new burst of energy. I hope she’s getting a head start to find something in the backpack, but based on recent events, she’s probably just saving her own hide.

Not wanting to wait, I gather Gemini in my arms and break into a stumbling jog. My steps crumble salt crystals underfoot, but a sound other than the whirr of camera drones fills my ears.

I’ve heard this sound before in documentaries about creatures that used to plague the earth. It’s the rattle and rustle and roar of tiny wings. Wings of creatures supposed to be extinct. The darkness dissipates into thousands of little blots—locusts—only with bodies as long as my hand encased in sand-colored carapaces.

“Shoo!” I wave an arm, but they keep coming.

The lining of my stomach shudders with trepidation. Locusts eat crops and vegetation, but what happens if they land on someone who smells like food?

The giant locusts surround us. Some of them get caught in the mechanism of the drones, causing them to clatter onto the ground. Any cold satisfaction I might feel from their destruction is wiped out by the sensations of stick-like limbs landing on my face.

I scream through gritted teeth. The sound is guttural and vibrates through my insides. A mix of fear and disgust propels me forward, and I grip Gemini tighter and run through the swarm.

Her headband hisses again, and despair washes through my insides. Tears stream down my cheeks as I run, only to evaporate in the heat. They want me to abandon Gemini, to save myself while those wretched locust things either sting or eat her flesh. I lower my head and stumble forward through the swap.

A roaring bellow snaps me out of my trance, and I raise my head to find Berta running toward us brandishing some sort of flame-thrower. A scream tears from my lips, the flying fiends scatter into the sky, and Berta doubles over and pants with exhaustion.

“That was fun,” she mutters. “I haven’t played with one of those in years.”

I want to ask her why she helped us, but I’m too tired to speak.

When she rises, Berta takes Gemini off my back, slings the unconscious girl over her shoulder, and marches ahead. “I’ve found shelter.”

Shelter takes the form of a five-foot-tall hollow in the rock slope. It’s open but shaded from the sun with the air a little more humid than outside. There’s enough space to stretch out my legs if I sit with my back against the rock wall, and the break from the oppressive heat and attacking creatures makes every muscle in my body relax.

Berta props Gemini against the wall, but the smaller girl soon rolls over to my side.

“Thanks for coming back for us.” I murmur as she sits on the far side of the shelter.

“Don’t say that like I’m a heartless monster.”

My shoulders slump. Everything with Berta is either an attack or a defense. I don’t know what her life was like before, but I’m getting the impression she isn’t good at making friends.

“I wasn’t executing Pixel, for your information,” she mutters.

“Alright.” I lean forward to shake the dust and grime out of my hair.

Berta doesn’t say anything for a while, and I’m too busy trying to examine Gemini for injuries to check on the larger girl. These past hours have been horrific, and I don’t know how team-building exercises in hostile conditions can be entertaining.

Even though the locust attacks destroyed the drones, I’m sure the metal bands on our heads contain cameras. The membranes in my throat stick together, and I wish that awful cassowary hadn’t trampled over our last source of water.

“My grandmother was executed,” Berta says.

“What?” My head snaps up.

Berta’s lips thin. “Miranda Swab, a woman who performed surgery on Foundling babies to make them eligible for Genetic Acceptability Tests.”

That’s what Mom had to undergo to qualify to become a Harvester. “I thought all Foundlings could take the test if they wanted.”

“Not if they possess features that make them look less than perfect.”

I tilt my head to the side and picture the jawless man I saw in Carolina’s underground hideout.

Berta rolls her eyes. “A genetically perfect child with the tiniest of defects won’t get a chance. Instead of fixing wrinkles and straightening the noses of her benefactors at the Oasis, Miranda Swab used valuable resources to undermine the very system that makes Phangloria great.”

Her words sound rehearsed, as though she’s said them over and over to separate herself from the actions of her grandmother. I wrap my arms around my bent legs and rest my chin on my knees. “What happened to her?”

“A televised execution by firing squad. It’s now part of the medical ethics curriculum.” Berta shakes her head. “My cousins still get asked about their traitor grandmother, and few want to associate with a tainted name. Mother was a Swab, but she’s lucky to be so pretty.”

My brows draw together as I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“You know what men are like.” Berta raises her brows and gives me a meaningful look.

My tongue darts out to lick my lips. “I don’t have many male friends, and my brothers hardly count.”

“They’ll overlook anything for beauty. That’s how she got someone like Dad.”

“Oh.” Is she telling me this because of the comment I made earlier about her being Gemini’s executioner?

“Don’t look at me like that,” she snaps. “You think that because I’m ugly with a tainted background that I’ve got no future.”

My shoulders slump. “My eyes are open, and I’m looking at you because you’re talking. It’s basic manners.”

“It’s alright for you,” she mutters. “When you get home, everyone will think you’re a hero for being on the Princess Trials, even if it’s as a bucking bronco.”

A hot breath escapes my nostrils. Berta has two sets of conversations running through her mind. The real one and the one she imposes on everyone else. She’s exhausting at the best of times, but I can’t deal with her right now. My eyes flutter closed, and I inhale one deep breath after another until I fall asleep.

A large hand grabs my shoulder and shakes me awake.

It’s dark, and Berta looks refreshed with a smear of chocolate around her thin lips. Every muscle in my body aches, and I feel like I’ve lost even more water just by lying in the shade and breathing.

“What?” I groan.

Her pale eyes sparkle. “I’ve found the Mirage!”

“What?”

“Come on.” She hoists me up by the arm.

My head hits the low wall, and a groan slips from my lips. I glance around the empty shelter. “Where’s—”

“Pixel is safe.”

I’m half asleep, half-desiccated, and my surroundings spin, but somewhere underneath the tiredness and confusion is a suspicion that Berta abandoned us while I was sleeping but has changed her mind. I don’t have the strength to dwell on it because she’s dragging me out of the shelter into the night.

A steel-blue haze makes up the cloudless sky, and a burst of amber light glows from a distant hill, turning its surroundings mauve. I want to say it’s the sun on the horizon, but it spouts like an explosion of lava. The air is significantly cooler, and I don’t feel like the effort of walking would dry me into a husk.

I trail behind Berta, who marches down the slope, at the bottom of which is another hill.

“What’s going on?” I croak.

“One of the other Guardian girls must have abandoned her solar bike,” she says. “By the time I found it, the sun charged it to thirty percent, which was enough to get me to the Mirage.”

“What’s out there?” I ask.

“It’s a barracks with water, a shower, and comfortable beds.” She glances at me over her shoulder and flashes a grin.

That’s when I notice that she’s no longer covered in grime and wears a jumpsuit that fits. It’s also khaki with larger side pockets than the one she complained about in the morning.

“Is that where you spent the night?” I ask.

She stops dead and casts me a venomous glare. “You’re an ungrateful little twit.”

My dry throat convulses. “What—”

Berta points a thick finger between my eyes. “I could have sat on those comfortable seats and finished all those yummy supplies, but I returned for you.”

Something she says doesn’t sit right with me, but I push that aside for now. Gemini’s out there in the dark, and I won’t be able to survive much longer without Berta’s help. “Thank you.”

“That’s more like it.” She marches ahead and pulls something from the side-pocket of her jumpsuit.

The crack of a plastic seal breaking suggests that it’s a drink, and I pick up my pace.

“Is that water?”

She takes several long drags before holding out a bottle a third-full. “Want some?”

“Please.” I take the bottle and take several small sips. It’s lukewarm, but each tiny mouthful seeps into the dry membranes of my mouth, slides down my parched throat, and fills me with a vitality I thought was lost forever. I hum my appreciation at the refreshing drink.

Berta frowns with the kind of glare that suggests I’m selfish, but she drained the last of my water earlier and thanked me with a hard shove. I leave her a mouthful and offer up the bottle, but she shakes her head and pulls another out from another side pocket.

I slip the rest of the water into my own pocket in case Berta hasn’t thought to give any to Gemini.

The walk down the slope feels longer than the mad scramble up when the cassowary had been running toward us. Maybe that’s because the hill had risen so gently over the long walk that I hadn’t even noticed it, not even in my fatigued state. My foot slips over loose rocks, but I right myself before falling onto my behind. Berta snorts at my inelegance.

Our surroundings become brighter with light glowing from behind the distant hills, but there’s no sign of the sun.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

She points further down the slope. “The solar bike is down there. I would have come sooner, but it took all night to charge the battery.”

I’m so grateful for the water sloshing in my pocket that all I can do is nod.

As we walk down the slope, hot droplets fall from the sky. One slides down my face and onto my lips, and I catch it with my tongue. Its sour taste makes me spit.

“Acid rain.” Berta sprints ahead.

I jog behind her with my head down and my mouth clamped shut. Everyone has heard of acid rain. Before the disasters struck, it was only mildly acidic and didn’t kill people right away. In Modern History, they taught us about concentrated sulfur dioxide raining from the sky, but I never knew that such a thing would be possible today in Phangloria.

The drops quicken into a torrent, and it feels like raining season in Rugosa, except no one is dancing with their arms spread and their heads tilted to the sky. Puddles form in the depressions of rock and splash drops of acid onto my boots. Nothing is sizzling yet, but my skin itches.

By the time I reach the solar bike, Berta stands in a hooded cape with an unprotected Gemini on her back. I stagger forward, not believing her selfishness, and rage escapes me in a scream.

Berta stares at me as though I’ve lost my mind, and I shake my head. I should direct my anger at those who put us in this situation and be grateful Berta left the shelter to rescue us.

“Is there another cape?” I ask.

She lifts the seat, rifles through the storage compartment beneath, and pulls out a green cape.

I walk to the solar bike and lower myself on the seat. “Give her here.”

After positioning Gemini in front of me, Berta places the cape over my head, and the garment engulfs the smaller girl and me. This arrangement will crush her between our bodies, but at least she’s no longer being pelted by acid rain.

Berta mounts the solar bike and flicks her head to a sodden track. “Let’s go.”

This is the first time I’ve been on anything other than a pushbike, and the gentle rumble of the solar bike makes my heart thrum. As the night fades, and our surroundings brighten, hot rain batters our bodies. I cling onto Berta, and sweat covers every inch of my skin. Poor Gemini feels as hot as a roasted bird.

We travel alongside a stream that’s so full of sludge that it resembles pea soup and an overturned jeep submerged to the wheels in the water. I exhale a long breath and wonder what on earth happened to the Amstraadi girls. Up ahead, abandoned solar bikes litter the track, and Berta negotiates them with rapid turns. I shake my head, wondering if they also ran out of battery.

The ground dips, and we speed down a slope that feels like it’s crumbling under the bike’s wheels. Clenching my teeth, I grip to Berta’s larger body, hoping I’m not killing poor Gemini.

As the acid rain dwindles to a few stray drops, we round a huge salt mound and approach a dome that appears to be built on water. Its reflection ripples, and steam seems to billow out from beneath the building. Berta cuts off the engine and dismounts. She pulls the cape off our bodies and, without being prompted, carries Gemini through the door.

My entire body slumps forward, and a huge breath gusts out from my lungs. It’s too early to feel relieved. Just as the prize for arriving first is a meal with Prince Kevon, I think there will be a penalty for ending last.

CHAPTER 15

T  he moment I step through the door of the Mirage, blue light shines at me from all directions, accompanied by several blasts of cold air. It chills my wet skin, and I squeak at the memory of another type of sterilizing light I experienced at the start of the Trials.

I’m in a vestibule of some sort with another door straight ahead, secured by a tall panel that scans my body. The cuff on my wrist vibrates, and a shudder runs through my insides. What on earth are they doing to do to me now?

“Zea-Mays Calio, Harvester Echelon, Rugosa,” says a mechanical voice. “Detoxification complete. You have clearance.”

With a click, the door opens, and I step through to the Mirage.

Even though the Mirage is a dome, its interior is a larger version of the room I share with Gemini and Berta. The main space is square with six beds spaced evenly against one wall opposite a living space of four sofas, a table with six chairs, and a kitchenette. I gape at the double perspex doors of what appears to be a refrigerator.

Gemini lies on one of the sofas with an angry rash covering her face and hands, and Berta lounges on another with a giant bag of trail mix.

I rush to a tall refrigerator and pull open the doors. A blast of frigid air engulfs my body, but there’s absolutely nothing on any of the shelves.

“Where’s the water?” I ask.

Something hard and cold hits the side of my head and falls to the ground. I close the refrigerator door and stare at the plastic bottle on the floor. Resisting the urge to say something about throwing precious resources, I pick up the water and perch on the edge of Gemini’s sofa.

Tiny blisters appear on the side of her face, and I hiss through clenched teeth. All that time spent exposed to acid rain must have caused them to flare up. I raise my head and glower at Berta, who stares at a huge screen.

“Why didn’t you wake me when you carried Gemini out of the shelter?” I ask.

She turns to me and raises a thick brow. “You want the knight in shining armor treatment?”

I flinch at her words. Mom’s voice scolds me for being ungrateful, but something about this situation doesn’t add up. She also could have returned for us the moment she discovered the quad bike. It would have saved her the extra trip.

Prunella Broadleaf’s broad face appears onscreen. “Congratulations, stragglers! Now that your entire team has reached the Mirage, you have completed the teamwork trial.”

“Oh.” I dip my head. They wouldn’t allow Berta to return to the barracks until she had collected us all. I wonder what Mom would say about the larger girl’s behavior.

Prunella tells us that a vehicle is on its way, and the screen broadcasts highlights from yesterday’s trial to a comedic saxophone solo.

The first scene is of the Nobles sitting in their spacious covered jeep, enjoying snacks and glasses of sparkling liquid. It cuts to a view of them speeding through the wilderness and launching explosives at the Amstraadi girls in their topless vehicle.

“They were having a party,” mutters Berta.

“Yes.” I raise Gemini’s head onto my lap and crack open the bottle. After pouring some of the water into the cap, I place it between her cracked lips.

Back on the screen, Vitelotte can’t get her zebu to move, and Emmera’s collapses with exhaustion. Corrie Barzona, the milkmaid, coaxes Vitelotte’s zebu with a handful of water, and all the Harvester girls cross the expanse together, sharing bottles of water and trail mix covered in melted chocolate.

Berta snorts. “Your Echelon is boring.”

“At least they’re not attacking others or stabbing them in the back,” I snap.

Most of the other scenes are mundane. The Guardian girls ride through the wilderness on solar bikes with manic grins until one runs out of power and shouts at the others for help. They continue across the expanse until all their bikes fail, then they trek toward the Mirage on foot.

Gemini stares at me through bleary eyes, and I offer her the entire bottle of water.

Berta claps her hands together. “Now that’s teamwork!”

The Artisan girls look like they’re having the most fun on the backs of their camels. They sip from bottles of water, eat endless supplies of snacks from their saddlebags, and point out the scenery, which is only breathtaking from a distance. Even though the Industrial girls have the same items as the Artisans, they seem less impressed with their surroundings and get lost before eventually finding the Mirage.

I take a long drag of water and watch the highlights of our adventure. Berta gets butted in the gut by a goat, which absconds with her backpack, then the rest of the montage focuses on close-ups Gemini getting trampled by the cassowary, besieged by giant locusts, and pelted by acid rain.

The girl whimpers, and tears stream from her cheeks. “I thought being a scapegoat only meant getting an execution.”

Berta rears back with an are-you-stupid kind of frown. “What the hell do you watch in your spare time? The scapegoat’s suffering is part of the foundation of Amstraad humor.”

“And what about the underdog?” I snap.

Her lips tighten. “That person suffers enough from being themselves.”

I glance down at Gemini, who squeezes her eyes shut.

Berta turns from the screen and stares into my eyes. “If the contest is about weight-lifting, then the underdog will be a scrawny guy with a body like a twelve-year-old, who can’t lift as much as the others.”

My brows draw together. “What’s the point of putting them in the contest, then?”

“To show that the other contestants are tough.” When I don’t respond, her face twists into a rictus of rage. “I know what you’re thinking—”

“Actually, I’m looking at what you’re doing onscreen.”

They’re playing a clip of us in the shelter. After I’ve closed my eyes, Berta waves her hand over my face. When she’s sure that I’m asleep, she pulls out a water bottle from the pocket of her jumpsuit. She sneaks out into the wilderness, treks down the hill, and finds the bike.

The camera shows a close-up of her glancing up the hill to where she’s left us, then she snorts and rides off.

The real Berta’s indignant rage fades. “Listen, Calico—”

“Forget it.” I turn back to the screen, which shows a montage of her in the mirage feasting on trail mix, glugging bottles of colored liquid, and watching The Princess Trials until she dozes on the sofa and gets woken by an onscreen Prunella Broadleaf.

I can guess that this is the time she discovers that she can’t complete her trial without us because she punches the sofa and rises from her seat.

“Came back for you, didn’t I?” she mutters.

“Otherwise, you’d be trapped here,” I reply.

Mom would tell me to focus on helping Gemini. Carolina would tell me to stop being surprised that Berta acts in line with her Echelon and to focus on the mission. They’re both right.

I hand the water bottle back to Gemini and tune out Berta’s rambling explanation.

Prunella’s face fills the screen. “Welcome back to the Princess Trials highlights. You’ve missed a lot of exciting events. Would you like to know who won the teamwork trial?”

“No,” I mutter.

The screen cuts to the exterior of the Mirage. It’s still daytime, and the covered jeep races toward the camera. I shake my head. Of course, one of the Nobles would win if supplied with an armed vehicle to sabotage stronger opponents. The jeep skids to a halt and brings up a cloud of dust.

All four doors fly open, and the Nobles pile out, but one girl is clearly in the lead. Ingrid’s pretty face twists with a mix of malice and determination. She runs with a wide-elbowed gait designed to strike at her opponents. The caption, INGRID STRAB, appears beneath her face.

“How much do you want to bet that she’s trained her entire life for the Princess Trials?” says Berta.

I continue watching the screen in silence, too irritated to reply. Ingrid flings the door open, but a girl with ringlets ducks under her arm and reaches the vestibule first. The look on Ingrid’s face is murderous, and she rushes inside and shoulders her fellow Noble to the ground.

As the screen scans Ingrid’s body, her face smoothes out, and she apologizes to the fallen girl. I roll my eyes at the blatant fakery. Seconds later, the door opens, and Ingrid charges into the Mirage with her arms raised in triumph.

Prunella appears back onscreen with a wide grin. “Wasn’t that fun?”

“What happens next?” Berta bellows at the screen. “Where’s the catfight?”

For once, I’m inclined to agree with the larger girl. Prunella announces that Ingrid spent the evening being primped and pampered for her date with Prince Kevon. I relax on the sofa and wait to see where they go.

The screen cuts to a multi-tiered chandelier and zooms out to a room with floor-to-ceiling arched windows set within ivory walls. A pianist in an ivory suit plays an ivory piano, and even the waiters wear ivory. All the tables are empty, save one, and the camera zooms in on the couple.

“How did they get reservations for the Two Seasons?” Berta snorts at the stupidity of her question. “Of course, the Royals get the best of everything.”

I bite down on my lip and glance around the Mirage for hidden cameras, wondering if Berta will be whipped again for seditious words. Nothing happens, and I relax and continue watching the screen.

Ingrid Strab’s blue-black hair is styled into a feathered pixie cut that brings out doe eyes rimmed with dark liner. She has a perfect, upturned nose, rounded cheekbones, and full lips that she’s painted a natural pink. Her one-shouldered dress skims a slightly muscled figure that still retains feminine curves.

“Wow,” I say.

Berta waves her hand. “She didn’t look that good at breakfast.”

I hadn’t paid her much attention except to notice her rivalry with Rafaela van Eyck.

The music obscures what she’s saying, but she leans across the table, chatting animatedly to Prince Kevon. When the camera cuts to the prince, the digital altering on his face fails to hide his boredom.

Berta barks out a laugh. “He can’t stand her.”

“Oh dear.” I feel bad for the girl as she’s blowing her chance to impress Prince Kevon.

“It goes to show that no matter what the king and queen do, he’ll always be loyal to Rafaela.” Berta nods to herself, as though she’s just solved the mysteries of the universe.

I take a swig of water and watch the highlights of an unromantic dinner date. Over time, Ingrid’s smile fades, and she keeps taking sips of a sparkling drink. Prince Kevon’s body is rigid. He maintains a conversation, but there’s no spark between them. Ingrid slumps back in her seat, and Prince Kevon leans forward, his brows creased with concern.

“Ha!” Berta slaps her thigh. “She’s going to drunk-cry.”

The door opens, and a pair of production assistants step inside, holding a bowl containing three apples. “Breakfast!”

On the journey back, one of the assistants doses Gemini with pills that keep her alert and hand her a cream to soothe her rashes. We arrive in time to join the other girls as they finish breakfast, and the production assistants lead us in single file to an even larger room separated into dozens of cubicles.

A shudder runs down my spine as I remember the marquee where medics performed those awful internal exams.

“What the hell is this?” Berta mutters from behind.

I shake my head, not wanting to speculate in case I’m wrong. She was never shortlisted into the marquee round and snuck her way onstage.

Ingrid steps forward, her eyes red-rimmed. “I’m not doing this again. You’ve already gathered data on our purity and ability to conceive.”

A pair of camerawomen stand before her, filming every moment of her protest, while another four record our outraged expressions. I’m beginning to resent the lack of privacy.

“Calm yourselves, ladies.” Prunella Broadleaf makes her grand entrance into the room. “We merely wish to perform beautification procedures. Epilation, exfoliation, and suchlike.”

“Exsanguination, more like,” mutters Berta.

I turn around and meet her pale eyes. “What?”

“Never mind.”

The assistants lead us to the booths, where women in white coats await. Mine is a middle-aged woman with pink hair, who holds up a towel to block a camera and tells me to strip. When I’m naked, she covers me with the towel and passes a red light over every limb. By the time she finishes, my skin feels like I’ve exposed it to the sun all day.

She smoothes on a white lotion that cools and sets on my skin, and then she rips it off my calf. Pinpricks of burning pain detonate beneath my skin, and a sharp breath hisses through my teeth. I jerk up and stare into the lens of a camera.

“Is this your first laser-epil, Miss Calico?” asks the camerawoman.

“What?”

She explains the hair-removal procedure in excruciating detail, but I’m no longer listening. As if the camera encourages a sadistic streak, the beautician moves to my other side and tears off the solid substance now stuck to my leg-hairs.

My face contorts with pain, and nausea swirls around in my empty belly. The camerawoman records my reaction, and I pray to anyone who will listen that this humiliating footage never reaches Ryce.

After removing hair from my eyebrows and upper lip, the beautician uses a whirring device to sand down the hard skin on my feet. It has a multitude of attachments, which she explains to the camera are for removing dead skin. By now, I’m staring at the ceiling with my teeth clenched, not responding to any of the camerawoman’s questions or taunts.

At the end of the session, the beautician covers me with a robe, and I follow another assistant to a room where Gemini and Berta stand on raised platforms wearing flesh-colored bands around their bodies.

“What took you so long?” says Berta.

“Now, now, Miss Ridgeback,” says a voice from the door. Prunella Broadleaf strides into the room. She wears a black suit, presumably to contrast with the beauticians’ white. “You mustn’t make fun of your fellow beast. Our technicians worked hard to remove Miss Calico’s weathered skin and significant body hair.”

I shot her a filthy glare and step on a podium. One of the beauticians steps in front of me and unfastens my rob to slip a large band of latex around my middle. It stretches from beneath my breasts to the top of my pubic bone.

Prunella’s eyes sparkle with challenge, and she places a hand on her hip. “Miss Calico, we’re transforming you from a feral beast into something vaguely resembling a girl. Is ingratitude a common Harvester trait?”

A surge of fury heats my veins. What have the people at the Oasis ever done for Harvesters? I take a deep breath to unleash a barrage of truths, but triumph flashes across her eyes, and I clamp my mouth shut. She wants me to rant at the camera.

My lips tighten, and annoyance fizzles across my skin. Prince Kevon told me I had appeared rebellious during my audition, I won’t give this manipulative social climber the chance to get me thrown out of the Trials.

“I’m proud to support the agriculture of Phangloria. If that means my skin isn’t perfect, it’s a small price to keep everyone fed.” I beam at the camera, hoping that the viewers will see Prunella Broadleaf as the villain.

Prunella’s face morphs into a grimace. She addresses one of the women applying bands over the other girls’ bodies. “Please make sure to wrap plenty of ElastoSculpt over Miss Calico’s significant physical flaws.”

The beautician applies band after band around my torso, which compress my ribs until the contents of my lungs whoosh out in a noisy breath.

“Wha—”

The ElastoSculpt pinches my stomach, cinches my waist, and encases my middle in a constrictor grip that squeezes my pounding heart. I inhale, but the breath only reaches the tops of my lungs. Chills spread across my skin. I grab the beautician’s arm, trying to tell her to take off that last band, but she steps back and stands next to a gloating Prunella.

Sweat dampens my brow, and the tips of my fingers turn numb. I twist from left to right, where Berta and Gemini stare at me with wide eyes. If I don’t get these things off, they’ll crush my insides. My knees weaken, and I step off the podium before I fall, but someone gives me a hard shove in the back, knocking me face-down to the stone floor.

“Interesting.” Prunella rolls me over with the toe of her boot. “Is this Harvester weakness or proof that Foundlings don’t have any place in our society? Even a mannish brute and the daughter of a traitor can tolerate simple underwear.”

As blackness crawls across the edges of my vision, Prunella tells someone to take me upstairs so I can sleep it off over lunch. Rough hands bundle me onto a stretcher and carry me out of the room. A camera lens fills my vision, and someone fires questions at me that I can’t hear through the pounding of my pulse.

A groan slips from my lips. How can I advance to the palace round if I’m not conscious enough to amuse the audience? I’m failing my mission, failing Carolina, and failing Ryce. Most important of all, I’m failing every Harvester and Industrial who suffers to provide a life of luxury and comfort to these ungrateful Nobles.

The camera stays on my face as I’m wheeled into an elevator, which lurches up and turns my stomach. Nausea surges through my gut, and the acidic remains of my half-digested apples spill from the sides of my lips.

I turn my head and fade away.

By the time I awaken, something warm and fuzzy rubs against the side of my face. It feels like a dream, but a scent of familiar feathers and musk fills my nostrils. I open my eyes and meet Sharqi’s unblinking gaze. My head jerks back, and a shocked breath hisses through my teeth.

Satisfied, Sharqi ruffles her lime-green feathers and opens her beak.

There’s something inside her mouth.

CHAPTER 16

I  sit up and stare at the object in Sharqi’s beak. The bird stretches her wings and takes flight, revealing the gray underside of her wings. She tilts her head, and a flattened walnut shell drops in my lap.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

Of course, the bird doesn’t answer. What about her chicks? Two days ago, they were barely ready to take flight. I glance around the room for signs of the overgrown baby birds then shake my head. It’s a wonder that Sharqi infiltrated the barracks by herself. She’s intelligent, but not a prodigy.

I pick up the walnut casing, which cracks under my fingernails like an eggshell. A wafer-thin watch face lies inside, and it’s attached to a transparent strap that feels like wisps of corn silk.

As soon as my fingers touch the blank screen, Ryce’s face appears. My gaze fixes on the dimple on his chin, which I hadn’t fully appreciated until now.

His lips part. “Zea?”

“Ryce!” I whisper. “What’s going on?”

His eyes flutter closed. “I was so worried about you in that place. Congratulations on finding a way out.”

A lump forms in my throat. It looks like Prunella Broadleaf failed to tell the audience at home that we were in a simulation. I want to tell Ryce that I’m fine, but the words die on my tongue. The unfairness of the last trial fills me with bitterness, but I must focus on the mission.

“Zea.” His features turn stern. “We don’t have much time.”

I nod.

“You’ve got to befriend Prince Kevon and have him invite you to the palace.”

“But the public vote—”

“Only applies to Nobles, and they won’t want Harvesters progressing into the next round.” The screen tilts toward his pale eyes.

“What should I do?”

“Whatever is necessary, soldier.” The steel in his voice makes my heart plummet. This is the Ryce Wintergreen, who leads our Red Runner cell, not the young man who wrapped an arm around my waist and hinted at a possible future together. “Is that understood?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

His face disappears from view, and I stare at the blank screen until Sharqi nuzzles my arm with her head.

The watch buzzes, and a message scrolls onscreen:

YOU CAN DO IT. MY LOVE AND ADMIRATION FOR YOU IS DEEPER THAN THE OCEAN. SPEAK TO YOU AFTER DARK. XXXX

My chest lightens, and I exhale a long breath. Ryce was probably pressed for time and needed to be curt, but I still don’t know if he’s in the Oasis or how he trained Sharqi to send messages.

I slip off my boot and slide the phone into its inside pocket. That way, I’ll hear when he calls or messages.

The door opens, and a jolt of alarm shoots through my insides.

Berta stands in the doorway with a bundle of gray fabric under her arm. Her ash-blond hair shines with warmer highlights and is cut in several uneven layers and bangs that sweep across her broad forehead. She wears full makeup with gray eyeshadow and pink lipstick with dark shading on the sides of her nose to make it appear smaller and thinner. The only part about her that hasn’t changed is her size and posture.

She frowns at Sharqi. “What the hell is that bird doing here?”

“Get inside,” I hiss.

Berta steps into the room and closes the door. “Wild birds carry diseases. We need to report it—”

“She’s mine,” I whisper. “Two years ago, I found her lying underneath a giant agave plant with her wing broken. She has stayed with me since.”

Berta folds her arms across her chest. “Don’t tell me you nursed that thing to health and tamed it?”

“It’s not illegal to have a pet,” I snap.

Her eyes soften. “There’s a calico cat I sometimes feed. Its name is Whiskers.”

“Oh.” I exhale a relieved breath. Maybe she won’t report Sharqi’s presence.

“You can’t keep that creature here. It’s probably still radioactive and will trash our genes while we sleep.” She strides across the room and opens a window, letting in warm, grass-scented air. The silk of her gray dress hugs her waist, accentuating her ElastoSculpted figure.

My gaze drops to my open gown, and I grimace at the tight bands holding me around my middle.

“Throw it out, and I won’t order it exterminated,” she says.

I grind my teeth. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”

She throws the fabric onto the foot of the bed. “Put this on. You’re wanted for deportment lessons.”

“Thank you for finding me, Sharqi,” I whisper. “Let’s meet later on the grounds.”

Sharqi stares into my eyes as though looking into my soul. Mom told me once that certain types of birds can form deep bonds with humans. The Red Runners use desert runners to send messages, but maybe Sharqi and I have that same, deep connection. How else would she know where to find me?

I release my friend, and she hops onto the ground and bounds across the room. Berta steps back as though the bird lets out clouds of radioactive dust. In a flurry of wings, Sharqi jumps onto the windowsill, turns her head, and with a nod goodbye, launches herself into the sky.

“Good riddance.” Berta slams the window shut. “Don’t ever bring a wild animal here. Pixel might not care about the long-term effect of contact with those creatures, but I’m not eager to bleed out of every orifice.”

Every instinct wants me to snap back at her, but I hold my tongue. If there are Red Runner operatives close by, I can’t afford to even hint about their presence.

She stands at the door and waves her hands in a shooing motion. “Go on then. Get dressed.”

“Did I miss anything?”

“Lunch.” She rolls her eyes. “And a boring lesson on how to use a knife and fork. Anyone who embarrasses Broadleaf during tonight’s fancy dinner gets half-rations from now until the ball.”

Without bothering to explain the dinner, Berta leaves the room. I go through my entire conversation with Ryce, and my stomach tightens at the implications of doing whatever is necessary to get into the palace.

After washing my face, I slip on the gray dress and gasp as the silk caresses my body. It’s smooth and soft and warms against my skin. I’ve never felt anything so luxurious. Sending a silent word of thanks to the Harvesters in Morus for husbanding the silkworms, I head downstairs, where an assistant ushers me into the large room from before. The booths have gone, and all the girls walk in a circle around a stern-faced woman.

I turn to the assistant. “What’s happening?”

“That’s Mistress Briella Pavane. She’s the foremost dance instructor in Phangloria. She’s going to train you on how to move with elegance and poise.”

We spend the entire day walking around in that circle, performing enough dips and spins and turns to keep me off-balance. At one point, she makes us tap the tips of our toes from side to front in a graceful movement that would only kick up dust in Rugosa.

Everyone from the Industrial and Harvester echelons struggles to keep our backs straight, to move in time with the beat, and a hundred other faults Mistress Pavane points out over the hours. Even Emmera, who is graceful and poised, can’t satisfy Mistress Pavane. Eventually, she allows those who have perfected the routine to leave early to get the first pick of the gowns.

The Amstraadi girls, who mirror the instructor’s movements, are the first allowed to leave. Next to perfect the routine is a pink-haired Artisan girl who I suspect is a professional dancer, and then Rafaela and the short-haired noble girl, followed by some more Artisans.

A muscle in my foot cramps from the repetitive movements, and I stop flouncing about to walk it off.

“You there.” She points at me. “The Foundling.”

I clench my teeth. “What?”

“At least make an effort to participate.” She widens her stance, placing her balled hands on her fists. “You want to impress Prince Kevon, not incite his pity.”

I snarl and continue limping around the room. A camerawoman keeps at my side, recording every wince, and my hands twitch to slap the annoying device out of her hands. I’m sure a little tantrum will excite the viewing public.

Berta gets the brunt of the instructor’s sharp tongue. Each time the older woman refers to her as a donkey, an oaf, or a blundering ape, my sympathy for the larger girl grows. Berta’s shoulders tighten, but she doesn’t snap back at the insults, not even when the instructor says she’s only fit to muck out Foundlings.

By the time Mistress Pavane dismisses me, Berta, and two wheezing Industrial girls as lost causes, the sun has already set, and I can’t believe what walking around in a circle has done to my body. My throat is dry, my stomach concave, and my head won’t stop spinning. Add heatstroke, and this might as well be a day’s work in the fields.

We file out of the room, but a hand lands on my shoulder.

“Miss Calico,” says Mistress Pavane. A camerawoman stands at her side, filming my reaction. Next to me is another of those annoying women, who fixes her camera on the dance instructor.

I pause and wait for a blistering reprimand for lacking grace or not trying hard enough.

“Despite your clumsy demeanor, you would have a chance of succeeding in this round if you participate fully in these trials.”

“But I am—”

“Why are you here at all when you resent the very people giving you a chance to elevate yourself beyond a tomato picker?”

My brows draw together. There’s no point in correcting her that I only weed the tomato fields and haven’t yet progressed to picking the fruit. “I don’t resent anyone.”

She pulls a remote from the pocket of her skirt and points it at the wall screen. The music stops, and her hawkish gaze penetrates mine. “Then I will give you the benefit of the doubt and believe that your features fall in such an unsightly manner.”

Indignation burns through my sinuses, making my skin tighten. What on earth is she talking about? No one has ever complained about my face.

“There it is,” she says, her eyes flashing with triumph. “You act as though these trials are something you must endure to gain a larger prize.”

My mouth drops open. Am I really that obvious? Without the music, there is nothing to cushion the weight of her words. And worst of all, OasisVision might broadcast this reprimand all over Phangloria. I swallow hard and hope Carolina and Ryce can’t listen to the device in my boot. They would hate my lack of discretion.

“At the ball, when Prince Kevon surveys the selection of beauties, who will he be most likely to invite for an evening’s promenade?” She sweeps her arm in a graceful arc and points a toe on the polished stone floor. “The delightful young lady who glows in his presence or the hunched, scowling creature seething with hatred?”

The camerawoman standing over Mistress Pavane’s shoulder steps forward for a close-up of my stricken expression, and I drop my gaze to the floor. What kind of spy shows her true emotions? If I continue like this, I’ll be joining Gemini on the execution block.

“Think about what I have said.” Mistress Pavane gives my shoulder a firm squeeze. “You have everything necessary to catch the eye of His Highness. Everything except the attitude.”

Ryce said to do what it took to get into the palace. Somehow, I’ve got to convince the voting public that I’m interesting enough to keep around. I close my eyes, blow out a long breath, and nod.

“Thank you.” The words come from my heart. “I needed to hear that.”

“Dismissed,” she replies.

One of the camera women remains with Mistress Pavane, presumably to interview her on our performance, while the other guides me out of the room and down the stone hallway to a smaller room. Empty garment rails line three of the walls, and a row of trunks sit along the fourth.

Berta stands on one of six podiums surrounded by a gaggle of seamstresses, who fit her into a silver gown that exposes long, shapely legs at the front with a train at the back that sweeps down to her ankles.

I don’t have time to marvel at her spectacular transformation or the way they have pinned up her hair with silver combs because the head seamstress shrieks that she has run out of gowns and can’t dress me for the royal dinner.

The camerawoman filming Berta turns to capture my reaction, and all I can smell is horse manure. I can’t believe the seamstresses didn’t know there would be forty-five girls. And it’s far too much of a coincidence that Mistress Pavane kept me behind for a talk that lost me a chance to wear an evening gown.

My jaw clenches, and I walk around the room, opening trunk after trunk, only to find them empty. A tight band of trepidation squeezes my chest tighter as I move along the row. The last trunk holds a box of pins, and I’m ready to hurl them into the camera pointed at my face.

Even though Mistress Pavane deliberately held me back, she was right about one thing. I need to show Prince Kevon and the voting public that I’m worth progressing to the next round.

I stare down at my silk dress and inhale a deep, fortifying breath. A reinforced seam runs along the neckline that’s robust enough to pin a few decorative flowers if I can find them. It’s plain compared to Berta’s gown, but it’s far finer than anything I have ever worn.

My throat dries, and I lick my parched lips. Will it be suitable for dinner with the royal family?

After a half-hour jaunt around the garden, I return to the seamstresses with an armful of flowers. They find some mesh fabric and hand-fit a bodice over my gray dress with delicate stitches. When they attach the flowers, it looks like a different dress. A camerawoman informs me of the time, and we walk to the dining room.

I pause at the door and gape. The red carpet wasn’t here at breakfast, and neither were red drapes with gold trim on the windows. Behind the head table stand six gilded chairs upholstered in red velvet, which match the golden goblets and candlesticks.

Instead of pursing my lips with disapproval at the opulent waste, I part my lips and let my face go slack. The camerawoman fires a bunch of questions at me, and I say something about the scene looking like a fairytale.

Around the dining room are tables of twelve instead of tables of six. All are full of girls, except for the one Berta and Gemini share. There’s a spare seat between them, which I guess is for me.

Next to Gemini sit six of the Amstraadi girls, and on Berta’s side sits Ingrid Strab and Rafaela van Eyck. The actress wears a sheer, plum gown with a deep V-neckline that shows off her creamy skin. The garment is encrusted with black jewels, making my flowers look paltry. Her hair is swept to the side, and the barest of makeup enhances her features. While Rafaela looks like a natural beauty, the others appear overdone. Prince Kevon has excellent taste.

The seat next to Rafaela is empty, and I pity the girl who sits next to the actress. She looks more stunning than even the Amstraadi, who the seamstresses have clothed in simple gowns that don’t quite match their colorings.

I take my seat, and Berta leans into my side. “Why the hell are you wearing a bouquet? You stink.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Weren’t you there when they ran out of gowns?”

Snorting, she leans back. “You’re a wimp.”

“What?”

“There was an entire rail of dresses when I first arrived, and they wheeled them into another room after finding one that kind of fitted me. If you had thrown a tantrum like a good bronco, those old ladies would have dressed you properly.”

The Amstraadi girls lean forward and watch my reaction. Of course, they would. Berta, Gemini, and I are the Amstraad equivalent of clowns. My cheeks heat, and I roll the velvet edging of the tablecloth between my fingertips. I don’t need to look up to find that cameras are recording our conversation.

“How was I supposed to know they lied about not having gowns?” I mutter.

“Ladies,” Prunella Broadleaf’s voice rings out from the head table. She wears a strapless, electric-blue dress with two peacock feathers sticking out of its cleavage. The ends of her black hair are blue, as is her lipstick. “Please rise for our honored guests.”

Once everyone has stood, the back door opens.

Lady Circi walks in first, wearing a short black dress and flat shoes with a long, black frock-coat. It’s something she can shrug off in an instant and probably conceals all her guns.

She steps aside to allow Queen Damascena to enter with the Amstraad ambassador. The queen wears a silk gown in warm beige with gold velvet swirls that shimmer in the light of the chandeliers. Tendrils of blonde hair fall from her updo to frame around a diamond-encrusted golden tiara that matches the shape of the crown in the Phangloria emblem with a matching necklace and drop earrings.

Even with platforms on his leather boots, the ambassador stands a head smaller than the queen, but he puffs out his chest and walks alongside the taller woman. Princess Briar walks in next with Montana, who both wear black. Then Garrett enters next with Prince Kevon, and all the girls sigh.

I plaster on a smile, but on the inside, my eyes are rolling like melons down a steep hill. The prince is handsome compared to the ambassador, but thousands of Harvester men are well-built with sun-darkened skin. Some of them even have black hair.

The queen and ambassador take the middle seats, with Lady Circi and Montana on the queen’s side and Princess Briar next to the ambassador.

“Good evening, ladies,” says Montana from one end of the head table. “King Arias sends his apologies for not being with us. He is investigating the disturbance across the mountains with the Royal Navy.”

My brows rise. I always thought the Royals just ruled from the Oasis.

There’s a free seat next to the princess, and Prunella steps forward to take it, but Garrett appears from the other side and sits next to his cousin. The vindictive part of me cheers at her failed attempt at social climbing. I lean forward, waiting to see what she will do next.

“May I take this seat?” says a deep voice that catches my attention.

Prince Kevon’s hands rest on the empty seat between Rafaela von Eyck and a red-haired Amstraadi girl with cute freckles.

“I’ve been keeping it warm for you,” says Rafaela.

Up at the head table, Queen Damascena and Lady Circi share similar scowls. I wonder if Prince Kevon was supposed to sit next to his sister.

“Your Highness,” says the Amstraadi girl sitting next to him. “It is an honor to meet you.” She introduces herself as Sabre and then tells him the names of each of the other six from her nation.

As the second Amstraadi girl makes a long introduction, people wearing tailored burgundy vests with matching bow-ties serve bowls of dark broth with caramelized onions and melted cheese. The scent of warm beef fills my nostrils and makes my stomach rumble, but nobody eats.

Ingrid Strab hardens her eyes. Her lips twitch as though she wants to bring up her disastrous date from the night before or tell the Amstraadi girls to stop hogging the prince’s attention.

She casts nervous glances at the camera pointed at her face, and I wish we had gotten a chance to see how things ended with her and Prince Kevon. Even though my stomach feels as though it’s digesting itself, I smile politely at the camera aimed at me.

When the last Amstraadi girl finishes talking, Prince Kevon inclines his head. “Thank you for the charming introductions.”

Rafaela grins. “You know the rest of us from watching the auditions, so why don’t we eat?” She winks at me from across the table. “I’m sure some of us are eager to start on that French onion soup.”

Prince Kevon and Rafaela share a fond glance and a chuckle but still don’t eat.

“You certainly know the prince along with many of your other co-stars,” says Ingrid. “Last week, there were pictures of you getting close to Blake Langdon, Cliff Hanson, and Grant Leonard.”

Rafaela’s smile falters. “You know better than to believe the gossip rags, Ingrid.”

Berta snorts a laugh, but I’m too hungry to care about the storm brewing at the dinner table. Everyone around us in the room is eating. The clink of silverware rings through my ears, and the scent of cooked meat taunts my nostrils. Saliva fills my mouth, but I can’t yet fill my belly.

Prince Kevon says something in Rafaela’s defense, but the words glide over my consciousness the way water rolls on dry and tightly-packed earth.

Before I can help myself, the words tumble from my lips. “The cooks have prepared such a lovely meal. Why don’t we enjoy it while it’s still hot?”

The prince’s eyes soften, and he looks at me like I’m a starved puppy. “Of course.” He picks up his soup spoon. “We thank Gaia for the wonderful food, but also remember the talented Artisans who prepared it.”

With the first spoonful, a riot of flavors explodes in my mouth. It’s sweet and rich and meaty with a hint of alcohol. The onions are so soft that they disintegrate on my tongue, and the cheese is better than anything made from goat’s milk.

Sublime is too weak a word to describe the soup, and a pang of regret strikes my heart. I wish Mom, Dad, the twins, and Ryce were here to enjoy such a sumptuous treat.

Just as I place a second spoonful in my mouth, Sabre says, “We should also thank the wonderful Harvester folk for growing these ingredients, yes?”

Prince Kevon pauses, and his cheeks darken. “Of course. Every Echelon contributes to Phangloria’s prosperity.”

I glance down into my soup, wondering why it took an Amstraadi and not me to point out Prince Kevon’s oversight. Was one taste of luxury enough to make me forget our struggles?

Sabre turns to me with a sharp smile. “You are the Harvester who ranted about the Echelon system, yes?”

Everybody turns to look at me. I want to hiss like an angry cat at the girl for bringing up my embarrassing performance in the audition, to tell her that I had been drugged, but she’s probably baiting me to lash out like a bucking bronco.

When I don’t respond, she says, “How does it feel to know that the food you grew is unappreciated?”

A bout of irritation sizzles across my skin. “That’s an interesting comment,” I said. “What makes you say that?”

Her grin widens, and the other Amstraadi girls to her left smirk. “Wasn’t it a subject you brought up during your audition?”

“When someone threw a tomato at me?” I said. “Food isn’t a weapon.”

“Ladies, let’s not talk politics at the dinner table,” says Prince Kevon. “I get enough of that with my father’s daily briefings with the Prime Minister.”

The Noble and Amstraadi girls chuckle, but Berta, Gemini, and I remain silent. Rafaela changes the subject to an upcoming festival, while Ingrid buts in with interruptions. The Noble girls exchange hateful stares and continue to compete for his attention.

If I had joined the Princess Trials for a chance with the prince, I would be annoyed with Ingrid and Rafael.

“Gemini.” Sabre gathers some broth on her soup spoon. “How do you feel about being paraded in front of the entire nation as a scapegoat?”

“She looks more like a sacrificial lamb to me,” mutters a mahogany-skinned girl on Sabre’s left.

I slip my hand under the table and wrap it around the smaller girl’s clenched fist. It’s my silent encouragement not to give these other girls the satisfaction of crumbling.

Sabre shoots me a pointed look. “I think a person should be executed for their own crimes, not the crimes of others. What do you think?”

“I don’t believe in executions at all.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

The Amstraadi girls try to drag me into a discussion of Phangloria’s death penalty policies, but I deflect their attempts to place words of sedition in my mouth. Berta mutters a few words in my defense, but the girls ignore her. Maybe that’s what everyone is supposed to treat the underdog.

Maybe riling up the bronco is a common game tactic, but they won’t stop coming at me with loaded questions. On the other side of the table, Prince Kevon is trying to stop Ingrid and Rafaela from coming to blows.

“Phangloria is a wonderful country,” I snap.

“But you don’t agree with the way it’s run,” says Sabre. “The Foundling Echelon, for example—”

“They’re not technically Echelons,” I say.

Prince Kevon breaks away from the bickering Nobles and addresses Sabre. “If you have any ideas for improving Phangloria, I would love to hear them.”

She points at me. “I thought Zea-Mays Popcorn was a Foundling—”

“I’m a Harvester.” I ignore the stupid taunt about my name.

“Ladies.” Prince Kevon folds his napkin and places it on the bowl. “I will not tolerate this petty bickering. If you cannot comport yourselves with dignity and grace, I will have you removed from the Trials.”

My lips tighten, and I turn to Sabre, whose freckles now stand out against her paling face.

“Zea,” says the prince. “In your rehearsal, you mentioned that your mother spent her childhood in the Barrens. Would you care to discuss the matter with me over a walk?”

CHAPTER 17

T  he girls around the table fall silent as Prince Kevon pulls back his chair and stands. Sabre casts a worried look at the head table, where the Amstraad ambassador tilts his head toward the queen but fixes his gaze on us.

A moment later, the entire dining room falls silent. A sea of faces—from the other contestants, the staff, and the camerawomen—turn in our direction. I’m certain that our bickering will feature heavily in tonight and tomorrow’s televised highlights of the Princess Trials.

As Prince Kevon walks toward me around the table, Lady Circi and Garrett rise from their seats, looking like they want to intervene.

Prince Kevon holds out a hand. “Stay. Enjoy your meal. I’m not going far.”

He offers me his hand. “Walk with me.”

Excitement skitters up my spine. Prunella warned us that the first trial was our last opportunity until the palace round to see Prince Kevon alone, yet he chose me for an impromptu one-to-one. With Lady Circi and Queen Damascena busy entertaining the ambassador, I might just get a chance to visit the palace.

Ryce’s words rattle through my skull, and my cheeks heat. How on earth is a girl who has never so much as kissed a boy supposed to coax a prince into an invitation to his home?

Inhaling a deep breath, I force down my blush. The Red Runners taught us basic combat, not advanced seduction.

My hand slips into his, and I let him guide me up from my seat. The action feels like something from another world, where the girls who guards use and discard like trash are considered ladies worthy of deference by princes.

We walk through the dining room with every head turning in our direction. No chatter or click of spoons on china muffles our footsteps, and my heart clatters faster than an escaping lizard.

One of the servers in burgundy vests opens the door with a deep bow, and we step out into the hallway.

“I’m sorry about those ladies,” he says.

My head tilts to the side. “You didn’t encourage them.”

“It’s my fault they turned so aggressive. If I had—”

The door behind us opens, and Garrett steps out, followed by two camerawomen. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Prince Kevon shakes his head. “Keep Briar company.”

Garrett pauses, as though wanting to argue. I glance at the camerawomen who stand at a respectful distance filming Garrett from the back. He shakes off whatever he was about to say and opens the dining room door again. “Enjoy the fresh air.”

He steps back into the room, but the women don’t follow. Prince Kevon huffs out a breath. “I will return Miss Calico before the end of the evening. For now, I wish to spend some time alone.”

They step inside the dining room without a word, and a layer of tension melts from my shoulders. It’s stupid that I’m more worried about what thousands of people I’ve never met think of me when the prince at my side might have the power to order my execution.

Now that we’re alone, I slide my hand away from his, making him frown. After Ryce’s message of love, the last thing I want is to encourage any kind of physical affection.

Prince Kevon nods, and we walk down the hallway to a set of doors. “Forelle says you wanted to see the botanical gardens.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Was the prince asking questions about me, or did my friend volunteer that information? “Where is she today?”

“Garrett’s sister is taking her to the ice rink.” At my blank look, he explains that it’s a winter biosphere set within the botanical gardens. “The domes are open. Would you like to see them?”

My mind races for ways to ask him to take me to the palace, but my empty stomach takes control. “Only if there’s something to eat.

I’m kicking myself as Prince Kevon grins and leads me down a stairwell to another underground space with a mass of vehicles. He stops at a sleek, silver car on a charging pad with a flat roof of solar panels that stretch down to its hood. It looks like something out of an old documentary but far more streamlined.

Prince Kevon opens the passenger door, releasing a blast of cold, polish-scented air. I slide inside to find that its interior consists of enough leather to provide protective footwear for every family on my street. I have to hold back a gasp at the waste.

He gets into the driver’s side and places his fingertips on a screen in the steering wheel that scans his prints. The car makes a low hum and welcomes him by name. I shake my head. Technology like this is beyond the imagination of any Harvester.

“Montana never shows us cars like this,” I say.

“It’s hardly an appropriate subject for the government channel,” he replies with a smile.

I can’t comment because Carolina’s voice keeps screaming at me to ask Prince Kevon to see the palace, and a shudder runs through my insides. What if he misinterprets my request and takes me to his bedroom? Nausea wriggles down my throat as realization hits that this might be what Ryce suggested.

“When will I get to see the palace?” I blurt.

“I think Prunella has one more trial planned before the ball.” He turns to me with a dazzling smile. “Would you like a tour?”

“Yes!”

“There’s always a floorshow of professional dancers at the ball performing a rendition of an ancient routine. That might be our best opportunity to sneak out.”

My lips part to let out a shocked breath. I want to go to the palace now, not later, but how can I say that without sounding forward?

Prince Kevon turns to the dashboard, and the tension in my shoulders and gut dissolves with relief. I don’t need to visit the palace tonight.

The car drives itself and takes us out of the building, down a tree-lined street through the city, and onto a familiar-looking highway. As we descend down and around a hill, a view of glowing interconnected domes appears through the windscreen.

From a distance, I can tell that they consist of patterns of five hexagonal frames set around a pentagon. It’s even more magical in the dark than during the day, as the structures form a circle around the entire Oasis.

“Can anyone in Phangloria visit the domes?” I ask.

He gives me a kind smile. “If you want to invite your family, I can arrange a permit.”

That had been a stupid question. We’re not even allowed out of the Harvester Region without the relevant permission. Harvesters and Industrials make up seventy-five percent of Phangloria, and the Nobles only account for one percent. After spending time in the Oasis, I understand that sharing with us will dilute their wealth.

Even though the word sticks in my throat, I manage to say, “Thanks.”

I stare out into the lamp-lit highway toward the botanical gardens. Prince Kevon explains that each cluster of domes contains plants and environmental controls that mimic the climates that used to exist on earth before nuclear weapons set off a chain of natural disasters that destroyed our planet.

My breaths turn shallow, and I have to contain the excitement that thrums through my insides. This is like the time when I was so engrossed in the French onion soup that I hadn’t noticed Prince Kevon not expressing his appreciation for the Harvesters who grew the ingredients.

I turn away from the arresting sight and stare at his profile. “Did you get a chance to investigate my supervisor’s wrongful arrest?”

“It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about,” he replies.

I long to know which other subjects he wants to raise, but ask, “What did you find out?”

“Someone reported your former supervisor for the production and dissemination of persimmon-based alcohol. He would have gotten arrested regardless of whether that guard got stung.”

A shocked breath huffs out of my lungs. That makes no sense. “Krim wouldn’t—”

“I looked into the file and found images taken of a still he kept in his basement. Mr. Krim knew the penalty, yet he decided to take the risk.”

I dip my head and frown. Alcohol is good enough when Montana sends out crates of vodka to the town that produces the highest output. When Harvesters try to make something similar for themselves, they disappear.

Up close, the botanical gardens are even more majestic. When I saw their exterior days ago, I had been tired, hungry, and unable to pay it the attention it deserved. Now, I’m alert and can’t stop thinking about what I will find inside.

He parks the car outside a much smaller dome, walks around and opens the door, letting in the heat. “My favorite set of domes are of the tropical biosphere. Garrett and I have a treehouse hidden on one of the higher levels. Would you like to visit it?”

“Sure.”

He helps me out of the car and stands at the smaller dome, where a panel scans his entire palm.

The smaller dome is about as tall as a three-story building, but I have to tilt my head up and lean back to take in the scale of the larger dome.

“How tall are the botanical gardens?” I ask.

“Two-hundred-and-twenty feet, although we’re rebuilding a section of domes to accommodate our giant redwoods.”

One of the hexagonal panels swings open, and Prince Kevon ushers me into an indoor facility with rows and rows of little plants growing in pots, each supplied with similar drip irrigation used for the tomatoes in Rugosa.

We walk down a path and approach a tall arch that leads to the next dome, and the air becomes warmer and more humid. It’s just like the public bathhouse showers.

I fan myself, but the effort does nothing to stop tiny beads of sweat from forming on my brow. “Do rainforests really feel like this?”

“According to research, there should be more heat and rain, but our scientists have created a suitable growing climate for the tropical plants that also keeps the visitors comfortable.”

We step through the arch, and everything hits me at once—the scent of over-ripe fruit, the roar of running water, and the wet heat. The dome’s hexagonal structures provide enough illumination to differentiate the rainforest’s varying shades of green.

I turn in a circle, taking in the lush canopy of assorted trees with vines hanging down from their branches, ferns as tall as seven feet, and huge banana plants with long clusters of fruit.

“It’s so wild.” I mean to say beautiful, but that’s the word that comes out. Even though man has created this environment, there are no straight lines or geometric shapes, just abundant, wonderful chaos.

I shouldn’t be so awed considering the ordeal I suffered the day before in another artificial environment, but I can’t help it. This rainforest looks like something created by Gaia herself.

“The architects of this place tried to mimic what they found in books and media about earth’s rainforests.” Prince Kevon takes my hand and guides me through the thick growth of leafy plants.

My feet sink into the ground more moist and spongy than the tomato beds, and joy bursts through my heart. The only thing stopping this moment from being perfect is that I’m not with Ryce.

“Which Echelons built this place?” I ask.

He turns around and smiles. “These biodomes were built in a different time.”

“What?”

“Did you know that Phangloria originally started as a commune of like-minded individuals seventeen years before the first bomb fell?”

“They teach us in history class,” I reply.

According to the legend, Gaia directed her prophet, Gabriel Phan, to gather followers and build a self-sustainable commune outside what used to be Athens, Tennessee.

They called themselves the Phan Family, campaigned against nuclear bombs. When war broke out, they created an underground nuclear bunker with decades of supplies. As the bombs landed in all the major cities, the family survived years of nuclear winter under the direction of their leader.

Prince Kevon nods. “When the Phans emerged from their bunker, they lived in biodomes like this, except that most of them grew food and looked much like the Harvester Region.”

We walk alongside a huge pond with round lily pads the size of wagon wheels and toward a cascade of water that falls from what appears to be a hill. The rainforest biome doesn’t just contain plants, it’s a living, three-dimensional atmosphere.

Prince Kevon takes me up the hill, and across a hanging bridge of rope and planks. There’s a perfect view of the lily pond and at least a hundred-foot drop. The structure sways underfoot, and it’s hard to concentrate as he explains how the family built the first few domes by themselves.

Now I understand why so many domes exist in Phangloria—it was the structures that kept the founders alive during the first few decades after the nuclear disasters. Eventually, we reach firm ground and stop at a thick baobab tree whose trunk has been carved into a circular staircase.

When we reach its apex, there’s a wooden hut hidden within its leafy branches. Prince Kevon places his hand on a panel on the door, and it clicks open. Light streams out from a wall of windows with cushioned ledges and illuminates a table with domed plates and a bottle in a bucket of ice.

Prince Kevon explains that he ordered our dinner in the car via Netface, but the scent of roasted meat hits my nostrils, and my stomach grumbles.

As we eat the most sumptuous steaks and watercress sandwiches, I ask, “Were the first domes as large as this one?”

He shakes his head and finishes his mouthful. “About thirty feet high and eighty feet wide. The Phans extended the domes until they formed a circle of structures around a water source.”

A jolt of adrenaline shoots through my heart. “There’s water close to this part of the Oasis?”

Something flashes across his face so quickly that I almost miss it, but the expression reminds me of times when someone has blurted something they shouldn’t have mentioned. I lean forward, eager for his answer, but Prince Kevon smooths out his features.

“We pipe it from the Smoky Mountains.” His answer sounds too practiced to be anything but a lie.

There’s no point in pressing for more while he’s guarded about having blurted sensitive information about a hidden source of water. Water rationing is how they control Harvesters, and he’s hardly going to elaborate, but now might be the time to ask about something else.

“Is there anything you can do to help Krim?”

“You realize that the evidence against him is irrefutable?” Prince Kevon takes my hand. “Even if he didn’t operate the distillery, the equipment and vats of alcohol we found in his home are enough to warrant severe punishment.”

“Why is it alright for Harvesters to receive alcohol from the Oasis when we can’t make it ourselves?” I ask.

He launches into an explanation about food safety, and I shake my head. The laws against alcohol production are about only one thing. Control. It’s the same with the water. If we had an additional supply other than rainwater, we wouldn’t be so dependent on the Nobles and wouldn’t have to work so hard for them to stay alive.

“Zea.” The pad of his thumb glides over my knuckles. “Princes don’t have the power to pardon. Even if I did, I would reserve that for deserving cases like Gemini Pixel.”

My eyes narrow. “You said before that she should have reported her father. What’s made you change your mind?”

“I looked into her file and read the particulars.” The prince sips from his glass of flavored water. “Leonidas Pixel made the wrong choice in a difficult dilemma. The punishment for that should never be death.”

Every muscle in my body tenses, and heat flushes through my veins. A prickling sensation spreads across my skin, and now this treehouse isn’t so charming. Its walls inch closer with each passing second that I’m in the company of this selfish, sheltered prince, and I need fresh air.

“That’s all?” My voice quakes. “He made the wrong choice?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re just going to sigh about Gemini’s execution and say you disagree?”

His brows draw together, and he stares at me as though I’ve just asked him to fish for salmon in the Detroit Depression. Prince Kevon’s confusion only inflames my fury.

“You’re the Prince of Phangloria, the heir to the throne,” I say between clenched teeth. “Can’t you speak to your parents on their behalf?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How?” I snap.

My heart pumps at double speed, and my blood sizzles. A little voice in the back of my head warns me to watch myself. I wouldn’t speak so harshly to a border guard and shouldn’t use that tone against a prince. But I’m past the point of caution because his attitude confirms everything I’ve learned in the Red Runners about the higher Echelons.

“Phangloria is a delicate ecosystem of humans, plants, and animals set within wild and dangerous surroundings,” he says.

My knee bounces up and down, my hands clench into fists, and I wait for him to get to the point.

He leans forward and tries to make eye contact, but I snatch my gaze away.

“The survivors permitted into Phangloria agreed to follow our rules,” he says. “Rules to ensure the long-term prosperity of all.”

“I…” The words die in my throat. I rise and turn toward the door. Will ranting at Prince Kevon fix anything?

“You can always speak freely with me, Zea.”

“I can’t see how these rules benefit anyone but those who set them.”

A moment later, he’s behind me and places a hand on my shoulder, as though that might convey some kind of truth in his words. “History tells us that each time we’ve relaxed the rules, it has backfired to the detriment of Phangloria.”

My throat thickens, and my eyes sting. I don’t know Gemini or her father, but his refusal to even consider helping them hurts. “How does killing Gemini solve anything?”

“It’s cruel, but no one is exempt from our laws. Not even those essential to the running of our country.” He walks around me so we’re standing face to face and wraps his arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

When Dad hugs me, it’s like a soothing blanket that takes away all hurt, and his warm, earthy scent takes me back to being cradled in his strong arms. I’m sure it will feel even better when Ryce pulls me into a loving embrace.

Right now, my skin is already irritated, and the oppressive humidity weighs on every nerve. Prince Kevon feels like the restraints on a whipping post, and his scent is unlike that of any Harvester. It’s a mix of blossoms and musk and warm spice—scents that don’t belong together in nature but somehow fit. It’s powerful, mysterious, beguiling, and I have to escape.

“Don’t.” I pull out of his embrace.

A crease forms in his brow. “Zea.”

Jerking my head away, I long to spit the foul taste in the back of my throat. I don’t know why he thinks we have a connection. Apart from a few civil conversations and whatever is going on between Forelle and Garrett, we’re on opposite sides of an unspoken war.

“I’d like to return to the barracks, please.” My gaze fixes on the wooden floor. Right now, I can’t bear to look at the young man who represents everything I despise about Phangloria.

Prince Kevon doesn’t reply. The longer he remains silent, the more I wonder what he thinks of my hostility toward him. I joined a pageant to become his wife, yet I’ve rejected his every attempt at affection.

I raise my gaze to meet his intense, dark stare.

“Very well,” he says. “Let’s go.”

As we drive back in silence, a boulder of dread rolls through my insides. Tomorrow morning, Prunella Broadleaf will call me in front of the cameras to explain to the nation that Prince Kevon deemed me an unsuitable candidate for the Princess Trials.

Even worse, Ryce will know that I disregarded his orders and let my feelings stand in the way of the revolution.

I glance in the wing mirror at the botanical gardens. It will be the last time I see that magnificent structure at night.

They’ll probably show highlights of my most humiliating moments. A bitter grimace stretches my lips. Prunella might even get the Amstraadi girls to pelt me with tomatoes on my way back to Rugosa.

Carolina’s ring buzzes on my finger. EXCELLENT DINNER. FLIRT AND GO TO PALACE. My throat convulses as though trying to swallow away my failure. She’s probably just seen snippets of tonight’s dinner party.

Prince Kevon turns his head toward me a fraction, and his lips part. My heart flips. Without meaning to, my arms flinch to protect my front. It’s the position I adopted each time I suffered a public whipping.

Instead of driving into the building, he stops at its side.

“Perhaps I’m not the great leader you envisaged,” he says.

He’s right, but I don’t know if there’s anything I can say to salvage the mission.

Something heavy and white drops on the bumper with a bang that lurches the car forward. Cold panic explodes through my veins, a scream tears from my lips, and I clap my hands over my mouth.

In the blink of an eye, it rolls off with a thud. The door flies open, and Prince Kevon jumps out of the car. I fumble with the latch with sweaty, trembling fingers, but eventually prise it open.

My pulse booms in my ears, and I walk around to the front of the car on legs that won’t stop trembling. That had been a girl, but who?

“No,” Prince Kevon rasps.

The headlights illuminate a figure wearing a white nightgown. She lies on her side with her dark hair splayed out on the ground.

“Who is that?” I whisper.

He stares up at me, his dark eyes stricken with grief. “It’s Rafaela.”

CHAPTER 18

I  drop to my knees in front of the prone body and place both hands on the warm ground. The car’s headlights shine in my eyes, and I have to squint to focus on Rafaela’s face. She stares straight ahead, and blood streams from her nose and parted lips.

We don’t have buildings or even trees as high as the Royal Navy barracks in Rugosa, but even I know that she couldn’t survive such a fall.

Rafaela’s eyes open and close. The movement is slow, but it proves my assumption wrong.

My head snaps up. “Call for help. She’s alive.”

“It’s already on the way.” Prince Kevon kneels at my side, staring at the girl’s long and twisted limbs.

“How could you possibly know that?” I ask.

“Her health monitor.”

Nodding, I remember what Gemini said about the footage her father gave to the queen.

Still crouched, I glance up at the seven-story building for clues. There are no open windows, and I can’t tell how Rafaela managed to fall from a height. I’m not sure what time it is, but most of the lights are off. My gaze darts to the roof, where a figure stares out of the window. We’re too far down to identify the person, and he or she disappears out of sight.

I turn back to the injured girl, who blinks again.

“Rafaela,” I reach out to touch her hand, but her arm lies at an unnatural angle, and the bone in her forearm is bent. Any touch might worsen her injuries. “Someone’s coming to help. Can you hang on until then?”

When she blinks in response, it’s the first balm of hope to calm my frazzled nerves. In Rugosa, falling from the tallest tree means death, broken limbs, and permanent confinement to a bed. Even if a healer managed to relocate the joints and set the bones, that person would suffer a lifetime of disability and pain.

I lie on my side with my head on the ground, babbling nonsense at the girl. Prince Kevon should be doing this, but he’s gone rigid. I’m sure Rafaela doesn’t even remember me from tonight’s dinner and isn’t interested in anything I’m saying, but I can’t stop. If I stop and she fades away, it will be my fault.

“How far is the hospital?” I say in a louder voice.

“What?” Prince Kevon whispers.

“Hold on,” I say to Rafaela. “I’m going to check on the help.”

She blinks again, and I push myself off the ground to kneel. When my hair falls on my face, it’s wet with Rafaela’s blood.

“The hospital,” I say in a voice loud and sharp enough to cut through his trance. “How far?”

Prince Kevon’s brows draw together as though he’s lost all sense of geography. A pang of sympathy strikes my heart. I know that helpless feeling when the mind goes blank, the body stiffens, and terror seizes the ability to act.

A quick shake of my head pushes away memories of Mr. Wintergreen, and I draw in a shuddering breath. “Is the Royal Hospital near the palace?”

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “Yes.”

“Garrett’s guesthouse is behind the palace gardens. That means the Royal Hospital is nearby.”

“That’s right,” he whispers.

Gemini’s explanation about the Amstraad health monitor rush to the forefront of my mind. “If Rafaela got hurt somewhere up in the building before falling, the monitor would send an alert with her location.”

“Yes.”

“Then why is there no sign of an ambulance? It should be here by now.”

He glances from side to side. “You’re right.”

“Can you call the Royal Hospital with your Netface?”

He nods.

“Get inside the car, then!”

With a jolt, he scrambles to his feet and rushes to the driver’s side. I lower myself back to the ground. Rafaela’s eyes are closed.

“Hey.” I use the same sharp tone. “Don’t fall asleep.”

She doesn’t respond.

My throat thickens, and pressure builds up in my lungs as my breaths become shallow. How old is this girl? Eighteen, nineteen? She’s far too young to die. “Rafaela.” My voice shakes. “Rafaela, wake up.”

Her eyes open, and the biggest sigh of relief surges from my lungs.

Even though she’s probably been there a hundred times with Prince Kevon, I tell her about the botanical gardens and ask her to hang on for a moment longer for the ambulance. I tell her about the ice rink I never got to visit, and I tell her about the pool I saw the day before.

Sirens sound in the distance, their blare increasing in sound with every passing second. A door opens, and footsteps hurry toward us.

“Who is that?” says a female voice.

I turn to find Prunella Broadleaf standing over us. She’s flanked by two women holding their cameras. One of them scrambles down to her knees, presumably to get a close-up of Rafaela.

“Are you twisted?” I slap the camera out of her hand, and it lands with a crack on the ground. “You should be helping, not getting footage for your stupid show!”

Prunella drops to her knees. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” My voice breaks, and I stare down at Rafaela’s blinking eyes.

An even brighter light fills the driveway, and a dark van stops behind the solar car. Its back door slides open, and a tall medic in a hooded white suit rushes out. Behind him, another medic pulls a stretcher. I swallow hard. Although we watched old footage of ambulances in the Rugosa Dome, this is the first time I’ve seen an ambulance crew in real life.

Everyone moves back to give the medics space. Another rushes out of the van, pulls Prince Kevon to one side, and presses a scanner over the cuff on his ear. My gaze switches to Rafaela, whose ear is unadorned. They erect a screen around the girl, and the camerawomen turn to me.

Prunella stands at my side. “I’m here with Zea-Mays Calico at the scene of what is suspected to be a horrific tragedy. Miss Calico, can you explain in your own words what happened to Rafaela von Eyck?”

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

A man approaches from behind and wraps his hand around my arm. It’s one of the medics, holding a scanner to my wrist cuff. “There’s blood on the side of your face, Miss.”

“I’m…” I frown at his words and my fingers fly up to my wet cheek. “It’s not mine.”

“Come with me.”

I want to tell him that I’m fine and don’t need any medical treatment, but one glance at the cameras makes me hold my tongue. With a sharp nod, I follow the medic around the ambulance, away from those irritating women.

Harsh lights illuminate the back of the ambulance. Prince Kevon sits at the far end on a bed fixed to the right of its interior. On the left, there’s a unit containing a worktable, overhead cupboards, and a range of screens displaying numbers and charts.

The medic escorting me says to wait, and his colleagues push Rafaela’s stretcher up a ramp. She’s cocooned in a reflective material, but one hand pokes out. When her stretcher is locked in position, Prince Kevon leans forward and stares into her slack face.

Rafaela’s fingers twitch. I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale a long breath. That has to be a good sign, right?

“We’re ready to go.” The medic guides me up a set of steps.

The next time I look at Rafaela, her hand twitches toward him, and Prince Kevon intertwines their fingers.

I tear my gaze away from their private moment and lower myself into a seat closest to the doors.

The medic offers me a pill for the shock, but I shake my head. He holds a small bottle of water under my nose instead. After assuring me that it contains no mind-altering additives, I take a sip. The drive to the Royal Hospital is short, and I barely feel the vehicle rush through the Oasis streets.

When it stops, the back doors fly open, and the medics rush her through an indoor space where a team of people in white bodysuits stands in the doorway. I wrap my arms around my middle, hoping they can help Rafaela. Maybe the footage in her Amstraad monitor contains an explanation of how she fell.

Prince Kevon hurries after the medics. Whatever they gave him before I arrived seems to have worked. All traces of shock have gone, and he’s firing commands at them to provide Rafaela priority treatment.

As soon as I stand, my head spins. All sensation has left my legs, and they won’t move. Dipping my head, I gulp mouthfuls of air and brace myself against the ambulance’s wall, wishing I had taken up the offer of a sedative.

Somebody screams.

It’s Rafaela. White bolts of electricity spark from her ear cuff and spread across her reflective covering like sheet lighting. The people holding onto the stretcher jolt backward.

“Raf!” Prince Kevon screams.

I clap a hand over my mouth and gasp.

Electricity engulfs Rafaela’s body and extends beyond the stretcher in the form of sparks that explode in all directions. The scent of burned flesh fills the air. Prince Kevon orders the medics to help her, to turn off the machines strapped to her body, but no one can get close. Moments later, it stops.

The hand poking out of the reflective blanket stops moving. I grasp the handrail and force my legs to move.

As I reach the bottom of the steps, a tall medic with dark features holds a scanner to Rafaela’s ear. He peers into its screen and says, “Time of death, eleven seventeen.”

My heart plummets, and a pained cry leaves my lips.

Prince Kevon rushes forward. “You can bring her back.”

The medic holding the scanner steps in his path. “Your Highness, we can’t let you near the patient until we ascertain the cause of death.”

My mouth falls open with a huff of disbelief. Isn’t it obvious? Someone threw her off the building. When that didn’t kill Rafael, they made her Amstraad monitor malfunction to finish the job.

Prince Kevon shoves the medic aside, but two more rush from behind and hold him back. He struggles in their grip. “Why aren’t you taking her to the operating theater, injecting her with nanobots, restarting her heart?”

These are all excellent questions, even if I don’t know what most of them mean. A pair of men wearing yellow overalls rush through the doors. One of them attaches a black, shiny fabric to the bottom of her stretcher and pulls it over her body.

I blink over and over, not quite understanding what’s happening until the man in yellow turns around and reveals the hazard symbols on the back of his suit.

He’s a Toxic Disposal Guardian.

An explosion of panic lurches me forward. “Where are you taking her?”

I rush across the bay toward Rafaela’s stretcher, past the medics restraining Prince Kevon, and reach the man in yellow. He’s about to pull the black fabric over Rafaela’s head.

“Stop!” I pull on his arm. He can’t throw her away like radioactive waste.

He turns. There’s a screen in the opening of his hood that obscures his features, but he meets my eyes with a confused glare.

I’m about to repeat myself when a needle pierces my jugular, and everything goes black.

I awake on a bed even softer than the one in the Royal Navy barracks. My limbs feel heavy and, at the same time, insubstantial, as though my skin melts into the mattress. Daylight shines through my eyes, and I frown.

My eyelids feel like someone has glued them together, but I force them open. A massive panel of bluish light stings my retinas, and I groan.

“Zea?” Prince Kevon’s face fills my vision. “They injected you with a powerful sedative. I’m glad it’s worn off.”

A wave of drowsiness washes over my senses and threatens to pull me under. I scrunch my face and moan, “I’m not sure about that.”

The last few moments from before I lost consciousness rush back, and pain lances through my heart. “Rafaela?”

He disappears from view. “Death by a lethal electrical current to the heart.”

I twist around. The room around us consists of featureless white walls whose shiny surface reflects the light. Along one side of the space is a wash station set into a wall. Sliding doors of semi-transparent glass reveal a small shower room where my dress hangs on a wall peg.

Prince Kevon sits in an armchair beside my bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. His olive features are drawn, and his eyes are bloodshot.

This is just like the day Dad brought me over to Carolina’s house to explain what happened to Mr. Wintergreen. The only difference is that Prince Kevon is older than Ryce was, and he’s trying to hide his grief.

A deep ache forms in my heart. He had to watch the girl he loved suffer two horrific fates, and nobody was there to comfort him. I pull myself out of bed. A white gown similar to the one Rafaela wore falls down to my knees.

He glances up. “What are you—”

“I’m so sorry.” Wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders, I pour all the comfort I couldn’t give Ryce into Prince Kevon.

He wraps his arms around my middle and pulls me down onto his lap. Alarm blips through my insides, but he only buries his head in my neck, seeming to inhale my scent.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Umm…” I shift a little, but his arms clamp around my waist. “What for?”

“You were there for Rafaela when I was too shocked to respond. I’ll never forget the love and kindness you shared in her last moments.”

My throat tightens, and my body goes slack. All thoughts of impropriety vanish along with the awkwardness of being half-dressed in proximity to the prince. “I wish I could have done more.”

“You were wonderful,” he murmurs. “It should have been me on the ground with Rafaela.”

A sigh slides out of my lungs. I’m not sure what to say because I know what it’s like to watch someone die and wish I could have done better. No amount of placating words could ever ease that kind of guilt.

“Have you been sitting here all night?” I ask.

Prince Kevon shakes his head. “I awoke half an hour ago. The medical staff administered a sedative after getting authorization from Lady Circi, so I also slept through the night.”

I frown. “Why would they need to ask the lady-at-arms?”

“It wasn’t a medical emergency.”

“Do Rafaela’s parents know?” I asked.

“They would have been informed the moment she died,” he replied.

His words trigger the memory of something else. “Did anyone check her Amstraad monitor? It was supposed to have informed the Royal Hospital of her dire medical emergency.”

“I checked the Chief Technical Officer’s report,” he replies. “It says that there was no malfunction in her device.”

“What about the footage it recorded?”

He shakes his head. “The electrical charge deleted her last six hours.”

I draw back and stare into his eyes. They aren’t black or dark brown as I had originally imagined. Nor are they the green of his Sergeant Silver disguise.

A deep, denim blue that’s nearly as dark as his pupils rings the irises. The color bleeds toward the middle in patterns that remind me of a picture I once saw of mountain-tops backlit by a winter sun. Cobalt mixes with steel-blue and white like broken clouds. With thick, black lashes framing this vista, the effect is mesmerizing.

The pain etched on his features tears a hole through my chest, and the part of me that wishes to save everybody yearns to ease his pain.

The monitor on my wrist squeals, and I flinch.

He frowns. “Zea?”

I hold up my arm. “After seeing what happened yesterday, I can’t help but wonder if these things are weapons.”

“There has never been a case of an Amstraad malfunction—”

“But all these electronics are programmed to do whatever you want. Your car drives itself and you ordered food with it. Can’t someone make a health monitor explode?”

His lips part, and his brows draw together. I’m guessing that he’s about to correct me on my explosion theory, but I shake my head.

“Maybe that’s the wrong word.” Words tumble from my lips. Batteries hold electricity, but what happens when they become over-full? They don’t teach us things like that at school, but I’m sure that electricity would spill out the way grain might spill out of an overloaded wagon.

I have to explain myself before he dismisses me as a technology-fearing bumpkin. “But don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence for her to have survived a fatal fall only for the device that didn’t call an ambulance to kill her with a massive electric shock?”

He dips his head and stares into my lap. The nightgown has ridden up, exposing my thighs, and my stomach plummets with mortification. I place a hand on the armrest for leverage to stand, but he grabs my hand.

“I raised my concerns earlier with Lady Circi,” he says. “She has a team of security officers investigating what happened to Rafaela.”

My lips tighten. According to Berta’s gossip, this entire contest was a ploy to separate Prince Kevon from what the king and queen considered to be a promiscuous actress. It wouldn’t surprise me if the information Gemini’s father obtained for Queen Damascena was related to Rafaela von Eyck’s health monitor.

I can’t voice a word of this because the freedom of over two-hundred thousand Harvesters depends on my successful completion of this mission. Accusing Lady Circi is as good as accusing Prince Kevon’s mother.

A stray lock of blue-black hair swings down from his head and lands on the side of his nose. I smooth it behind his ear. “I didn’t see any of her movies, but she seemed like a really nice person. You must have loved her a lot.”

“She was my dearest friend,” he says.

“I thought you were…” My words trail off. The only thing I knew about Rafaela was what Berta told me.

“Rafaela preferred lovers of her own gender,” he says. “A society like ours frowns on those in relationships that won’t result in offspring. I let the public think we were together for her protection.”

“Oh.” My mind goes blank, and I flounder for words.

In Rugosa, every young person is expected to marry and reproduce. The Nobles reward married couples with extra water rations, which increase with each new birth. Any other lifestyle would mean less to drink.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen someone die?” I ask.

His brows draw together, and he squeezes his eyes shut. My chest tightens. It’s probably too soon to discuss such a painful subject, but I really don’t know how to handle the new revelation about Prince Kevon’s relationship with Rafaela.

Prince Kevon is nothing like I imagined. After having heard Berta’s gossip about how the king and queen commenced the trials to keep them apart, I’m shocked to discover that he was protecting her from persecution.

I gulp. That’s just so noble.

He meets my gaze with red-rimmed eyes. “When I apprenticed at the border, some people would arrive in such a weakened state that they didn’t survive longer than a few days. This is the first time I’ve seen an assassination.”

I nod. “Nobody deserves to die like that.”

Prince Kevon cups the side of my face, and for the first time, his touch is comforting. “And you?”

“There was a man in Rugosa.” My chest tightens to even think about Mr. Wintergreen. “He tried to stop a border guard from attacking a Harvester girl, and the guard killed him.”

His eyes widen, and his lips part. “When? Did the guard see you?”

“Seven years ago.” I release a long sigh, and tears prick the backs of my eyes. “I hid during the attack, but I wish I’d seen his face. I wish I’d done—”

Prince Kevon places a finger on my lips. “You were nine. That guard probably would have murdered you, too.” He wraps his arms around me, and I relax into his embrace. “I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do, just ask.”

I shake my head, and something deep within me loosens. That night when a twelve-year-old Ryce screamed at me for letting his father die, nobody pointed out that I’d been too young to do anything, and nobody had pointed out the risk I might have faced from attacking that guard. Of all the people to give me absolution for the biggest burden I’ve carried, I would never have expected it to come from Prince Kevon.

“It’s too late,” I murmur into his neck. “But I appreciate the offer.”

We sit so close that our heartbeats synchronize, and my breathing matches his. My mind drifts, and I wonder how different our lives would have been if Prince Kevon had been born in my Echelon.

He draws back and meets my gaze. “I’ll speak to someone about what we discussed earlier.”

My mind races through our conversations, but it keeps getting stuck between Rafael’s body landing on the hood of the car and the electrical charge that caused her death.

“I’ll tell my mother I won’t participate in the Princess Trials unless she arranges a pardon for Gemini Pixel,” he says.

My lips part, and a breath catches in the back of my throat. “Did you change your mind because of Rafael?”

He nods. “That girl doesn’t deserve execution.”

Joy surges through my chest. It’s bittersweet because it took the death of another girl to make him realize that lives were more important than rules. I wrap my arms around him and relax into his embrace. “Thank you.”

The door opens, and I scramble off his lap.

Lady Circi pokes her head into the room and scowls. “I told you to stay in your room.” She steps aside and opens the door for the queen. “Here he is.”

Queen Damascena sweeps into the room, clad in a peach trousers suit. Her gaze lands on me, and the tiniest tightening of her lips hint at disapproval.

I dip into a curtsey but don’t get very low as Lady Circi wraps her arm around my wrist and pulls me toward the door. “We need to talk.”

CHAPTER 19

M y heart pounds as Lady Circi pulls me out of the room, down a windowless white hallway, and shoves me into an alcove.

A dozen paranoid thoughts race through my mind, most of them centered around accusing me of sowing the seeds of Rafaela’s death.

I steady my bare feet and hold one of the fighting stances I learned in the Red Runner training drills—feet apart, arms braced at my sides, fists ready to block and strike.

At around five-ten, the dark-skinned woman isn’t much taller than me, but I’m barefoot and only clad in a flimsy hospital gown, while she wears a tactical catsuit and enough guns to turn me into a sieve.

“Tell me everything that happened last night at the dinner table,” she says.

My gaze is locked in hard, green eyes that look peculiar against her dark skin. “Don’t you have that footage from the cameras?”

“Tell me,” she snarls.

In halting words, I describe how Ingrid taunted Rafaela about her involvement with some actors, and how Prince Kevon intervened when the Amstraadi girls tried to make me say words of sedition on camera.

Her eyes flash at the mention of them. “Did they speak to Rafaela von Eyck?”

I flinch at her words. Somewhere deep down in the pit of my soul, I thought Lady Circi and Queen Damascena had arranged Rafaela’s death. If the lady-at-arms suspects the Amstraadi girls, maybe I was right to be suspicious of their fighting prowess.

“Did they?” she barks.

“I…” My mouth dries, and I swallow. “I don’t remember.”

Lady Circi scowls, looking like she’s about to say something nasty.

I scowl back. “Our table had cameras fixed on us the entire evening. Everything you need to know is in the footage.”

“Excuse me?” says a small voice.

Lady Circi twists around, revealing the woman whose camera I slapped off her face the night before. She stands in the hallway with a colleague.

“I saw Her Majesty enter that room you just left.” The camerawoman raises herself on tip-toes in an attempt to make eye contact with me. “Did you spend a night with Prince Kevon?”

My mouth drops open, and I’m about to sputter a denial, but Lady Circi points a gun into the camera lens. “Would you also like to spend a night at the Royal Hospital? I can arrange that with a click.”

The woman lowers her camera and backs away. “I’m just following orders, My Lady. The Princess Trials are—”

“Come with me.” Lady Circi grabs my wrist.

The muscles around my shoulders tighten. If she has dug any further into my past and discovered my association with the Red Runners, Rafaela won’t be the only one lying in a hazardous waste bag.

She marches me back through the white hallway, where a camerawoman waits outside the door of my hospital room. I glance down at Lady Circi’s hand, which still holds the gun, and a shudder runs down the back of my neck.

What if her suspicion of the Amstraadi is a pretense at making her and the queen look innocent? I shake off those thoughts.

Right now, I’ve got to leave this hospital and rejoin the trials. It’s callous to think about my mission at a time like this, but Carolina, Ryce and hundreds of thousands of people are depending on me to get to the palace.

Lady Circi brings me to my hospital room, which is now empty. She orders me to get dressed and return to the barracks for breakfast. My shoulders slump with relief, and I hurry to the shower room to carry out her orders.

About half an hour later, I arrive at my room just as Berta emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Her wet, shortened hair clings to the sides of her face, and her cheeks are flushed from the hot water. She flicks her head at my untouched bed, but all I notice is the gray dress that lies folded on the trunk.

“Were you out all night with the prince?” Berta asks.

My head still pounds from my encounter with Lady Circi and from the constant buzzing of the watch in my boot. I haven’t had a moment alone, and I’m in no mood to explain that I failed to enter the palace.

Raising a palm, I shake my head. “It’s not what you think.”

Gemini sits up in bed. “The other girls were furious when you both left.”

“Did they say anything?” I ask.

“Ingrid and Rafaela got into a stupid argument, and the Amstraadi girls kept quiet and watched.” Berta shakes her head. “I like a good punch-up, but they were salivating over the girls like they were made of white chocolate.”

Does such a thing even exist? I turn to Gemini, who bows her head and shrugs. “They kept making jabs about my execution.”

My lips part, and I’m about to tell her that Prince Kevon agreed to petition for her pardon, but I give my head a tiny shake. He warned me last night in the botanical gardens about the limits of his power. I don’t want to raise Gemini’s hopes in case he isn’t successful.

As soon as I step into the bathroom to answer Ryce’s call, Gemini follows. We take our showers and get dressed, then the three of us make our way down to the dining room. My nerves are frazzled, and I can’t even focus on the mission right now.

All twelve Amstraadi girls sit around their tables in the first row, each clad in black, while the other tables are half-full with girls trailing in at different rates.

On the side table is the usual fare of sliced fruit and jugs of red juice. My stomach churns as I remember the sensation of blood-soaked locks of hair slopping onto the side of my face.

I lower myself into my seat and stare at the empty place setting.

“Trouble’s brewing,” whispers Berta.

“There she is,” says a snide voice. I don’t need to raise my head to know that it belongs to Emmera Hull. “One of the assistants said she saw you walk into the building looking like you’d spent the night rolling in the hay with His Highness.”

“Are you accusing the prince of not being a gentleman?” I snap.

She flinches, and a flush blooms across her cheeks. Her flaxen hair flops about her face as she shakes her head with feigned horror. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Ladies, may I have your attention?” Prunella Broadleaf stands on the podium. She wears a black trouser suit in a similar style to the one Queen Damascena wore with a black, rimless hat shaped like a pork pie.

I glare at the camera pointed at my face, but the woman doesn’t take the hint and continues filming my reaction. Only one camera is fixed on Prunella, while the others focus on key people around the room.

Cameras point at Ingrid at the Nobles table, Berta, Gemini, Emmera, Sabre at the Amstraadi table and at her black-haired friend whose name I’ve forgotten.

Prunella clears her throat. “Due to recent events, we’re canceling the next trial, and we won’t require anything of you until the ball, where you will face the public vote.”

All the girls turn to each other, presumably wondering what Prunella is talking about. Sweat breaks out across my palms. She had been outside last night as the ambulance took Rafaela away.

“It is my sad duty to inform you that Rafaela von Eyck died last night.”

Chatter explodes across the room. Everyone either knows Rafaela from her work as an actress or noticed her long embrace with Prince Kevon.

Ingrid shoots out of her seat. “How? She was only eighteen!”

Prunella’s lips tighten, and her gaze slides to my table. “Suicide. Rafaela van Eyck was a very troubled young lady.”

A rush of fury shoves me out of my seat. “She didn’t kill herself,” I shout. “Someone pushed her out of the building.”

Prunella tilts her head to the side. “You pushed her?” The camera pointing at Gemini turns to me. “For a vicious murderer, you excel at playing the doe-eyed damsel. Your performance last night was convincing enough to turn the head of our handsome prince.”

My heart thuds so hard that my ribcage reverberates. “What are you talking about?”

“Security cameras picked up footage of a girl skulking through the hallways. We thought it was Rafaela walking to her death, but you’re about the same height and build.” Prunella tilts her head, and malice gleams between her thick lashes. “In the dark, you might even be twins.”

I shake my head. “You’re wrong.”

“Did you push her?” Prunella walks down the podium steps, excited breaths panting through her thin lips. “With Rafaela dead, you can step in to fill the void in Prince Kevon’s heart.”

Nausea ripples through my empty belly, and the pulse in my throat flutters with panic. I don’t look anything like Rafaela von Eyck, but Prunella’s accusations sound realistic enough to make every girl in the room stare at me through sharp, suspicious eyes.

“Admit it.” She strides through the room with her hands clenched into fists. “You pushed that poor girl to her death!”

“No,” I snap. “I was in the car with Prince Kevon when she fell on the hood.”

“Lies,” she snarls. “There’s footage of you entering her room moments before she was pushed.”

My head pounds, and fury rushes through my ears. I won’t let this vindictive wretch ruin my chances of getting through to the palace round with her lies. I won’t let her cast suspicion on me and let the real killer go unpunished.

The whispers turn to angry mutters, and all the fine hairs on my body stand on end. At this rate, an army of guards will drag me out for an interrogation from which I may never return.

“That wasn’t me,” I shout. “I was in the botanical gardens all evening with Prince Kevon!”

Triumph flashes in her eyes, and her lips curl into a smile. “Did you soak in the lovers’ bath, or did you let him deflower you in the bed of lilies?”

A bitter taste spreads across my mouth, and I want to spit. Prunella manipulated me. The black clothes, the tearful announcement, the horse manure about Rafaela’s suicide—it was all a ploy to get me to talk about my night out with Prince Kevon.

“We all want to know, don’t we ladies?” She gestures at the girls around the table, who grumble. “What did you do to capture the attention of Prince Kevon? Are you making promises of carnal delights, or are you hiding something ravenous under those voluminous Harvester skirts?”

Shame washes through my sinuses, making them sting, and tears prick the backs of my eyes. I should have withheld my reaction and waited for the right moment to strike with the truth. They’ll probably just show my outburst and not the fakery that prompted me to speak.

I try not to imagine Carolina pursing her lips at the big screen or Ryce turning his head away in disgust, but I’ve made an idiot of myself for no reason that advances my mission.

Lowering myself into the seat, I fold my arms. “Lying about a girl’s death is really low, even for a vacuous, no-talent scarecrow like you.”

The glare she gives me sends cold sludge through my veins. Prunella turns around to address the room. “Ladies, see to it that our bucking bronco doesn’t steal the prince.”

“What does that mean?” I snap.

Berta shakes her head. “She’s just rallied everyone to make you their target. Even if the prince wants you, Phangloria won’t accept a queen who has performed like an ass in front of the nation.”

I turn to Gemini, who cringes and nods. Biting on the inside of my lip, I can’t help but wonder what this means for my future with Ryce.

When I raise my head, more than half the room shoots me calculating glares.

After a breakfast of sliced melon, the production assistants lead us back to the large room, where Mistress Pavane holds a cane. She stands in front of floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the lawn. Today’s lesson is the basic waltz, and she orders us to form pairs for an assessment of our skills.

Gemini steps back and folds her arms. “I won’t be dancing at the ball.”

I’m too sickened by Prunella’s stunt and the events of last night to do anything but nod.

“You’re leading,” says Berta.

“I’ve never waltzed bef—”

“Lead.” She pulls my arms into position.

The dance mistress bangs the cane on the stone floor and counts to three in a rhythm that I assume is related to the waltz.

Berta pushes me around the dance floor in dizzying circular movements that make me stumble over my feet. My insides cringe with renewed horror as I’m once again looking ridiculous.

Mistress Pavane taps girls on the shoulder as they waltz past and tells them to move to the side of the room. All six Amstraadi pairs stand among the three Noble and Artisan pairs.

Within moments, the dance instructor tells two pairs of Guardian girls to stand aside, leaving the final pair of Guardians, all the Industrials, the Harvesters, Berta, and me.

“Stop,” I say to Berta. “This isn’t working.”

“It would if you listened to my directions.”

I shake my head and pull myself out of her grip. Maybe she’s had lessons, but I haven’t, and neither have those whose families work six days a week with only a seventh day to have a decent bath and tend to their own business.

Emmera dances with Corrie Barzona, the milkmaid from Bos, but even they struggle to perform steps they haven’t learned.

Vitelotte, the purple-haired girl from Rugosa dances with the girl from Morus, who cartwheeled through her audition. She holds her face in a neutral expression, but her nostrils are flared, revealing her displeasure.

The door opens, and a production assistant steps inside. “May I borrow Miss Calico for a moment?”

Whatever goodwill I have left plummets like a dandelion seed caught in the rain. If Prunella has shown Lady Circi this supposed footage of me sneaking into Rafaela’s room, no amount of talking will help me escape her wrath.

Mistress Pavane shoos me away.

I walk across the room to the production assistant, who hurries down the hallway and won’t answer any of my questions. Part of me wants to return to the dance class, but I think about the larger prize. Even if it means being tripped up or turned into a donkey’s behind, I’ve got to endure it until the palace round.

The assistant opens the door to an office with dark wood furniture and a gold-button naval jacket hanging on the wall. The bookshelf of leather tomes and globe give it an old-world feel, and the sight is ruined by Prunella Broadleaf sitting behind the desk with her tablet. She has changed to a pastel green version of her black suit, which looks terrible with her peach-colored makeup.

Prunella points at a low, metal stool in front of her desk that reminds me of an upturned bucket. “Please sit.”

“What’s this about?” I ask.

“The nation is curious about your origins,” she replies with a gentle smile.

Casting a glance at the camera, I say, “I don’t understand.”

“Everyone wishes to know what kind of people birthed the bucking bronco.” She sweeps her arm toward the wall, which turns from white to black. Images of cornfields flash through the screen, ending in one familiar sight. “Netface.”

I gape at a still picture of my house. It looks so small and shabby compared to the stone structures of the Oasis, and the surroundings are more yellow and drier-looking on camera.

“The network is in Rugosa?” I ask.

A soft snort escapes her nostrils. “Hardly.”

One of the camerawomen gets into position at the end of the room and nods at Prunella.

She leans forward, steeples her fingers, and smiles. “I’m here live with Phangloria's favorite fool, Zea-Mays Calico.”

My mouth drops open, but I don’t rise to the bait. Did Prunella just make that up, or is that really what they’re calling me?

“Zea, do you miss your parents at all?” she purrs. “We’ve never heard you speak about your family. One would think you were ashamed of your humble beginnings.”

“That’s not true,” I say with my brightest smile. “Every time I taste something wonderful or see one of the many wonders in the Oasis, I wish my brothers and parents were here to share the experience.”

Her brows waggle. “And last night with Prince Kevon? I’m sure your mother won’t approve of what you showed him in the flowerbeds.”

“Last night, someone close to the prince died,” I say with more bite in my voice than I intend. “It’s a sad day for all when a young life is so brutally cut short.”

The smirk on her face fades into a mask of horror. Since this is a live broadcast, she won’t be able to ask her precious camerawomen to remove that footage.

“Of course,” she says. “We’re all devastated to lose poor Rafaela van Eyck. She is with Gaia now, and no cheap substitute can replace her.”

Her barb might have stung if I actually wanted the prince, but I give her a sage nod. “Let’s put my parents on before you say something even more tasteless.”

The image of our house disappears from the screen, replaced by a shot of Mom and the twins. They’re sitting on her lap and waving into a screen that looks a mere foot away from their sticky hands.

It’s only been days since I’ve left, but seeing them makes my heart ache. I’ve never been away from my family for longer than a half a day and can’t believe how thin and drawn they look compared to the people I’ve met here.

“Zee!” says Yoseph. “We saw you on OasisVision.”

“Will you save us a tomato?” asks Flint.

“Hello boys, have you been good for Mom?” I ask.

“Yes,” they chorus. Before Mom can get a chance to speak, Yoseph tells me Sharqi and her babies have gone missing.

My throat dries, and I smile wider to keep the alarm out of my expression. I don’t tell her that my kakapo has flown to the Oasis. Prunella might make a huge show of having the poor bird executed.

“What charming boys,” Prunella says in a tone that means the opposite. “But we really wanted to hear from your parents. Mrs. Calico, what do you think of your daughter’s burgeoning relationship with Prince Kevon?”

Pride shines in Mom’s eyes. “He’s a very handsome young man, and I’m sure he will make a strong king. I’d be delighted if he chooses my daughter, but it’s too early in the contest to comment.”

Warmth spreads across my chest, and I smile. Mom combines humility and poise and quiet strength.

“A nice way of saying she doesn’t have a chance,” says Prunella.

“It’s not my place to speculate on which young lady is right for Prince Kevon, Miss Broadleaf.”

Prunella’s smile freezes at Mom’s lack of deference. “It’s customary for the lower Echelons to refer to the Nobles as Master or Mistress. Did they not teach you that in the Barrens?”

“Forgive me,” Mom says. “I thought the rule only applied to those born into the Echelon, those who have earned a place through supreme excellence or those not discarded by their Noble spouses.”

My jaw drops. Prunella’s husband left her? Where on earth did Mom get that gossip?

“Thank you, Mrs. Calico and the twins,” Prunella says through clenched teeth. “Those corn husks won’t clear themselves.”

I turn to Prunella and smirk. “Mom’s happily married, and she stays at home looking after the household.”

“And she’s done a wonderful job of turning you into the polished young lady you aren’t.”

A laugh huffs from my chest. Everyone watching has already seen Prunella match wits with a Harvester housewife she implied more than once was a Foundling. It’s her who looks like an idiot, not Mom.

A gloved hand lands on Mom’s shoulder, and I clench my teeth. The black leather could only belong to a guard. Harvesters don’t even get to use the materials for shoes.

“How are you transmitting from Rugosa?” I ask.

“A friendly Guardian volunteered for the job,” she says with her voice full of renewed cheer.

My smile falters. Are they watching my parents, now?

Mom lets the twins off her lap and moves offscreen, revealing the canvas seat of a solar jeep. Gemini mentioned once that Guardians had remote access to Netface, but it still doesn’t stop me from worrying that the monsters who killed Mr. Wintergreen and dismissed his death as inconsequential are around my family.

Dad comes onscreen, a frown marring his brow. “Are you taking care of yourself down there, Zee?”

“I’m well, and the food is great.” It’s only half a lie. While the rations and the skipped meal is worse than the fare at home, last night’s French onion soup was sumptuous. I’m sure that whatever Prunella eats at the head table is sublime.

“Good.” He nods as though thinking of how to phrase what he’s about to say. “Everyone here is very proud of you.”

A breath catches in the back of my throat, and it looks like he’s forgiven me for joining the Princess Trials as a Red Runner spy. “I want everyone to know I think about them every day.”

“Are you sure you want to do this, Zee?” Dad swallows. “Montana explained the new rules when the ambassador let you through to the next round, and a bucking bronco is just as dangerous as a—”

The transmission cuts off.

I turn around. “What was he going to say?”

“Your ten minutes are up,” Prunella says with a sneer.

“What was the point of cutting us off?” I say.

Her eyes harden. “The next time you speak to me with disrespect, remember my fans can access your family at any time.”

All the blood drains from my face. “You’re threatening their lives because you don’t like how I play the role of the bucking bronco?”

Her cheeks redden, and she presses her lips into a thin line. It doesn’t matter that she’s made an idiot of herself again. Prunella Broadleaf has the power to hurt the people I love, and I can’t afford to risk my family over petty victories.

I clench my teeth, painfully aware that the camerawoman has that infernal machine trained on my face. If Prunella carries on like this, Rafaela won’t be the only person who gets pushed from a great height.

CHAPTER 20

By the time I return to Mistress Pavane’s class, the room is empty, and the helpful camerawoman filming my confusion informs me that there’s a garden party outside.

My nerves are already brittle from the sight of those guards around my family, and I’m desperate to speak to them without an audience to find out what’s really happening in Rugosa.

I hurry through the silent hallway with the woman trailing behind me like a hungry corn lizard with the click-clack of her shoes filling my ears.

I push open the double doors that lead to the lawn, which is no longer a sea of green but a busy gathering of over a hundred people. A third of them are the girls competing in the Princess Trials, but nearly everybody else wears white from their summer hats to their shoes.

Whoever has decorated this space has made it look like a wedding. Tiny, white flags with the Phangloria Tree hang from the branches on long strings, and round, white lanterns float above us.

My brows rise. One of the girls died yesterday, and Prince Kevon is in mourning. This event should have been canceled out of respect.

The scent of grilled meat fills my nostrils, and I turn to the far end of the garden, where a man in burgundy slices meat from a pig on a spit.

Despite my sour mood, saliva floods my mouth. It’s rare to get meat, and I’ve never known anyone to be able to purchase so much pork. Another assistant packs the pork into thin slices of bread and hands them to the people standing in line.

I head toward the spit, but the camerawoman places a hand on my shoulder and informs me that the girls will eat from the salad room. She points at a white, bell-shaped tent with open sides. Most of the girls form a line with the ones in the front holding plates. My face remains impassive. I’m not going to give her a reaction.

Berta walks past with brisk strides. Her shoulders hunch halfway up her neck, and her fists clench and unclench. A camerawoman has to jog to keep up.

I hurry after her. “What’s wrong?”

“This.” She sweeps her arm out and presses her large palm into the lens. “We’re being paraded to the Chamber of Ministers for their amusement.”

I take another look at the people around us. The Chamber of Ministers is the group of Nobles who run the country. They set quotas for how much each town should produce, determine water rations, and make other decisions that affect the lives of the Echelons. Whenever I thought of the Chamber of Ministers, I pictured old men with white beards, but everyone has the same blue-black hair and ageless look as Montana.

“What are they doing here?” I ask.

“Informal interviews,” she says, her voice bitter. “This is an opportunity for them to see which girl meets their standards to become the next queen. Some old vulture just told me I had put the Ridgeback family to shame, and I’d be lucky to work in waste disposal.”

“Does he have the power to affect your future?”

She shoots me an impatient glare. “The Minister of Guardian Employment? Yeah, I think so.”

Shaking off my irritation, I glance further into the line. The buffet table is over twenty feet long and crammed with dishes. Watermelons carved to look like peacocks sit at two feet intervals among platters of rainbow-colored lettuces, bowls of bean salad, chopped and shredded vegetables, and sauces of every color.

At the far end of the table are tiers of twenty-inch-wide bowls laden with strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, grapes, and blackberries. There’s enough here to feed five-hundred Harvesters. I glance over my shoulder at the cameras, wondering if this flagrant waste of food will appear on OasisVision.

“Where’s Gemini?” I ask.

She huffs a bitter laugh. “Do you think I want to stand next to a traitor and ruin my name completely?”

I purse my lips and wait for her to finish her rant. Berta couldn’t have predicted that the Amstraad ambassador would order her return to the Trials as a form of entertainment, but she could have avoided this by not gatecrashing the audition.

But I don’t tell her this, of course. After Prunella’s stunt this morning and her reminder to the girls to make me a target, I’m in no position to make enemies.

Eventually, she says, “They took her away a few minutes after you left.”

“Why?”

She raises a shoulder. “How should I know? What did they show you?”

In halting words, I describe the Netface reunion with my family. We reach the table, and a woman in burgundy ignores my request for potato salad and dumps purple leaves on my plate.

In the middle of the table is a fish larger than my younger brothers. Its body is skinned, stuffed with lemon wedges, and topped with cucumber slices, but whoever prepared it left the head and tail intact. From its pink flesh, it might be a salmon, but the ones for sale at the Rugosa Dome are no more than twelve-inches long. Its mouth gapes open, revealing inch-long, serrated teeth, and its milky eyes stare out at us in death.

The assistant places a generous chunk of fish on my plate, and when I get to the part of the story where I saw the guards onscreen, Berta says, “Huh.”

A tight fist squeezes my insides. “Do you think there’s another purpose for the guards?”

“Probably.” She flicks her head to a seating area outside the tent and walks ahead with her plate. “The Trials haven’t properly started yet and you’re not even a candidate, but you’re spending all that time with Prince Kevon. People are bound to get interested in your parents.”

“What do you mean?” I quicken my steps across the law.

“Here they are!” Montana strides toward us clad in a white one-piece suit that clings to his muscular frame.

Next to him is a small man wearing a lightweight military jacket with four oversized pockets over the chest and sides. The white of his outfit clashes with the yellow tint in his skin, and I have to blink several times to work out that this is the Amstraad ambassador.

“The underdog and bucking bronco.” Montana chuckles.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Berta mutters.

Montana claps the smaller man on the shoulder and beams. “Thanks to you three, one-hundred Phanglorians will benefit from these wonderful new health monitors.”

Normally, a bitter thought would float to the surface of my mind about how Harvesters won’t receive any of this Amstraadi bounty, but not today. I place my plate of salad on the wooden table and clutch the monitor stuck to my wrist.

After seeing the electrical surge that killed Rafaela, the Nobles can keep those weapons of mass assassination.

“I didn’t exactly volunteer for this,” snaps Berta.

“By storming the stage and presenting yourself to the judges as a candidate, you tacitly agreed to all the terms of the Princess Trials contract.” He bares his white teeth in an expression that’s the opposite of a smile. “Those in breach—”

“Forget it!” Berta picks up her plate and walks toward the other end of the garden, where there’s a set of tables and chairs by the spit roast.

Montana steps away. “I will leave you in the bronco’s hands, Your Excellency.”

The Amstraad ambassador inclines his head, and we both watch him walk toward a crowd of people in white surrounding Ingrid Strab, likely helping her commiserate on her awful date with Prince Kevon.

“That one is the Chamber of Ministers’ favorite,” says the ambassador. “However, I would say that Prince Kevon does not appreciate the charms of my girls or Miss Strab.”

“Your Excellency, why did you choose me?” I ask.

He turns to the camerawoman. “Leave us.”

Without a word, she backs several feet away, but the ambassador waves his hand and shoos her even further. The tightness in my shoulders relaxes only a fraction, as I have no idea why someone so important wishes to be alone with me.

It’s impossible to see the ambassador’s full expression because his spectacles have tinted, but his thin lips form a tight smile.

“I think you are an interesting young woman to know.” He makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat.

My skin prickles at the peculiar sound. I long to ask him about what happened to Rafaela’s monitor, but it might sound like an accusation. “And Gemini Pixel?”

His face hardens. “Our society is a hard one, where food is scarce, and everybody survives on rations.”

My brows draw together, and I tilt my head to the side, wondering what on earth he’s talking about. With their advanced technology, I had always pictured them growing crops in biodomes.

“It’s my estimation that Phangloria exports fifty percent of its output to Amstraad.” He glances down at my plate and back to me. “How much of that do you think contains seed?”

“But tomatoes contain seeds—”

“Which won’t grow without a specific soil compound. Neither will the seeds of any of the fruit and vegetables we import.”

My throat dries, and I glance around from left to right. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You asked about Miss Pixel. I wish to tell you that our society holds everything precious.” The man leans forward to observe my reaction. “We do not waste food on garden parties, nor do we waste the talents of our people on drudgery where we can use machines. And one thing we would never waste is the life of a promising child, especially one in excellent health.”

“I don’t understand.”

The dark tint on his spectacles disappears, revealing glacial eyes. “At some point, you will.”

He changes the subject with a hair-raising anecdote about his ambassadorial limousine being attacked by a hoard of wild men on his journey from the aerodrome to the North Gate of the Great Wall. They were trying to reach Princess Briar, who he says was traumatized by the experience.

Before I can ask why Phangloria doesn’t have an aerodrome within the wall, he steps away and gives me a curt bow. “I look forward to watching you progress through the Princess Trials.”

“Er… Thank you, Your Excellency.”

He walks away, leaving me reeling with confusion. I lower myself into a wooden seat and stare at my uneaten plate of salad. Something in his words implied that he thought I had a chance of winning, but more importantly, I think he wants to save Gemini’s life. But why does my flesh still crawl at the thought of her in the care of the ambassador?

As I can consider his words, an assistant dressed in burgundy approaches with a tray laden with glasses of clear, sparkling liquid.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Purge Water.”

“No, thank you.”

“All the candidates have to drink it.”

I glance around to find all the other girls sipping glasses of the same liquid and take a glass. The assistant nods and walks to the next person.

As I eat my salad, my gaze follows Montana, who brings a tall man over to the Harvester girls. He’s about to introduce the man to the cartwheeling girl, but Emmera lurches forward and grabs the man’s hand. Vitelotte and Corrie Barzona exchange exasperated looks.

I shake my head, wondering how on earth she thinks that attitude will win her friends, let alone the attention of Prince Kevon.

A warm wind blows across the garden, bringing the sweet scent of roses. I turn in the direction of the hedges that lead to the guesthouse where Forelle is staying and hope she’s happy with Garrett and isn’t worrying her parents.

Hours later, the dignitaries leave the garden party, and the assistants usher us back into the building and down the stairs to a basement room that looks like it takes up half a block. Long, thin bulbs cross the walls like pipes, emitting blue light. It’s so bright that I have to squint.

As with most rooms in the Royal Navy barracks, one wall consists of a screen that broadcasts highlights from The Princess Trials. They’re replaying Rafaela’s audition. She’s beaming into the camera and wearing a glittering mauve gown that complements her coloring.

Some of the girls gasp and rush around the screen, but I stay close to the doorway with Berta. No matter how much I look at the vibrant beauty, it will never erase the image of the broken girl lying in the middle of the road.

The machines around the room look like loungers, except they are split into sections where a person is supposed to lay their arms and legs. It looks like there are enough for every single girl in the trials.

“What’s this?” I whisper to Berta.

“It’s a gymnasium, what do you think?”

Her abrasive attitude rubs my nerves raw, and I spit out, “No Harvester has fancy rooms to stay active. We tire ourselves out with work.”

A shrill blow of a whistle turns my attention to the right of the room, where Prunella Broadleaf jogs out of a doorway. Her tied-back hair bounces about like a horse’s tail, and a thick sweatband conceals the wide expanse of her forehead.

“Attention ladies,” Prunella trills to a camera. “Good afternoon!”

Everyone but me mutters a response.

“After that sumptuous luncheon, we’re going to work off those kilojoules and shape up those muscles. Who’s ready?”

She tells us to take a machine each, lie down, and let the technology do the work. Berta and I head to a pair of exercisers in the middle of the room. Berta presses a button on the armrest, and her machine vibrates to life. I shrug and do the same.

The exerciser vibrates while moving my arms up and down. I can’t feel the strain in my muscles the same way a person gets fatigued from pushing a wheelbarrow, and it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve encountered since arriving at the Oasis.

Half an hour later, when our machines stop, Prunella tells us to swap. This continues for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening.

Scenes from last night’s dinner come onscreen. The camera focuses on Princess Briar, who gives one-word answers to Garrett. I can’t hear what they’re saying over the rumble of the exerciser. The young woman retains the blank expression from the auditions, and nothing Garrett says will make her smile. A bleep from my electric bracelet makes me jolt. If the Amstraadi really survive on rations, I’m not surprised she’s so downcast.

The screen cuts to scenes from the other tables. Emmera knocks a glass of water onto the cartwheeling girl’s lap, claps both hands over her mouth, and stares horrified into the camera. At the Industrial table, two girls cough into their napkins.

Whoever edited this episode of The Princess Trials has decided to portray the Guardians as poised and well-mannered. I think that’s because this Echelon provides security, healthcare, architecture and everything else to maintain the country’s infrastructure.

In the next scene, they focus on the Artisans’ colorful gowns. I haven’t had a chance to speak to them, but the girls look cheerful compared to the Nobles, who appear coldly elegant.

All the highlights from our table focus on the Amstraadi girls’ attempts to goad Gemini and me into reacting to their taunts. Last night, I thought it had been Sabre making most of the comments, but I didn’t notice the other girls’ malicious glares until now. They don’t show any of the scenes where Ingrid tries to damage Rafaela’s reputation.

“Hey.” Berta stands over my machine. “That Nob looks confused.”

I switch my exerciser off. “Where?

She nods in the direction of a machine closest to the screen.

Ingrid stands between her exerciser and the screen. She leans across to a dark-haired Noble girl, who shrugs. What Ingrid probably doesn’t know is that the Chamber of Ministers want her to win.

With Montana being the Minister of Media and Prunella Broadleaf’s boss, there isn’t a chance for the viewing public to see the girl’s true personality. The camera trained on us makes me keep this information to myself.

I’m already cringing because I can guess what will come next. Prince Kevon rises from his seat and offers me his hand. The camera cuts to Queen Damascena, whose lips tighten with the same expression of distaste she made in my hospital room. Next to her, Ambassador Pascal leans forward, his eyes gleaming with interest.

“Did you two really go to the botanical gardens?” asks Berta.

“Where else would I have gone with him?” I turn my gaze from the scene to shoot her a glare.

She stares ahead and raises her shoulders. “I got talking to a bunch of the other girls, and they were saying—” Her jaw drops. “Ha!”

I spin around to the screen. “Wha—”

A snarling Lady Circi pulls a naked girl through a door and into a hallway. In the room behind her, a clothed Prince Kevon walks after the girl, but Queen Damascena wraps a hand around his forearm and stops him from following.

The girl’s dark hair covers her face, but I recognize the slender body. Panic flutters through my heart. This can’t be me because I wore a nightgown. The camera follows the two women down a hallway, and Lady Circi shoves her into an alcove.

Berta gives me a hard nudge that knocks me out of my stupor. “What’s he like, then?”

I shake my head. “That isn’t me.”

The next scene is of a girl with my head and someone else’s naked body. Lady Circi points a gun at the camera and makes the same threat.

I want to bellow into the camera that it’s a fabrication, but is there any point? Everyone stops their exerciser to stare at me, but nobody speaks. Prunella Broadleaf stands in the corner of the room and smirks.

Ingrid saunters across the gymnasium. “It looks like we have a pageant horse.”

As she steps forward, the other girls step off their machines and walk behind Ingrid. In moments, all the Nobles, Artisans, and Guardians form a wall between me and the door. I glance behind me, and Emmera stands six feet away with the Harvesters and Industrials. The Amstraadi girls sit up at their exerciser and watch with gleaming eyes.

“Pageant horse,” I snarl. “What does that mean?”

She chuckles. “A healthy, active girl like you should know the meaning of the word.”

I turn to Berta, who shakes her head.

“You don’t want to know,” she mutters.

“If they’re broadcasting this to Rugosa, people important to me might see this,” I say.

Ingrid wrinkles her nose. “It means that anyone can ride it. Much like how you comforted Prince Kevon in his moment of grief.”

I shake my head. “But that wasn’t me. It was—”

“The mysterious woman who pushed poor Rafaela van Eyck out of the window,” Ingrid says in a condescending tone that makes me want to wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze out her last breath.

She stands within striking distance, and to my left and right are camerawomen. “Girls like you who lie and cheat and steal innocent men always get what they deserve. If I become the queen, the first thing I will do is move you and your family back to the Barrens.”

“Do you have dung between your ears?” I snap. “I just told you it wasn’t me.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Take off your gym suit so we can compare you with the girl onscreen.” She sweeps her arm to the wall, where the footage of Lady Circi dragging off the girl replays.

I don’t know how they did this, but if OasisVision can alter Prince Kevon’s features to make him unrecognizable, they might be able to erase my hospital gown with the same technology.

My hands clench into fists. “Step aside.”

“Not until you explain yourself.” Ingrid turns to the other girls, who nod and mutter nasty comments.

“Forget this.” I shove her hard in the chest, and she staggers into a pink-haired Artisan girl.

The crowd parts. I storm to the exit, fling open the double doors, and run.

I don’t stop until I’m at the top floor hallway and in the safety of my room. A small, blonde figure lies face-down on the bed, and unmoving. The fire in my veins extinguish, and I step inside.

“Gemini?” I croak.

She doesn’t answer.

All the blood in my face trickles down to my thudding heart, and I force breaths in and out of my lungs.

“Not again,” I whisper. “Please, don’t.”

“Gemini?”

She doesn’t stir.

A mix of fear and nausea clenches at my insides, and I edge toward her bed, my boot leather squeaking over the wooden floor. Gemini can’t be dead. They were going to execute her in front of the viewing public.

My eyes squeeze shut. What if Prince Kevon had secured her pardon and whoever wanted her dead snuck in here to perform a private slaughter? What if my actions had brought forward her death?

I reach her bedside and drop to my knees. In the semidarkness, it’s hard to see if she’s breathing, and I don’t want to stick my fingers under her nose to feel for warmth.

“Gemini!”

She flinches.

Relief loosens the tension in my muscles, and all the breath leaves my lungs in a single exhale. “I thought something had happened to you.”

She sits up. “I couldn’t go back to that show after speaking to my dad.”

“How is he?” I ask.

“In a tiny cell somewhere. When they’re not forcing him to program, they’re making him watch me suffer through the Princess Trials.” Her shoulders shake. “They got that Ingrid girl to whip me on camera as a punishment for his treachery.”

My nostrils flare. “What?”

Gemini’s face crumples. “I don’t know how much either of us can take.”

Tears fill my eyes. I’ve been whipped, but that’s because I got caught attacking guards harassing Harvester girls. Each stinging lash was something I endured, knowing that I had saved an innocent from a terrible fate. Those punishments were my redemption for letting Mr. Wintergreen die.

Gemini’s situation is beyond twisted, and I’m glad that Prince Kevon is going to help.

The smaller girl wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I think they’re going to kill him when he finishes his project.”

A question falls to my lips, and before I can stop, I ask, “What are they making him do?”

She shakes her head and raises her right arm into the light.

I nod. If a tiny ear cuff can make recordings and send messages, the monitor attached to our wrists can do the same or more. I raise myself off the floor and wrap an arm around her thin shoulders.

“Have faith.” I make my words vague enough for whoever is listening to our conversation. “You never know who is watching you from above and wants to help.”

Gemini exhales a frustrated breath. She probably thinks I’m talking about Gaia. If there were such a thing as an earth goddess, she wouldn’t allow so many people to suffer.

My words of comfort dry out, and we sit together in the dark and silent room. Gemini rests her head on my shoulder and sighs. I dip my head, and my mind drifts to Prince Kevon.

Hopefully, he’s with Garrett or somebody who will be compassionate about his loss. I never trusted Queen Damascena and Lady Circi, and I trust them even less after seeing that doctored footage.

An hour later, the door opens, flooding the room with light from the hallway, and Berta stomps inside.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Prunella sent us to bed with no dinner.”

“Why?”

She slams the door and switches on the light, making me wince, then walks to her bed and kicks off her boots. “Broadleaf wasn’t happy with everyone’s performance today.”

“Did something happen at the garden party?” I ask.

Berta reaches down to the trunk and pulls out a nightgown. “You know how she reminded everyone you were the bucking bronco?”

My stomach tightens. “Yes?”

“She wants to see more action against us.”

I clench my teeth. “Why?”

“She didn’t say.” Berta walks to the bathroom and shuts the door.

“It’s because of me,” Gemini whispers.

I draw back. “What?”

A hiss fills the air, and white smoke rises from the floor. It burns my sinuses and makes my eyes sting. I scramble off the bed and rush across the room to the door, but the handle is stuck.

“What on earth is that?” I shout.

Another door bangs open, making me jolt. Berta staggers out of the bathroom in a cloud of smoke, her eyes red and swollen. “Cepa gas.” She doubles over and coughs. “But I don’t understand. Guards only use it to flush out rebels.”

CHAPTER 21

I  stand with my back to the door and survey the room. Clouds of white gas reach waist-level, and I can no longer see the beds or trunks. Wheezing breaths force their way in and out of lungs that tighten with every passing second.

Berta slams the bathroom door shut, but that does nothing to stop clouds from rising. Gemini stands on her bed with both hands over her eyes.

My heart pounds at double speed, and my adrenaline spikes. It’s too late to plug up the ventilation holes. They are close to the floor, and I can’t dive into the gas to find them. If this is a practical joke, I’m not laughing.

I rush to the window and twist the lever, but it won’t budge. The stinging of my eyes feels like I’ve cut a hundred onions. A pricking sensation attacks my corneas, and my eyelids swell.

“Don’t be stupid,” Berta snaps from the door. She pulls on the handle but can’t get it open. “We need to evacuate this room now.”

“Kick the door down then,” I shout at her. “It’s stuck, and so is the window.”

“Damn it!” Berta is a blur of white against black amid the white clouds. She backs away from the door and rushes at it with a bang. A moment later, she doubles over and coughs.

A dull thud indicates that Gemini has lost consciousness. Clutching at my throat, I rush toward her bed. My mind flashes to the night before when Rafaela’s body landed on Prince Kevon’s bumper, and a shard of terror pierces my heart.

I hold my breath, dive into the clouds, grab Gemini’s arms, and yank her to her feet. Until now, I never understood the term dead weight, but her unmoving, uncooperative limbs make her heavy for her thin frame. When we resurface, the gas reaches my shoulder, and I inhale tainted air.

“Stay awake.” I give Gemini a hard shake.

The smaller girl steadies herself. “Zea—”

Berta rushes past, knocking me aside. My vision is too blurred to see what she’s doing, but something hard bounces on the window.

“Plasti-glass,” she snarls. “We’re trapped!”

The door slams open. Fresh air and light from the hallway flood the room, along with dark figures, who rush inside with a clomp of boots on wood.

I release Gemini, widen my stance, and clench my fists, but the intruders stay low and use the gas as cover. White fills my vision, and the footsteps still. Their rasping breaths fill my ears and make the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Pivoting from left to right, I wait for someone to strike. Berta yells at the intruders to identify themselves and hurls something across the room, which smashes against the wall.

Rough hands grab at my arms and separate me from Gemini. “Found her,” says a female voice. “Everybody stand back.”

The hands tighten around my arms, but the grip isn’t strong. I swing at my captor’s face, but my fist meets a rubber mask. The woman grunts and knees me in the side, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins and fueling my mounting rage cushions the blow.

With a sharp elbow to the woman’s chest, she doubles over and loosens her grip. I should run, but her companions block the doorway. Instead, I knee her in the gut once, twice, slip my fingers beneath the seam of her gas mask and rip it off her face.

A shriek rings in my ear. She coughs and slaps at my arms. “Let go of me, you imbecile!”

The gas mask rolls across the floor, but it doesn’t matter. Her reaction tells me everything. She’s not Lady Circi or any of the Amstraadi girls. My attacker hasn’t had much combat training and is probably one of the other contestants.

She twists away to hide her face, but my eyes are too blurred to see her features. I grab the girl by the hair and yank her into the thinning cloud. “Who are you?”

“Stop,” she rasps between hacking coughs.

I slam my elbow into her back. “Tell me your name!”

“What’s happening?” shouts another female voice from the door.

“Calico.” The girl coughs and tries to pull out from my grip. “She pulled off my mask.”

“Turn off the gas and step aside, or I’ll choke your friend,” I shout.

The girl I’m fighting rears up and slams her head into my belly, knocking me back a few steps. As I struggle to keep her under the gas, more footsteps rush into the room, followed by the sound of fists meeting flesh.

Pained grunts and gasps and panting breaths punctuate Berta’s snarls. It sounds like Berta is taking on at least four girls and winning.

“Stay out of this, Ridgeback,” says a pained voice. “We have no argument with you or Pixel.”

“Then why gas us all?” Berta barks.

The other girl doesn’t answer, and Berta charges through the thinning gas at the door.

I throw the coughing girl aside and rush after Berta. As I pause to tell Gemini to escape, someone grabs my hair, loops a rope over my neck, and pulls, cutting off my air.

Before I can react, girls in black surround us. They slap at my arms and pull at my clothes. If it wasn’t for the noose around my neck, I would call their attacks pathetic. I kick out at my assailants, who jump out of range, but the girl holding the noose leans back with all her weight.

“Berta,” I wheeze, but there isn’t enough air to make a sound.

My mind flashes to a youth cell meeting where Ryce taught us how to break free of a guard’s stranglehold. It’s too late to twist and attack the strangler with a palm strike. There’s no slack. My attacker knees me in the back and pulls the rope taut.

I grab at the rope and struggle for air, thrashing from left to right. My eyes bulge, and my head feels like it will pop. Whoever is strangling me knows what she’s doing and is probably the same person who murdered Rafaela.

With a massive heave, I throw my weight backward. The girl with the noose staggers, loosening her choke-hold. I twist and slam my fist into her face. Her head snaps back, and I attack with a hard punch. Bone crunches beneath my knuckles. She screams and releases the noose to clutch at her face.

Air rushes through my aching throat into my lungs, bringing with it a mix of satisfaction and nausea. I’ve never hurt anyone outside a practice drill, but that girl wouldn’t have stopped. Her companions rush at me. Some grab at my arms, others rain punches down on my bent body.

“Get out of my room.” Berta returns and fills my ears with the sound of her pounding fists.

The girls release me, and I stagger out of our room to find a small blonde figure in the hallway. Her white clothes blend with the wall.

“Are you alright?” Gemini asks in a small voice.

Clutching my aching throat, I wheeze frantic breaths. My eyes feel like they’ve been doused in onion juice and won’t stop streaming, and the pounding of my head muffles the sound of the scuffling in our room. “Not really.”

“You’ve got to hide,” she whispers. “One of the girls rushed down the stairs. What if she’s calling for reinforcements?”

I glance over my shoulder into the misty room. “But Berta—”

“She can take care of herself. It’s you they want.” Gemini gives my arm a hard shake. “Go.”

With a nod, I turn toward the stairwell.

Gemini places a hand on my arm. “That’s where she went. Take the other exit.”

I rush in the opposite direction and bound down the stairs with both hands on the rail for balance. My ears fill with the echo of my footsteps and blood roaring through my veins. That was a coordinated attack of at least two Echelons working together.

My thoughts jump to Ingrid Strab, who the Council of Ministers favored for the next queen, but I’m not sure that she would have been able to get so many girls on her side.

At the bottom of the stairs, I grope around for a door, hoping that I have enough security clearance to leave the building after dark. My wristband brushes against a panel on the wall, and with a beep, the door clicks open.

Clean, fresh air fills my lungs, and the breeze dries my wet face. It’s dark outside, with lamps illuminating the gardens, but in my blurred vision, they’re just a haze of light. I stumble blindly with my arms outstretched and hurry toward the hedge, not stopping until my fingertips meet the wall of leaves.

Prince Kevon and I walked this way to reach the guest house. I hurry through the haze with one hand on the hedge for guidance, with my ears on alert for following footsteps. The hedge ends at a sharp corner, but I continue straight ahead over a stone path and feel out for the conical trees.

“Zea,” a voice whispers on the edge of my consciousness.

A jolt of alarm shoots through my heart, and I spin around. This part of the gardens aren’t illuminated, and I see only dark shapes.

“Who’s there?” I snarl.

“Psst!”

Leaves rustle overhead, the sound causing my skin to tighten. I swing my fists through the air but hit nothing. My chest constricts, negating any improvements the fresh air made to my lungs. I breathe hard, trying to slow my heart.

The watch in my boot buzzes, but self-preservation keeps my feet moving. I can’t stop in case they’re following. The whisper could have been the wind, but if I stand exposed, they’ll definitely find me.

Groping my way through the dark, I reach the wall of densely-packed trees and stumble in the direction of Garrett’s guesthouse. After several steps, an archway forms, and the scent of flowers on my over-sensitized nostrils makes me choke. I hurry through to the metal door, which is closed.

“Please,” I say to whoever’s on the other side of the camera. “I’m here to see my friend. She’s a guest of Garrett.”

There’s no response. My heart sinks. If I had stayed in my hallway with Berta and Gemini, it would be three against the group of attacking girls. Now, I’m alone and in this covered walkway where anyone is free to murder me in private. And if my attacker is someone with access to the security system, they might look up the location of my bracelet and find me.

My swollen throat convulses, and I hold onto the plant-covered wall for balance. Maybe I shouldn’t have run.

Eventually, the door clicks open. I slip through the narrow gap and slam it shut.

Now, I’ve got to reach the guesthouse without drowning.

Forelle is home, and she guides me to a sink and rinses the gas out of my eyes. The cool water is softer than anything we get in Rugosa, and it feels better than the first droplets in the rainy season. My eyes no longer feel gouged by needles, but my vision is still a blur. Next, she guides me through the house into a humid room and helps me out of my clothes.

I step into a chamber with a rough stone floor, and jets of warm water stream out at me from both sides and straight above. Water slides off the sticky residue on my skin, and I feel around for soap. My fingers find a metal dispenser, and cool, chamomile-scented liquid fills my palms.

As I work the soap into my hair and skin, my pulse calms, and the tightness around my lungs loosen. Who on earth stormed my room tonight? The Guardians and Nobles might have access to poisonous gasses, but would they go so far? I shake off the question and let the lather slide onto my face.

Anyone willing to throw a girl to her death is capable of anything. Tomorrow, when I return to the trials, I will find the girl with a swollen nose and inform Lady Circi that I’ve discovered Rafaela’s murderer.

Water pummels my tense muscles from all directions, and I sigh. If Berta hadn’t been in the room with me, I would surely have died tonight.

A knock on the door jolts me out of my thoughts. “Zea,” says Forelle. “The hot chocolate is ready. Come out whenever you want.”

“Thanks.”

The warm water has cleared my vision, and I glance around to find myself in the shower cubicle of a bathroom larger than the kitchen at home. At one end of the room is a glass wall, where a large tub overlooks a garden of palm trees illuminated by floor lights.

I step out into a slate floor and reach for one of the fluffy dressing gowns hanging on the wall. There’s a huge mirror and double sink unit opposite, and I peer at my reflection.

My dark, wet hair clings to my face, and my complexion is drawn. Livid blood vessels mar the whites of my eyes, which are barely visible through all the swelling.

I swallow hard. Whoever created that disgusting naked video made everyone think I had tried to entrap Prince Kevon.

The downstairs of the guesthouse consists of shades of white illuminated by an array of floor and table lamps. Forelle sits on a soft, ivory sofa, dressed in a deep green one-piece that accentuates her curves. On the low table in front of her are a pair of grilled cheese sandwiches and two cups of dark, hot chocolate topped with swirls of cream.

She raises her head and smiles. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” I rasp.

I sink into the armchair next to hers, and she offers me a cup. The hot chocolate is warm and sweet, with a tinge of bitterness that Forelle explains comes from the drink’s high concentration of cacao. I savor my drink, enjoying how the creamy liquid soothes my throat, and recount the events of the night.

At the end of my story, Forelle says, “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“If it wasn’t for me tripping you over in the square, Garrett would never have noticed you.”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

“He thought you would be perfect for Prince Kevon. Garrett didn’t need to tell me you’ve been spending time with the prince. It’s all over the Lifestyle Channel.”

Forelle has watched the Princess Trials at every spare moment. While the cameras focus on my conflicts with Prunella Broadleaf and the other girls, it’s only been Ingrid, Rafaela, and me who have had a chance to spend time with Prince Kevon.

“No matter how they make you look on screen, anyone can see you’re one of his favorites.”

I shake my head. It’s too late to confide in my friend about my involvement with the Red Runners. Whatever security is protecting this guesthouse is probably listening to our every word. I only hope Ryce doesn’t think I’m falling for the prince.

She scoots forward and grabs my arm. “You and Rafaela have the best chance.”

“She’s dead.”

Forelle gasps. “No!”

“Didn’t you know?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “There was footage of her at the dinner table last night. I didn’t notice her in any of the activities today. Is that why Garrett left early this morning?”

“Probably.” I bite my lip, wondering why they would keep Rafaela’s death quiet and if Prunella would release the footage of her accusing me of the girl’s murder. “Can I sleep on your sofa tonight?”

“You should report the attack and not leave this place until the ball.”

“But the vote—”

“Prince Kevon really wants you, and he won’t let a stupid public vote get in the way of his happiness.”

My brows draw together. I might be a spy, but I don’t want Prince Kevon to think we have a future. It’s going to be hard enough when the revolution comes.

Prince Kevon will lose his throne and have to live like everybody else. Even if the Red Runners want to throw him in jail, I will explain that the prince deserves mercy for being willing to help Gemini.

Forelle fixes me with an excited stare. She probably expects me to get excited or pepper her with questions.

“What did Prince Kevon say about me?” I ask.

“He told Garrett you were the most promising of the girls.”

I shake my head. “He doesn’t even know me.”

“Prince Kevon got to travel down with each coach of girls, except for the Nobles, who he already knows. He was watching us all this time.”

My throat tightens, and I burst into a fit of coughs.

Forelle rushes to her feet to a metal panel on the wall and pushes something on the display. A glass of water drops down from an opening, and she hurries back and presses it into my hands.

I gulp down the liquid, but it does nothing to ease my tension. Until last night, I thought Nobles and Royals were unfeeling brutes who only cared about themselves. Prince Kevon is different, and I don’t want to add to his troubles by breaking his heart.

She leans across the sofa and grabs my hand. “Won’t that be wonderful? We’ll be related, and we’ll get to move our families to the Oasis.”

“Has Garrett discussed a future with you?” I ask to change the subject.

Forelle’s cheeks turn pink. “If Prince Kevon can sift through thirty girls to find a suitable wife, it should be easy for us to decide if this is really what we want.”

That wasn’t an answer. I stare down into my lap, hoping Forelle knows what she’s doing. My conscience itches to tell her that this lavish lifestyle won’t be available to her after the revolution, but doing so might jeopardize our plans before they even have a chance to get started.

I shake off these thoughts. If I don’t find a way to participate in the Princess Trials without getting myself killed, Forelle’s broken heart will be the least of my worries.

CHAPTER 22

F orelle’s words ring in my ears as she leads me upstairs to a room with a bed whose white headboard stretches up the wall, across the ceiling and down to where the wall meets the window. The view outside is of a lawn lit by floodlights bright enough to make me wince.

She picks up a remote, and a white screen drops down to the floor. “Did you know you can see and smell any kind of atmosphere in these vision rooms?”

I think about the room I share with Berta and Gemini in the barracks and shake my head. “How did you learn so much about Oasis technology when you’ve only been here a few days?”

“Practice.” Forelle clicks the remote, and images of a rainforest appear on every wall. “Prince Kevon stayed here on my first night. This is his favorite scene.”

I spin around to find that the headboard is also a screen projecting tall trees that stretch up to a starlit sky. The scent of leaves fills my nostrils, and my skin prickles with the beginnings of humidity. “Does it change the climate, too?”

“It’s not as powerful as the botanical gardens.” Forelle clicks a button, and the screen switches to a vista of a snow-covered forest. The temperature drops, and a sharp scent of pine and ozone fills the air.

My shoulders droop, and every blow from tonight’s attack weighs on my muscles. As much as I want to skip through the different atmospheres, I need to sleep. “Is Rugosa one of the options?”

Her mouth drops open, and she stares at me as though I’ve just told her that I prefer the drudgery of home to the luxury of the Oasis.

I exhale a weary breath and rub the back of my neck. It’s hard to explain, but at home, I was an anonymous Harvester girl who didn’t stand out from the others. Not even Ryce, the person I want most in this world, acknowledged me. Until now, I had no idea that being unremarkable could be such a comfort.

“Mom and Dad were on Netface today,” I say. “If you can show me Rugosa, I might miss them less.”

Her eyes soften, and she clicks some buttons on her remote. “Sure.”

In the blink of an eye, a cornfield fills the screens, and elation fills my heart. The temperature warms, and I smell the familiar scent of ripened corn and sun-warmed earth. I turn in a circle and stop at the headboard.

The old baobab that got struck by lightning stands behind the bed. It’s the same old baobab that marks the entrance to the underground headquarters of the Red Runners. My throat convulses, and I snatch my gaze away.

“Do you want to see the tomato fields instead?” Forelle asks.

“No,” I say with a trembling laugh. “This will be fine.”

As soon as she leaves, I take the watch out of my boot and skim the messages. They’re all along the same vein. What’s happening? Did I reach the palace? Did I find the secret entrances? Anxiety tightens my chest until my lungs feel about the size of my fists.

A final message pops up on the screen:

WHY DID YOU RUN FROM ME?

All the soothing effects of the hot chocolate vanish, leaving me with an ache that seizes my throat. That whisper in the wind had been Ryce. I’m not sure how long he’s been in the Oasis, but if he saw that naked footage and wanted to check up on me, my actions tonight might make him think I’ve changed my mind about the revolution.

A tight knot forms in my stomach, and I press a command to reply, to call back, but the communication only seems to be one-way. That, or Ryce has given up on me already.

YOU MUST COMPLETE THIS MISSION.

“I’m trying,” I murmur. But my efforts are not enough.

I thought I could enter the Princess Trials and stay out of sight while the cameras focussed on the girls who actually want Prince Kevon. I thought I’d be in the palace by now, enjoying sumptuous meals during the day and sneaking through the hallways at night to perform my mission.

Even though Ryce and Carolina know about the interim round and they know I haven’t yet progressed to the palace round, they still expect results.

Tears trickle down my cheeks, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand. Nobody said the revolution would ever be easy, and I won’t succumb to self-pity.

I stare at the watch, waiting for the next message, but it remains silent. With a sigh, I ease myself into bed and close my eyes.

In the morning, a delivery person in burgundy brings a covered tray, and we eat scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, and avocado toast in the shaded area outside the pool’s thatched hut.

Leaves overhead rustle in the mint-scented breeze, and the morning sun shines down on a pair of black swans swimming circles in the wild pool.

Our table and chairs are wooden, but Forelle presses a button on the table, and one of the slats tilts on its side and lengthens into a vision screen. Forelle sets it to the Lifestyle Channel, where Montana addresses the camera in a black one-piece suit and stands next to Prunella Broadleaf, whose floor-length gown is also black.

“What terrible news,” he says. “When we envisaged a pageant where young ladies compete for the attention of the prince, we didn’t take into account the pressures it would put on those in our society who are more mentally delicate.”

I take a forkful of toast, barely tasting the avocado and chopped tomatoes, and hope he’s not implying that I’m mentally deficient for escaping an attempted murder.

Prunella nods. “Rafaela von Eyck was a beautiful soul, and the stress of sharing Prince Kevon with all those girls broke her spirit.”

Montana shakes his head. “It’s always a terrible tragedy when a young lady takes her own life.”

“What?” I clench my knife and fork like clubs. Why did I ever think that speaking out yesterday against Prunella would make a difference?

“But you told me it was murder.” Forelle turns to me, her green eyes wide.

“This is a coverup,” I snarl.

The pair talk about Rafaela’s acting career, and clips of her in different roles play on a screen behind them. She is even more breathtaking in her movies than in real life, and an ache spreads through my heart at the memories of her last moments.

As the subject turns to her associations with various actors, images of her with an array of handsome young men appear onscreen. I shake my head. “They’re trying to portray her as having lots of men. She got through to the audition stage and wasn’t even like that.”

Forelle’s brows draw together in an expression of skepticism. What she doesn’t understand is that clips can be sliced and rearranged out of order to depict any kind of story, whether true or false. If I told her about the naked clip that had led to the girls attacking me en masse, her head would probably explode.

Prunella dabs a fake tear with a lace handkerchief. “With one girl taking her life due to the pressures of the Princess Trials, and another absconded and forfeiting her place, we’ve decided to bring forward the ball to tonight.”

“What?” I roar at the screen.

Forelle’s eyes bulge. “What’s absconded?”

I explain that the word means that I ran away but that it has negative connotations.

One of the benefits of having a parent who was born in the Barrens is the stringent standards the Nobles set for Foundlings and their offspring. To join the Phangloria Echelons, they not only have to demonstrate genetic perfection but pass a dizzying amount of aptitude tests that most Harvesters would fail.

Mom taught me to read before school and supplemented my basic education with lessons on history and literature. With her intelligence and knowledge, she’s wasted as a Harvester and should be a teacher, but those jobs are reserved for the Guardian Echelon. She’s well-read, articulate, and quick-witted, but she’s never known anything else but the Barrens and feels that her life as a Harvester is the equivalent of living like royalty.

I turn to Forelle. “Is there any way I can find out what they said about me earlier?”

“Sure.” She points a remote at the screen and switches to another channel with images from the Princess Trials. When I turn to her for an explanation, she says, “There’s a live channel and another one where you can skip to camera feeds of your favorite candidates.”

“Oh,” I say, not completely understanding how it works. “Can I see anything related to me?”

Forelle clicks several buttons, and a matrix flashes on the screen with all thirty girls’ pictures. “If you only want to view the highlights of one Echelon, that’s possible, and you can see footage on each candidate.”

“It’s very precise,” I say with a frown. Maybe that’s why there are so many camerawomen following us everywhere.

She selects my photo and a timer, which brings up footage of me running down the stairs.

“Wait,” I say. “Go back an hour.”

With a few clicks of a button, I’m at the gymnasium, lying on one of the tables. The camera shows me exercising next to Berta, and then we change machines. There’s a close up of me struggling with one of the controls, and then the camera cuts to me storming out in a fury and running down the hallway and into a stairwell.

“That’s not what happened,” I tell her about the fake footage Prunella showed the girls.

She leans forward and selects another button. “Let’s see what they showed last night, then.”

It’s footage of me sitting on Gemini’s bed with my arms wrapped around the smaller girl, then Berta enters and announces that there’s no dinner. The camera cuts again to me, running through the hallway and down the stairs.

I sputter at the screen. “They’re making me look like an entitled brat. Who on earth drops out from a pageant because they didn’t get an evening meal?”

“Why would they go so far?” Forelle puts down her fork and leans forward, watching me stumble through the night with my arms splayed out.

“They’ve already decided who will win the Trials. This show probably makes all the Echelons feel like they have a chance that one of their own might become the queen.”

Forelle picks up the remote and switches to another channel. Prince Kevon wears black and holds the hand of an older woman who has the same delicate features as Rafaela. Beside him stands a black-haired man with Rafaela’s eyes. Garrett stands at the prince’s other side, looking grim.

The camera pans out to show that they’re in a room with an entire stained-glass wall dedicated to Gaia. The goddess takes the form of a tree with her leafy hair laden with flowers and fruit. Her serene, brown face smiles down at the mourners, and she holds the world in her outstretched hands.

Next onscreen is a closeup of Rafaela, who lies on a marble slab wearing a gown that glitters in the light. Her hair frames her beautiful features, and the natural makeup makes her look like she would awaken with a kiss.

My throat thickens. “I thought the hazardous waste people destroyed her.”

Forelle shakes her head. “This is so different from how Harvesters mourn the dead.”

I nod. “It isn’t even Sunday.”

Harvesters don’t have old-style funerals. Undertakers from the Guardian Echelon send the body away for cremation and bring back the ashes and a framed print from their identification records. We have these photos taken every few years, but we never get copies.

There’s a function room in the Rugosa Dome, where you can book a memorial service for Sundays, and the Nobles even provide refreshments. Funerals are usually well attended.

Montana’s voice commentates on the event, and he laments the dangers of Noble girls following Artisan careers. I clench my teeth and say, “It’s disgusting how they feed false information to the public to shape their opinions.”

“Did you know Garrett was shocked to discover we lived on rations?” Forelle takes a forkful of scrambled eggs. “He thought we got to keep a percentage of everything we grew.”

I take a long sip of orange-flavored water and grunt. “They probably show images of our breaks or something similar to make us look incompetent and lazy.”

Forelle nods. “I wish they would just tell the truth.”

I press my lips together to stop myself from blurting my plans. When the revolution comes, we’ll only report the truth and no stupid shows like the Princess Trials. And if most Nobles are being fed lies by the select few from the Council of Ministers, they’ll need to learn that their comfortable lives have been built on falsehoods.

The sound of a door opening makes us both lean forward to see who’s coming out from the guest house. Garrett and Prince Kevon step out into the patio. Prince Kevon pauses, presses his hand to his middle, and blows out a long breath.

Forelle and I exchange confused looks, but it’s her who speaks first. “Montana said he was broadcasting live from the funeral.”

Garrett shakes his head and nudges Prince Kevon. “That was last night. We came as soon as we heard a report that Zea left the Princess Trials.”

I purse my lips as they walk down the side of the pool and toward the shade. Prunella never wanted me in the Trials. She and Lady Circi were against me from the start, and if I don’t convince Prince Kevon that the reports were a vicious fabrication, I’ll have failed my mission.

“Have you changed your mind about participating?” asks Prince Kevon.

As Garret sneaks behind us and wraps his arms around Forelle’s shoulders, I stand. “A group of girls gassed our room, and one of them tied a noose around my neck. I left because they were trying to kill me, just as they killed Rafaela.”

His gaze drops to my neck, and his features slacken. “You’re bruised.”

“Those girls wouldn’t have stopped if we hadn’t fought back.”

He frowns. “How could Montana say—”

“The guy who also said Rafaela committed suicide?” I wave my arms up and down for emphasis. “Did Rafaela seem the type to kill herself? Can you see her sabotaging her Amstraad monitor to perform a fatal electrocution if jumping out of a window failed?”

“Of course, not,” replies the prince.

“What are you doing about it?” I don’t mean for my voice to be sharp, but if I had the power, I wouldn’t let murders go unpunished.

Prince Kevon’s posture stiffens. “Lady Circi has ordered a team of investigators to identify what happened.”

Pressure builds up like a rusting tea kettle about to release an ear-piercing whistle. If I stay quiet about my suspicions for the sake of the revolution, that will make me as corrupt as the Nobles. This goes against the Red Runner philosophy. We stand for the truth and justice and equality.

My insides twist into painful knots, but I force out the words, “What if someone in Lady Circi’s team is responsible for Rafaela’s death?”

His face drops, and he jerks his head away. “Don’t you think I’ve considered that? My parents never approved of Rafaela, not even as a friend. I can’t just accuse my mother’s lady-at-arms of being a murderer. It’s the same as accusing the queen.”

All the tension escapes me in an outward breath. I always thought Prince Kevon was too naive to work it out. “What will you do?”

He walks around the table, takes a seat, and casts the Lifestyle Channel a dismissive glance. “When I become the king, everyone involved in the murder of Rafaela will be punished, regardless of rank.”

My hands curl into fists, which I place on my hips. That could be in half a century. I’m about to protest when Prince Kevon raises a finger.

“Do not ask,” he says. “But circumstances have changed, and I might take the throne earlier than planned. I’m going to need a strong queen at my side with an outlook that encompasses the whole of Phangloria, not just the Oasis.” Determination crosses his features. “Will you rejoin the Princess Trials?”

“Yes,” I whisper. My mind races through different scenarios. Was there an accident at sea? I never asked for updates about the tsunami, but with the sea levels so high and taking up what used to be the east coast of America, anything is possible.

Prince Kevon gives me an approving nod. “I will arrange a couturier to fit you for a gown. Garrett will escort you to tonight’s ball as I’m escorting the queen.”

I glance at Forelle, who is feeding Garret a forkful of avocado toast. She turns to me and nods.

“But I can’t waltz.” I slump into my seat.

Garrett raises his arms in an exaggerated ballroom hold. “I’ll teach you the basic steps.”

Prince Kevon offers me his hand. “I need to attend urgent business. Please stay in the safety of this guesthouse until it’s time to leave.”

I place my hand in his, and for the first time, I don’t feel so irritated at his touch. “Thank you.”

He presses his lips on my knuckles, and I really don’t mind. When he says goodbye to the three of us and leaves, I stare at his broad back and wonder if Prince Kevon might become the king that will liberate the Harvesters.

After breakfast, we return to the guest house, where Garrett pushes the sofas to the edges of the room to create a dancefloor. On the wall screen plays an old movie of actors and actresses dressed in tuxedos and gowns, dancing in a grand ballroom with oversized chandeliers.

He takes turns teaching Forelle and me how to waltz. Forelle, being more graceful, picks up the steps with ease. I sit back and watch them dance in step to the orchestra music.

They look good together and stare into each other’s eyes like they’re the only people in the world. My chest tightens as I think of Ryce. The day I knocked out the guard, admiration shone in his eyes, but now that I see how Garrett looks at Forelle, I understand that it was more like the expression a superior officer gives a subordinate for a job well done.

I dip my head and stare out into the backyard, where even more swans frolic in the pool. Garrett’s personality is the opposite of Ryce’s.

Ryce’s happiness is forever tainted by the lack of justice for the brutal murder of his father. A guy driven by revolution and the need to avenge his father’s death won’t stare at girls with melting eyes.

I turn back to the dancing pair and study their steps. When my mission is complete, would I be the girl who melts the heart of Ryce Wintergreen?

The music fades, and an image of a white-haired man fills the screen wall. His mustache curves like buffalo horns, the front of his hair is longer than the sides and styled up and back from the forehead. He wears two cuffs on his ears that look like Amstraad health monitors but without the blinking lights. Despite his colorless appearance, he’s the most interesting-looking person I’ve seen so far in the Oasis.

A pair of identical young women stand at his sides, each with the same powdered faces and asymmetric bobs, but one has silver-gray hair, and the other’s is platinum-blonde.

Garrett finishes turning Forelle like an old-fashioned ballerina and then claps his hands together. “Master Thymel has arrived for your fitting.”

“Already?” I blurt.

He presses a gentle kiss on Forelle’s cheek. “I’ll leave you girls to decide on the perfect outfit. Make sure you choose something for yourself, Relle!”

“Relle?” I mouth.

Bouncing on her feet, she claps her hands and beams.

Moments later, Master Thymel steps into the living room with the twins. Each wears white clothing, indicating that they are artisans. The man looks about thirty but without that strange ageless look of Nobles like Montana. Behind them trails a motorized trunk the size of a closet.

The man spreads his arms wide and tilts his head to the side with an amused smirk. “Zea-Mays Calico, I am Tussah Thymel, and these are my sisters, Chiffon and Charmeuse.”

The twins place their fingers over their mouths and giggle.

My shoulders stiffen, and my face morphs into a scowl. What on earth is so funny? I’m in no mood to explain to a bunch of strangers how the Nobles in charge of their media network have cut camera footage to make me look like an idiot.

Master Thymel beams. “Forgive me, my dear, but we watch the Princess Trials every day. You and Prunella Broadleaf together are a riot.”

“She really hates you.” The platinum-haired twin unclips the metal fastenings on the front of the huge trunk.

“She hates anyone who points out her lack of intelligence,” says the silver-haired twin. “Everyone else smirks about Prunella behind her back and enjoys her ignorance. The woman’s a national joke.”

“Ha.” The platinum twin opens one side of the trunk, revealing a large screen perched on drawers with flashing displays. “She’s been floundering since Jimeno Montana cast her out.”

My mouth drops open. “Prunella Broadleaf and Montana were married?”

“Didn’t you know?” Master Thymel pushes my hair off my face. He steps back and tilts his head to the side. “It was a huge scandal. She’s from our Echelon but thought that marrying a Noble would erase her humble beginnings.”

The silver-haired twin snickers and opens the trunk’s second door, but a black cloth conceals its contents. “Jimeno grew bored of her after a year and moved her into the smallest guesthouse on the Montana estate.”

“Now, everyone watches the Lifestyle Channel to see her crumble.”

Master Thymel clasps his hands. “Her heartbreak is a work of art.”

I glance at Forelle, who sits on a far sofa with her arms wrapped around her middle. If the Thymel siblings were talking about anyone else, I would probably dislike them for reveling in another person’s misery. But heartbroken or not, Prunella Broadleaf is a corn snake and my biggest source of strife in the Princess Trials.

My eyes still itch, and my throat still hurts because of the disgusting fake footage she showed and her announcement to the other girls to come after me.

With a huge smile, I turn to the designers. “Let’s get started.”

The black fabric comes off the huge trunk, revealing dozens of gowns, each wrapped in a plastic covering that they explain is vacuum sealing. The process lets them transport a larger quantity of voluminous outfits.

The girls usher me behind a privacy screen created by one of the trunk’s open doors and fit me with a flesh-colored body stocking with fingers and toes. When I emerge, Forelle gapes and then frowns. Before I can explain that I’m not nude, Master Thymel wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me onto a platform.

The body stocking inflates and squeezes my limbs, and I jump down to the floor. “What’s happening?”

“Our measuring suit takes an electronic mold of your body.” Master Thymel wags his finger and lifts me back into place. “It’s the latest in fashion for the busy madame. We take your measurements and fit the garment to a customized mold, so there’s no waiting around or being poked with pins.”

Forelle laughs. “This is so much better than the Harvester way.”

I smile as she hurries behind the screen to get a bodysuit. Our uniforms come in eight sizes, ranging from infant to matron. Children get new clothing every eighteen months to accommodate new growth, but the replacements slow to one every five years for adults with a new matron outfit each time a Harvester records a pregnancy.

The uniforms are always slightly too big and need adjusting, but we’re free to alter them however we wish. I always sew deep pockets into my skirts from scraps of fabric to fit a blowgun and quiver.

The body stocking deflates, and Forelle emerges to take my place on the podium. Master Thymel places a hand on my back and guides me to his trunk, where plastic-wrapped and vacuum-sealed gowns of every color hang from the rails.

His gaze sweeps over my body, and he drums his fingers on his chin. “You have such versatile coloring. Pale skin, mahogany hair, and rich, aquamarine eyes. How do you feel about a deep plum?”

Nobody in Rugosa ever has the opportunity to ponder on the color of their clothes. I shrug. “It’s better than Harvester brown.”

Master Thymel throws his head back and laughs as though I’ve just told the biggest joke. It’s a hooting sound that half-bird, half-monkey, and I can’t help but smile.

“Very well, we’ll try every color and see what you think.”

CHAPTER 23

T  he Thymel siblings wheel their trunk out of the guesthouse and complete the adjustments in their vehicle, leaving us alone in the vast living room.

Forelle finds a recorded lesson on ballroom dancing, and we spend the rest of the morning practicing the waltz. I’m not terrible, but I hope the voluminous skirt of the dress they chose will hide any awkward steps.

Forelle shows me how to order lunch with Netface, which is more than a mode of face-to-face communication. It starts with a black screen that asks if you want to shop or chat, and then there is a dizzying amount of options for things people can buy. One of them includes home visits, but we skip over that part and select food.

Everyone in Rugosa gets an allowance of cornmeal, a box of fresh vegetables, and a quantity of soy protein. We’re allowed to barter anything we grow in our homes or collect from the wild.

Even with Dad’s micro gardens providing us with enough herbs to exchange for meat and fish, there’s no way we could begin to mimic any of the items on the menu.

“You have to try the melting king. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve eaten.” Forelle taps the screen and brings up a picture of an old-fashioned burger with two patties, strips of bacon and melted cheese. “It comes with a milkshake and fries.”

My brows draw together. There’s enough meat in that burger to create a stew that will feed Mom, Dad, the twins, and me for at least two days. “Is that for one person?”

“We can share,” she says.

In less than ten minutes, a man in burgundy arrives with a tray containing the items we ordered plus a salad of pickled raw cabbage shredded into delicate wisps, a dish of potato salad, and hot rings of onion fried in batter. There are bowls of condiments—a tomato sauce, a mustard sauce, mayonnaise, and thick sauces containing chopped pickled vegetables, which Forelle tells me is called relish. It’s more food than we can eat and even more delicious than the steak sandwiches I ate at the botanical gardens.

After lunch, a man from the Royal Hospital drops by with a case that contains lightweight machines that check the quality of my vision and the health of my eyes. I’m not surprised when he tells me that my wrist monitor was disconnected after I left the hospital. My situation mirrors that of Rafaela van Eyck, except she wasn’t sharing a room with a girl as strong as Berta.

Forelle takes me to the bathroom for a long soak in the tub. The air is thick with humidity, and the sound of bullfrogs and cicadas echo in the room. Beside me, the wall screen plays footage of a mangrove forest set within a swamp, and it feels like I’m visiting another world.

Later, we stand side-by-side in front of the mirror with the cosmetics Master Thymel’s sisters left for me, and we switch the screen wall to a tutorial on how to put on makeup. I’m not the best artist, but Forelle removes my shoddy job and applies my cosmetics with a steady hand. Without letting me look at myself in the mirror, she fits me into my new dress, fastens its bodice, steps back, and draws in a deep breath. “Wow.”

I peer down at the chiffon, off-shoulder sleeves that match the skirt. It skims my shoulders and forms a delicate edge around the neckline that conceals most of my cleavage. When I look up, Forelle stares as though seeing me for the first time.

My stomach flutters with trepidation. “Do I look alright?”

Forelle shakes her head. “I thought you were pretty before, but that was in a Harvester way. Now, you’re as regal as those Nobles.” She grins. “Better, because I can’t see any of them climbing a tree to save a girl they hardly know.”

My cheeks heat, and I dip my head.

She turns me around to a full-length wall mirror. “Take a look.”

I don’t recognize the girl staring back. Her hair is too glossy, her skin too vibrant, and the eyes… I step close to the mirror and tilt my head. Whatever the healer used to wash my eyes has removed all traces of pink, leaving the whites brighter than before. It brings out the ring of sapphire around the iris and contrasts with the flecks of gold hidden among the aquamarine.

“What do you think of the dress?” asks Forelle.

I step back, noting that the fabric of the sleeves and skirt match the sapphire in my eyes and that the bodice is an iridescent aquamarine silk. It cinches my waist and the chiffon skirt flares out to the ground. It’s voluminous but without a long train that might make me trip.

They even provided a delicate gold chain with a blue tomato pendant the exact aquamarine as the bodice.

Pride swells in my chest, my breath catches, but I manage to whisper, “It’s unbelievable.”

Forelle steps in front of me and places both hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me.” Her gray eyes harden with determination. “You are just as worthy as the Noble girls of winning Prince Kevon.”

I drop my gaze.

“Stop doing that,” she snaps.

“What?”

“You pull a face every time I mention you and Prince Kevon.”

My throat convulses, and my gaze drops down to the chiffon. How can I tell her that there are plans in place to remove the Nobles from power? I swallow hard. Forelle is falling for Garrett, and I would regret it if he gets hurt in the revolution.

I lick my lips. “Forelle, you should know—”

A loud knock on the door makes us both jump. “Are you girls decent?”

Forelle skips to the door and flings it open to reveal Garrett. He wears a royal-blue tuxedo jacket with silk lapels and red cuffs etched in gold. Even though he’s a Noble, the two eyes on the cuffs mark him as a lieutenant. I wonder if he attained that rank at such an early age because he’s the nephew of the king.

My shoulders sag, and I blow out a frustrated breath. There’ll be other times to warn her to keep him safe.

Garrett whistles at my outfit, kisses Forelle goodbye, and escorts me out of the guest house’s front door. Tall lamps illuminate a driveway that stretches down the length of the lawned garden, but it’s too dark to see anything else. A vehicle three times as long as Prince Kevon’s car waits outside, and a man in a burgundy suit with a matching cap opens the door to the back.

Garrett helps me into its cool, leather interior that feels more like a small waiting room than a vehicle. He explains that it’s protocol for guests to arrive at balls in royal limousines. The man shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s seat.

“What Echelon are all these people in purple?” I ask.

“Palace servants are Guardians,” he says. “Their work supports the running of Phangloria.”

I nod, wondering if they also have combat training. Carolina’s estimate of two-hundred palace guards will be off if these people are willing to die to protect the Royals.

Garrett offers me a glass of something sparkling and alcoholic, but I shake my head. He shrugs and takes a long sip. “Kevon will choke on his champagne when he sees you in that gown.”

I give him a closed-lip smile and mutter something about feeling nervous. My insides churn but not because of the ball. Carolina never mentioned how difficult it would be to spy. When I volunteered for the role, the Nobles were faceless oppressors, but I don’t feel that way about Prince Kevon, Garrett, or Rafaela. I stare out into the gardens, where every few hundred feet stands another guesthouse.

“What do you think they’ll say in Rugosa?” asks Garrett.

I snatch my gaze away from the window. “Huh?”

“Tonight, the residents of the Oasis will vote for the thirty girls they want to progress to the palace round. Everyone across Phangloria will watch it live.”

“Right.” I imagine what will happen if I get sent back. I’ll earn the disappointment of Carolina and Ryce, but I won’t betray people who have only shown me kindness and generosity.

“Don’t worry.” Garrett bats me on the nose. “The viewing public will keep you on just to watch you feud with Prunella.”

“I forgot how annoying you can be.”

Garrett throws his head back and laughs. “It’s no wonder they all call you Zea-Mays Popcorn. Your temper is explosive.”

I smile and turn to the window, where I catch my first sight of the palace. The vast building glows as though it has been carved from the moon. A huge marble dome makes up its roof, and beneath it stands a structure that consists of an arched, two-story entrance flanked by a pair of pentagon-shaped wings with arched balconies on every side.

The road that leads to the palace is lined with spouting fountains on its left and right, which spatter water on the car roof.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” says Garrett.

I nod. The building is breathtaking but ruined by the sight of all that wasted water.

Garrett explains that the lit-up part is the old palace, which leads to a four wing-structure built around a huge courtyard garden. He continues to say that in the early days of Phangloria, all the Phans lived in the palace and used the climate-controlled domes for growing food.

I itch to ask what part in this magical history did the Phans decide to turn groups of people into serfs but hold my tongue. Tonight, I need to focus on being charming enough to win a place in the next round of the Princess Trials.

This is also my opportunity to see if I can find a hidden passageway the Red Runners can use for the revolution.

The water stops, and we reach the front steps, where a crowd of photographers gathers. It reminds me of arriving at the Concert Hall. Now that I know a little about the media in the Oasis, I wonder which of the photographers work for the gossip rags.

Garrett steps out first to the flashing of cameras. He turns around and helps me out of the vehicle, and I step onto the thick tread of the red carpet, then everything goes wild. Silver and white flashes illuminate the night, reporters scream my name, and my pulse flutters in my throat.

The sound of scuffling reaches me in the blinding light, and I flinch. In a sick sort of way, it’s as bad as the group of girls who attacked me in poisoned gas because I’ve got to stand here next to Garrett and allow the reporters to take photos, not knowing who might attack and not knowing what these people will do with my images.

Garrett places a hand on the small of my back and guides me over the carpeted path and up the stairs. Even though the line of guards on both sides blocks the reporters from stampeding, my heart won’t stop clattering within the confines of my bodice.

“Now do you believe me?” He asks as we step through the huge, arched entrance. “You’re the most popular girl in the Princess Trials.”

“Most notorious, maybe,” I mutter.

The reporter’s shouts echo down the vast hallway, where every column consists of intricately carved gold embellishments that stretch up to vaults with gold ceiling roses supporting three-tiered chandeliers. I only know the names of these architectural elements because Mom borrowed everything on castles in the mobile library, but I never expected to see such opulence outside the pages of the books.

The hallway combines history with technology. In the place of royal portraits, each gold frame contains screens broadcasting from different locations within Phangloria, and there are even images of the Atlantic Ocean. I can’t help but think of the lack of street lights at home.

“Are these pictures solar powered?” I ask.

“There’s a tidal power station on the other side of the Smokies.” Garrett crosses the hallway and stops at an image of a concrete structure being engulfed by giant waves. “The navy has gotten it under control after the tsunami, but the electricity it produces powers the Oasis, the Industrial Region, and the Great Wall.”

“Is there enough power for the Harvester Region?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You’ll have to ask the Minister of Power or one of the Guardians who work under him.”

As we progress toward the set of double doors that lead to the ballroom, the sounds from outside fade, and the strains of orchestra music reach my ears. It’s a waltz, and my stomach makes an excited skip.

A pair of guards wearing purple uniforms stand at the entrance holding scanners to the ear cuff of a blue-haired woman clad in a silver gown that seems to be made of glitter. Her companion wears the same kind of tuxedo as Garrett but with a golden crown, eye, and tree insignia on the cuffs that indicate he’s a general.

We reach the doors, where the men scan Garrett’s ear and my wrist cuff before letting us into a white vestibule. Palace servants stand among white statues of former Phangloria monarchs, taking outdoor garments. The music in the ballroom beyond stops to a round of polite applause.

As Garret and I step into the ballroom, he says, “You’re just in time for the next dance.”

I have to pause for a moment to take it all in. My gaze sweeps across a dance floor that feels five times larger than the average Harvester dwelling with two levels of balconies along both sides. They’re crammed with spectators, and it feels like all five-thousand Nobles are present. At our level, finely-dressed guests sit around tables, sipping beverages brought by palace servants.

At both sides of a sweeping staircase sits an orchestra whose musicians wear black and white. At the top is a level where Prince Kevon sits on the throne at Queen Damascena’s left, and the Amstraad Ambassador sits on her right. The queen’s ballgown consists of a gold brocade bodice that extends into a voluminous, ivory skirt.

Prince Kevon stares up at the ceiling. He wears a royal blue frock coat with the same gold brocade as the queen’s along the front and hem and cuffs. Ivory ruffles cascade onto a matching vest down from what looks like a tight neckline. Mercifully, he wears full-length pants instead of breeches, but the polished black shoes with oversized buckles look uncomfortable.

The girls each stand on the marble dance floor. I scan them for signs of bruises or a broken nose, but their faces are unmarred—even Emmera, Ingrid, and the other Nobles. Their partners are young men clad in the same asymmetric leather jacket with flashing lights that Admiral Pascal wore for the auditions.

“What are all these Amstraadi soldiers doing here?” I whisper.

“They’re building the new hospital,” Garrett whispers back.

“Aren’t there people in the Echelons with construction skills?” I asked.

His brows rise, and a smirk curves his lips. “I didn’t think you’d be a xenophobe.”

“I’m not,” I snap. “But don’t you think it’s—”

“You’re late,” Lady Circi says to Garrett. She wears a form-fitting, black dress with the usual holsters around her chest and shoulders. The dress is split to mid-thigh, which I guess is for maximum mobility. Her cold gaze roves over my form. “And you are supposed to be in Rugosa.”

“Someone tried to murder me last night so I left my room. That doesn’t mean I left the trials.”

She raises a brow and turns back to Garrett. Maybe she thinks I’m exaggerating—I don’t care. “Go to Princess Briar.”

Garrett frowns. “But—”

“Now.”

He inclines his head. “Excuse me, Zea.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek and watch him hurry around the dance floor. Why does Lady Circi get to boss around the nephew of King Arias? Is it because she was his favorite in the last Princess Trials?

A thin hand grabs me by the arm and yanks me to one side. I stare into the wild eyes of Prunella Broadleaf, who bares brilliant white teeth in a snarl.

She wears an off-shoulder gown that clings to her slender frame and flares out into a fishtail. I’m not sure if it’s gray or duck-egg blue, but the color clashes with the pale skin of her exposed arms and chest and neck. It’s almost as though she thinks no one will notice that she’s artificially darkened the skin on her face.

Royal blue curls cascade down her scrawny neck, doing nothing to soften her scowl. “What are you doing here? You’re disqualified.”

I long to hiss back that she’s an incompetent wretch who can’t keep her charges alive, but I clench my teeth. Words like that might be true and might feel good in the moment, but her threat still rings in my ears. For all I know, there might be a guard sitting outside our house right now, waiting for her to say the word.

“Prince Kevon asked me to attend the ball and face the public vote,” I said. “He’ll be disappointed if I’m not on the list.”

“Miss Calico says there was a violent incident last night.” Lady Circi tilts her head to the side. “What’s really happening in those Barracks?”

Prunella’s thin lips part. “Did you not see the footage? Miss Calico left of her own free will.”

“One of the candidates told me of footage you broadcasted to others of me tussling with a naked girl.”

Prunella’s face turns scarlet, and her gaze darts to the dancefloor. “That was…”

Lady Circi advances on Prunella with a sneer on her lips. “Explain.”

I stand back, watching Lady Circi make Prunella squirm. I can see why Master Thymel is addicted to her downfall. Prunella Broadleaf is the most unlikeable creature.

“May I have the next dance, Miss Calico?” A tall, Amstraadi man appears before me and extends his hand.

My stomach drops, and I part my lips to refuse. Prunella’s protests turn to screeches, and I need to get away before she decides that I’m responsible for her predicament with Lady Circi. The young man raises his brow and presses his lips together, looking like he’s trying not to laugh.

The camerawoman whose equipment I slapped out of her face hovers close. She wears a pair of spectacles with wings at the end that are clearly meant for recording footage.

I dip into a curtsey and take the man’s hand.

“Colonel Karabiner von Mauser, but you may call me Mouse.” He sweeps me onto the dance floor, making my skirts swirl. “May I address you as Zea-Mays?”

“Zea is fine,” I reply.

“It is more dignified than Popcorn,” he says.

His crystal-blue eyes gleam with amusement, and I wonder what on earth about me he finds so funny. Surely someone occupied with the construction of a hospital hasn’t got time to watch my squabbles with Prunella Broadleaf?

“Your dress is fit for a queen,” he says.

“Thanks.” I turn my gaze to the dance floor, where Ingrid Strab waltzes on our right in a silver dress with a soldier whose skin is as dark as her hair. Her partner stares ahead and dances with the same mechanical perfection as Mouse, whose gaze burns into the side of my face.

I narrow my eyes. Ingrid is aggressive enough to confront me about using supposed underhanded methods to ensnare Prince Kevon, but is a Noble capable of conducting such a stealth attack? Her unmarred face isn’t proof of innocence. Medical technology can fix anything, especially trivial injuries like bruises and broken noses.

“Of all the girls in the Trials, you are my favorite to win the prince.” Mouse’s warm breath fans on my cheek, and all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“Thanks.” I turn my attention to Vitelotte, who dances up ahead in the circle. Perhaps if I spoke to her alone, she might tell me if anyone left the Harvester room last night or returned with injuries.

“Why do you think you’re such a threat to the monarchy?” he asks.

I turn to meet eyes that twinkle as brightly as the lights on his collar. “What?”

“I’ve been watching your footage. They’re trying very hard to make you look bad.”

We swirl past a man in burgundy who holds a tray laden with glasses of flaming liquor.

“You don’t want to believe everything you see on the Lifestyle Channel,” I say.

“Not that footage,” he says with a chuckle. “We receive the camera feeds from each of our female comrades. It makes for most interesting viewing.”

“Oh.” My skin itches under his scrutiny. Everything about this man tells me he should be handsome, but his features are too perfect, too symmetrical. It’s almost as if the most talented artist in the world created a statue, painted it, and breathed it to life. The effect is unsettling.

His smile widens. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

My lips tighten. I don’t know if he’s making conversation or trying to incite me into saying something against Queen Damascena, Montana, and all his employees. Garrett is wrong about me. I don’t distrust the Amstraadi because they’re not from Phangloria. It’s because nothing about them makes sense.

Ambassador Pascal brought young, combat-ready soldiers to build the new hospital and conveniently had a dozen beauties ready to enter the Princess Trials. The older man seemed vexed that the Nobles withheld the chemical compound that would make seeds germinate. They’re making the Amstraadi dependent on Phangloria for the supply of food, just as the Nobles make Harvesters dependent on them for water. To me, those actions sow the seeds of violent conflict.

I glance up at Mouse, whose gaze turns expectant. He probably won’t stop staring until I give him his answer. “If I had access to the same cameras as you, maybe I would know what you’re talking about.”

The music ends, and Mouse bows. I dip into a curtsey. The orchestra stands a few feet away, and we give them a brief round of applause.

As I leave, he grabs my arm. “Another dance, if you please.”

Nausea ripples through my gut, and it’s a struggle to mask my grimace. “Maybe later. I’d like a drink.”

“I can escort you to the punch bowl after this dance.” His hand tightens around mine. “Please, I merely wish to keep you safe.”

I’m about to ask what he’s talking about when Prince Kevon descends the steps, his gaze fixed on us.

CHAPTER 24

I  pull my arm away and turn to Prince Kevon. This time, Mouse lets go and even steps back. The Amstraadi officer gives me a curt bow and walks around the dance floor, where he approaches Vitelotte.

A long, relieved breath escapes my lungs, and my lips spread into a smile that comes straight from the heart.

He grins back. “That fellow seemed reluctant to release you.”

“Yeah.” Even though Mouse’s hand was gloved, I wipe the palm that touched his on the skirt of my gown.

The applause dies down, and the conductor, who stands ten feet away, raises his arms.

Prince Kevon bows and is about to extend his hand when Queen Damascena descends. He steps back and frowns.

“Kevon.” She holds out her hand. “If you dance with one girl, you must dance with them all. It’s only fair.”

Prince Kevon sends me an apologetic look and sweeps his mother onto the dance floor. My shoulders slump. It’s not that I want him. He and Garrett are the only friends I have in this room full of Nobles. I frown. Since when did I consider them my friends?

Berta waltzes past with an Amstraadi soldier who eclipses her height by three inches. Honey-colored streaks highlight her ash-blonde hair, which sweeps into a messy chignon held together with butterfly pins. Her gown is as silver and as pale as the stars with a halter neckline that leaves her shoulders bare.

It’s backless and daring, and I can’t help but smile at her newfound elegance. After her mother sees her looking so radiant onscreen, I expect the woman will put more pressure on her to find a husband.

Behind her are two Industrial girls, who dance with awkward steps that not even the perfect Amstraadi males can counter. Dark circles mar their pale faces, but it’s the discoloration that comes with exhaustion, not bruises from last night’s fight. I wonder if Prunella instructed the makeup artists not to cover their blemishes so that they would look sickly on camera.

I sway on my feet, enjoying the rhythmic tempo of the waltz. Depending on the outcome of tonight’s vote, this could be my last night in the Oasis before I’m thrust back into a life of obscurity or the first night of starting the mission in earnest.

Someone approaches from my other side. I stare ahead and cringe, hoping it’s not Mouse returning for another chance at a creepily cryptic conversation. Montana steps in front of me and offers his hand.

My shoulders droop, and I bob into a shallow curtsey.

Montana appears taller today. I guess he wants to appear extra manly when he eventually dances with Queen Damascena.

“When you stormed out of the trials, you forfeited your place. Why have you returned?” he asks.

“You don’t know?”

His face hardens. “Enlighten me.”

I tell him about the attack on our room last night, and his brows raise a fraction. Throughout my story, his expression doesn’t vary from mild surprise, even when I tell him about the noose. Strangely, I think this is because his face is incapable of a wider range of movement. Something about it reminds me of the perfect Amstraadi features. I’m not sure what my mind is trying to show me, but I shake it off and focus on telling Montana what really happened last night.

“Can anyone corroborate your story?” he asks.

“Berta Ridgeback and Gemini Pixel were in the room when we were gassed.”

We dance in silence for at least a minute. Lights from his Amstraad cuff blink through his long, dark hair, and he gazes off to the tables at the side, and I stare up at him, wondering what’s going on behind that ageless, brown face.

The oldest Harvesters usually die before they reach their eightieth year. That’s because of the reduction in water rations when a person can no longer work the fields. Families help out however they can, but even if you juice every cactus growing wild in Rugosa, it still won’t support all those who don’t have enough to drink. This man has to be at least eighty, maybe even a hundred.

As the orchestra music fades, he says, “The stakes of the Princess Trials are high, Miss Calico. There are no rules against eliminating an opponent, especially one who gives herself an unfair advantage over the other girls.”

I stumble over my feet, nearly falling into Montana. “What?”

Holding me steady, he offers me a cold smile. “Step carefully, Miss Calico. I won’t always be there when you fall.”

The music stops, and Montana inclines his head. “Thank you for the dance. It was most enlightening.”

As he walks toward the other side of the ballroom, I glare at his broad back. I don’t think Montana orchestrated last night’s attack, but he would certainly cover up another murder if it helped the Chamber of Ministers marry Prince Kevon to the girl of their choice.

Montana stops to speak with Lady Circi, who stands by one of the ballroom’s many columns. Whatever he says to the lady-at-arms causes her to glance in my direction and walk into the dance floor, where Prince Kevon kisses Queen Damascena’s hand.

Lady Circi pulls Queen Damascena aside, and Prince Kevon glances from left to right. Next to them, Emmera leaves her partner, a red-haired soldier with a broad, stocky build. She holds the fabric of her golden dress and dips into a curtsey. I can’t see the prince’s expression because I’m several feet behind him, but he places his hands behind his back.

A few of the other girls watch Emmera with scowls, and I immediately discount her from my list of suspects from last night’s attack. The girl might be attention-seeking, but she wouldn’t leave herself open to hostility by acting forward in front of the others.

Garret rushes over from one of the many side tables and offers Emmera his hand. She glances at Prince Kevon, who nods. Emmera’s posture sags, and she allows Garret to whisk her away.

Prince Kevon turns around, and our eyes meet. He strides across the dance floor and approaches me with a relieved smile.

“Finally,” he says with a long sigh.

My brows draw together. “Are you alright?”

“As well as can be given the circumstances.” The orchestra starts again, and he gestures toward a far corner of the ballroom. “Will you walk with me?”

I nod. No member of the Red Runners has ever infiltrated the palace. If today is my last in the Oasis, I had better return to Rugosa with something useful.

The occupants of the tables stare as we walk past, but none of the guards in burgundy attempt to stop us from leaving through a single door behind the orchestra. It leads to a narrow hallway where palace servants rush in and out of rooms with trays of snacks and glasses.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He gives me a half-smile. “I promised you a tour. Do you like roses?”

I shrug. “They don’t grow in Rugosa, so it’s always a pleasure to see them.”

“I’m surprised you came out with me.” He places a hand on the small of my back. “It’s everyone’s last chance to sway the public before they vote.”

The warmth of his palm seeps through my silk bodice, and it’s not unpleasant. “Every resident of the Oasis, you mean? They’ve probably decided on who they want to progress to the next round.”

At the end of the hallway, Prince Kevon opens a door. A warm, rose-scented breeze swirls around us. We step out into a lamp-lit garden path flanked by six-foot-tall rose trees with thin stems, which remind me of tomato trees, except there are flowers where there should be fruit. In between the trees are lavender shrubs, but their scent is faint compared to the roses.

The door clicks shut, and Prince Kevon pauses. “Master Thymel did a wonderful job.” His gaze drops to the blue tomato hanging off the thin gold chain. “You look exquisite.”

Even though my brain knows I’m playing a role, I can’t help the flush of heat that crawls across my cheeks. The only people who ever complimented me on my looks are Mom and Dad. It’s also hard to stay calm under the gaze of a man who has over thirty girls competing for his heart.

“Thank you,” I say. “For the dress and the compliment.”

The look Prince Kevon gives me is so expectant that I have to skip back a few seconds to remember if he asked me a question. My bodice tightens around my torso, and my breaths become shallow. It’s hard to maintain eye contact when I can’t stop cringing that he got to hear my heartfelt words about being the woman who leads Phanglora at Ryce’s side.

I turn my gaze toward an archway of climbing roses lit by tiny, flower-shaped lights. “What’s over there?”

“A fountain.” He gestures at the arches. “Would you like to see it?”

All the tension leaves me in a long exhale, and I walk alongside Prince Kevon toward the other roses.

We continue in silence toward a fountain with over three-dozen jets of water shooting out into the air, forming a bouquet shape. Lights at the base of the waterspout color the water yellow, yet it turns purple and then electric-blue when curves down to the stone bowl.

Cold droplets of water spray across the air, providing a pleasant cooling effect.

“I spoke to my mother about pardoning Gemini Pixel,” he murmurs.

“What did she say?”

“At first, she refused to overturn the sentence, even though it was her who incited Leonidas Pixel to break the law.”

My breath catches. “But you convinced the queen?”

“Only when I refused to participate in the Princess Trials,” he replies. “Apparently, the Lifestyle Channel’s ratings are at an all-time high. If I dropped out, it would undermine the monarchy.”

Joy bursts through my chest, and I fling my arms around Prince Kevon’s neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

He wraps his arms around my middle, and his warm, sensual scent engulfs my senses. Suddenly, I’m aware that I’m embracing not just a Noble, but the highest-ranking of them all: a Royal.

Prince Kevon draws back and cups the side of my face with his large hand. “Keep sharing your perspective of the world, Zea-Mays Calico. You make me want to be a better man.”

The admiration in his eyes brings me back to that conversation we had when I thought he was just a guard. Back then, he said Prince Kevon was lucky to have me in the Princess Trials.

His gaze drops to my lips, and a bolt of dread drops into my stomach. He’s going to kiss me. Kiss me like I’m a girl who has admired him from afar and longed to be at his side. He’s going to kiss me when it should be Ryce Wintergreen in his place.

“There she is,” says a sharp voice.

We jump apart to find Ingrid Strab striding through the rose arches flanked by a pair of camerawomen. She reaches the fountain and places her hands on her hips. Behind her are all the other Noble girls, three Guardians, two Artisans, and Emmera.

The boulder of dread in my stomach lightens. I straighten, readying myself for the upcoming confrontation.

Ingrid’s gaze skips over me. “Your Highness, why does one so wise allow himself to be swayed by a creature of such coarse charms?”

“Comments like this are precisely why I agreed to the trials,” says Prince Kevon. “I want to spend the rest of my life with a woman who encompasses the wisdom and beauty of Phangloria in all its varieties. Where you see coarseness, I see the radiance of Gaia, untainted by surgical enhancements.”

My jaw drops, and I swing my gaze back to the Noble girls, who swap uncomfortable glances. Somewhere through the shock of hearing about the Nobles’ artificial beauty, my heart warms at Prince Kevon’s compliment.

Ingrid’s features twist into a mask of anguish. “Is this what we’re to expect in the palace round?” Her voice shakes. “Clandestine meetings between you and whoever stoops low enough to satisfy your carnal desires?”

Prince Kevon steps forward. “Ingrid, is it?”

Something flashes in her eyes. It looks like fury, but the way she clutches herself around the middle indicates mortification. Ingrid won the Detroit Depression round and dined twice with the prince, but now he’s just told the whole of Phangloria that he finds her unremarkable.

“Yes, Your Highness,” she replies, enunciating his title like an insult.

“What is happening out here?” barks a female voice. “Make way for the queen’s guard!”

The girls part, allowing Lady Circi to approach. “How is my security personnel supposed to keep you safe when you wander freely through the grounds without an escort?” She bares her teeth. “Everybody, get inside.”

For a moment, nobody moves. Lady Circi is like the strictest teacher in school, except she’s armed with at least four guns. After my hair-raising one-to-one with her in the hospital and the subsequent doctored footage, I want to stay at Prince Kevon’s side in case I was wrong about her not being present during last night’s attack.

“Now,” she snarls.

Ingrid straightens, raises her head, and turns on her heel. The other girls cast us withering looks before joining their leader under the rose arches. Only the camerawomen remain. One of them shoots footage of Lady Circi’s profile, and the other faces us.

The lady-at-arms sweeps her arm to the side. “I will be having words with Her Majesty.”

“Do tell her that I’m keeping up my end of the bargain,” replies Prince Kevon.

“Barely.” Lady Circi flicks her head in the direction of the doors. “Come on.”

We all walk in silence through the rose garden, back through the hallways, and into the ballroom. The orchestra plays another type of music, and ladies clad in black-and-white cocktail dresses slink across the dance floor in a close embrace with white-shirted men whose black pants are held up by suspenders. Their movement consists of sensuous pauses and kicks and flicks to the strains of a wailing accordion and a melancholy violin.

I stand at the edge of the dance floor with Prince Kevon on my right and Emmera at my left with the other girls at my back. But I can’t focus on them because I’m mesmerized by the dancers and this enchanting melody. I doubt that the Nobles will broadcast this part of the evening to the Harvester domes. It’s rare that we get insights into their varied and rich lives.

When the music stops, the dancers bow, and applause fills the ballroom. Montana walks to the middle of the dance floor and spreads his arms wide. “Thank you, the Pavane troupe, for your wonderful interpretation of Alcorta’s El Choclo. My auditors have informed me that they have finished collating the votes of the viewing public for who will progress to the palace round.”

The people sitting at the tables and in the balconies applaud. My stomach tightens, and Prince Kevon wraps an arm around my waist. Lady Circi, who stands at his right, says something in a loud whisper.

“I need to be in place for the announcement,” he whispers to me. “Good luck.”

He gives me one last squeeze around the waist and walks toward the steps with Lady Circi. I glance up to the thrones and meet Queen Damascena’s gaze. The ice in her blue eyes makes me wonder for a stupid moment if she was the attacker with the noose.

Montana asks all the girls to step forward and form a line. As I head toward the dance floor, someone wraps a large hand around my arm. I twist around to find Mouse staring down at me.

“What do you want?” I pull on my arm, but his grip is tight.

His gaze drops to my blue tomato pendant, and my skin crawls with revulsion. “Come with me,” he says. “I will keep you safe.”

“What are you talking about?” I hiss.

“You trust the prince.” He releases my arm and steps back with his strangely perfect brows drawn together in mock confusion. “Why don’t you trust me?”

The lights on his collar blink on and off. One of them is obviously a camera, and I remember that Ambassador Pascal negotiated my place on the Princess Trials as a form of entertainment. If Mouse is anything like the Amstraadi girls who tried to put words of sedition in my mouth during the dinner with Prince Kevon, I’m better off facing the public vote.

Without a word, I hurry across the dance floor and join the other girls. Mouse’s laughter rings in my ears, and the dread rolling through my belly doubles in weight. Have I made a terrible mistake?

We stand in our groups. Nobles at the front, followed by Guardians, then Artisans, then Industrials, then Harvesters, and then Berta, me, and Gemini, who I haven’t noticed until now. She wears a floaty, pistachio-green dress with white lilies embroidered into the fabric. Her pale hair is swept back into a high bun and decorated with even more of the flowers. The effect is otherworldly.

I turn to her and smile, but she stares straight ahead.

“Gemini?”

She turns to her left, where one of the Amstraadi girls now stands. Another takes her place at Berta’s right. Further up the rows, one Amstraadi stands to the left and right of each Echelon. My gaze trails up to where Prince Kevon sits with the queen. Neither of them appears concerned with the arrangement, but Mouse’s words reverberate through my skull. Did he want to keep me safe from his female comrades?

Ambassador Pascal, who hasn’t moved from the throne all evening, stands. The black tuxedo he wears looks and hangs like it’s made of plastic, but the white shirt and bowtie might be leather. Lights shine from his cuffs and lapel pin.

“First, I choose which six Amstraadi candidates will progress to the palace round.”

“What happened to the public vote?” I whisper.

“He probably pledged another hundred monitors or the loan of a juvenation doctor,” Berta whispers back.

I want to ask whether she’s talking about a doctor specializing in keeping patients young, but the ambassador taps the side of his spectacles.

“Captain Sabre, then Captain Katana. Lieutenants Jian, Tizona, Kalis, and Wallace will progress to the next round.”

All the girls on the left march to the foot of the staircase.

Wrapping my arms around my middle, I take stock of what’s left. Twenty-four places for thirty-three girls. Nine of us will leave.

Montana smiles, but there’s no warmth in his eyes. “Thank you, Ambassador Pascal, for your charming choices. I will now announce the names of those who will join us in the palace for the next round of the Princess Trials.”

My chest tightens, and I hold my breath.

Ingrid Strab gets the highest votes. She takes her place of pride beside the Amstraadi girls, followed by a Noble named Constance Spryte with blue-black ringlets and then the other three from their Echelon. The next names come from the Artisan and Guardian Echelons, which is no surprise.

Berta leans into me and whispers. “I don’t know why they don’t just award Ingrid the crown. She’s going to win no matter who the prince chooses.”

Anger flushes through my veins. I would bet anything that Montana’s auditors made sure Ingrid came first.

Montana turns to smile at the girls on the winner’s side of the room. “Aren’t they a gorgeous representation of Phangloria and its allies?”

The ballroom explodes into applause. Even the orchestra claps.

I fill my lungs with air and survey the winners. Six Amstraadi, five Nobles, six Guardians, and six Artisans. That’s twenty-three spaces taken. Provided that nobody voted for the other Amstraadi girls, there are fifteen girls left vying for seven places. I gulp. If the viewing public selects all six Harvesters based on beauty, that leaves only one spot left between the Industrials, Berta, Gemini, and me.

As predicted, Montana calls out the name of each Harvester girl along with an Industrial girl who doesn’t look as beaten down by the polluted atmosphere as the others.

A gasp escapes my lips, and I sway on my feet.

I’ve failed. Failed my mission, failed Carolina, failed Ryce, and most importantly, failed the Harvesters.

“Yes!” Berta clenches both fists. “I’m going home.”

The seven girls join the winner’s side of the room, and I can’t breathe. Pressure builds up in my chest, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to collapse on the marble floor.

Tonight, they’ll either send me back to Rugosa, or Prince Kevon will offer me a place in Garrett’s guesthouse where I’ll be… What? The girl he visits while deciding who to marry? The girl ever vying for trips to the palace? The applause feels like thunder in my ears, and I lean on Berta for support. She doesn’t shove me away.

“One moment, please.” The voice of the Amstraad ambassador cuts through my mental fog and brings me back to the dance floor.

Montana frowns. “Your Excellency?”

“Does your vote include the three girls I selected?” Ambassador Pascal’s voice projects through the speakers.

Montana pauses for a moment longer than is comfortable. “It was my belief that you already selected the six you wanted to progress to the next round.”

“The six Amstraadi girls.” The ambassador raises a crooked finger. “Will you humor me and read out where my three picks came in the public vote?”

Hope germinates in my chest. I inhale a deep breath and stand straight.

Next to me, Berta whispers, “Oh, no,”

Montana’s lips tighten. “Zea-Mays Calico came ninth, and Berta Ridgeback came thirtieth.”

Berta stiffens. “No, no, no, no.”

My heart quickens, and I glance at the other side of the ballroom, where the girls turn to each other and frown. Surely the ambassador won’t give up three of his girls?

“And this show is being broadcasted live?” Ambassador Pascal asks. “What a disappointment it would be to all those who didn’t get a chance to vote if the rules can be changed to fit the agenda of the Noble Echelon.”

Whispers spread across the ballroom, both from above and our level. If the ambassador was a Phanglorian, his words would be seditious. They more than hint at corruption and would get a person dragged away and disappeared. But he’s not one of us. He is the person who supplies our country with medical equipment and if Berta is to be believed, methods to keep the Nobles young for longer than they deserve.

“Of course,” Montana says with a nervous chuckle. “Miss Calico and Miss Ridgeback, please make your way to the other side of the room. Miss Watts and Miss Pomifera, I’m afraid you’ll be going home tomorrow morning.”

Brunnea Pomifera is the girl from Morus who cartwheeled her way to the audience’s hearts. She, the Industrial girl, and most of the other Harvester girls cast me hateful glances as I walk across the dance floor with Berta, and nobody offers any applause.

Montana clears his throat. “And before Ambassador Pascal has any last-minute changes of mind, please give the girls going home a warm send-off.”

As polite applause rings through the ballroom, something up in the ceiling tinkles like glass and then creaks. I tilt my head up in time to see one of the huge chandeliers falling. Cold alarm squeezes my heart, and I join the screaming audience with a cry for the other girls to run.

It’s too late. The chandelier falls on the girls in an explosion of metal and glass and sparks.

I rush forward. “Gemini!”

Berta grabs my arm and snarls, “Stop trying to be a hero and let the guards put out the flames.”

“Flames?” I twist around to find that parts of the wreckage have caught fire.

A hand emerges from the ruins of the chandelier, followed by an arm. My heart lurches. Someone is still alive. Tinkling fills the air as whoever survived the chandelier accident pulls herself out. From the pale skin, blonde hair, and pistachio-green gown, it can only be Gemini.

“Let go.” I struggle in Berta’s grip.

“Stay away from her,” Berta snarls.

I twist around and glare at the taller girl. “Is this because they’re calling her father a traitor? After what happened last night, I thought you would understand the concept of collateral damage.”

Berta releases my arm. “It’s your funeral pyre.”

“What are you talking about?” I snap.

She points at the burning side of the chandelier. “Put it this way. There might be a reason why no one has rushed to those girls’ aid.”

I step away from Berta. Every person in this room would hurry to their assistance if the girls who had been crushed were Nobles. According to the crowd watching this spectacle, Industrials don’t even deserve clean air.

Gemini staggers to her feet. Blood seeps through her gown, which is torn in several places, and burns and bruises mar her bare arms. One of them hangs limply as though it might be dislocated or broken.

Her blue eyes focus on me, and she raises her left hand. “Zea, stay back.”

“What’s wrong?”

She parts her lips to say something else, but a bright light flashes from her mouth, followed by a loud bang. I twist and crouch with my hands over my head, and pieces of hot, wet flesh splatter down onto my dress.

CHAPTER 25

I  can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t think of what just happened. All I can do is stare at blood-spattered pieces on the white marble floor, on my arms, in my hair, and on my gown.

The bodice of my dress tightens around my lungs and constricts my stomach, and the sour taste of half-digested burger and milkshake hits the back of my throat. I swallow hard, willing the contents of my gut to stay down.

Falling chandeliers don’t cause people to explode. They crush bones, skewer bodies, maybe even cause electrical fires, but they don’t fill a person’s throat with light and blow people into tiny bits. My gaze rises the stairs, where Prince Kevon stands, his body bent double by Lady Circi’s arm lock.

His gaze flickers from me to the chandelier wreckage, and then he lurches out of Lady Circi’s grip and down the stairs. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing. This is another two-pronged murder attempt. When throwing Rafaela out of a building didn’t work, her Amstraad monitor electrocuted her heart.

I stagger toward the group of shocked girls, shaking my head from side to side. How could anyone insert an explosive inside a girl? Why would anyone drop a chandelier on a girl when she’s standing among innocent people?

Prince Kevon emerges from around the girls and grabs my forearms. My head snaps up. His deep blue eyes are wide, frantic. His lips move, but I can’t hear a word through the ringing of my eardrums and the booming of my pulse.

I think he’s asking if I’m alright, so I force a smile and nod.

He crushes me to his chest, knocking all the air out of my lungs. The embrace should feel stifling, and I should struggle out of his grip, but Prince Kevon’s strong arms are the only thing keeping me together.

Heartbeats later, he draws back and guides me toward the steps. Queen Damascena and Ambassador Pascal rise from their thrones. Neither of them looks at the wreckage. The ambassador smiles down at us, but the queen glowers. Lady Circi descends the steps with her gaze also fixed on Prince Kevon and me, but I can’t decipher her expression.

Noises—screams, the trampling of feet, the rumble of chairs and tables hitting the stone floor—rush to my ears, and I blink myself back into awareness.

“Somebody call a medic,” Prince Kevon shouts to the side. The anguish in his voice makes me flinch. “Zea.” He cups my face and stares into my soul. “You’re suffering from shock. I’ll get you some medical attention.”

“I’m…” My voice comes out a rasp as though hoarse from hours of screaming. “I’m… You said she wouldn’t die.”

“She promised.” His voice breaks. “She said Gemini would be pardoned.”

“What about the chandelier?” The words tumble from my mouth.

Prince Kevon draws his brows together. “Do you think—” He stops, and his face turns ashen. “It’s just like Rafaela.”

“If the chandelier didn’t kill her, the explosion would,” I whisper.

Prince Kevon’s fingers curl around my arms in a grip that borders on pain. Above the sound of panic, he says, “Gemini Pixel wasn’t the target.”

A shaky breath escapes my nostrils. The moment that chandelier fell, a seed of insight formed deep in the back of my mind, but the shock of what happened to Gemini didn’t let it germinate.

Someone is eliminating the girls closest to Prince Kevon—at least those who don’t conform with the Chamber of Ministers’ choice. The only thing that kept me alive was Ambassador Pascal’s last-minute intervention.

Prince Kevon loosens his grip, and I turn around. There isn’t even a black mark where Gemini once stood. Orange flames spread over the chandelier wreckage, and black tendrils of smoke drift up toward the higher levels. Palace servants clad in four-cylinder extinguisher vests spray clouds of white dust from bell-shaped nozzles, but the action only stops the fire from spreading.

Montana stands at the other end of the dance floor, his black hair and tuxedo pristine. “May I have everybody’s attention, please?” he says in a well-practiced voice. “The lighting malfunction is no cause for panic, and as you can see, the fire is under control. As soon as our brave fire-fighters have extinguished the flames, we’ll retrieve the girls and send them to the Royal Hospital and offer them the finest medical attention.”

Applause rings out across the ballroom, and my mouth drops open. Doesn’t anyone care how much those girls might be suffering? What about Gemini?

“Zea,” says Prince Kevon. “Come with me.”

I pull my gaze away from Montana and frown.

Mouse.

Moments ago, Colonel von Mauser offered to keep me safe but wouldn’t explain why. I search around the emptying tables and chairs, and along the edge of the dance floor. There’s no sign of the so-called Amstraadi construction workers.

“Zea?” asks Prince Kevon.

“You’re right,” I say, my voice choking with bitterness. “They meant to kill me.”

“Why don’t we have a little music for our heroes?” says Montana. “Conductor, do you know Girl on Fire by Keys?”

The audience chuckles.

Before I can react to the tasteless joke, men in black rush through escaping crowds with military precision. One of them stands at the dance floor, points their gun at Montana, and bullets explode from his chest.

Screams fill the air as Montana hits the floor, and blood pools around his still body. I stagger back with my hands over my mouth. This can’t be the Red Runners. They’re supposed to wait until I show them a secret entrance to the palace.

Palace guards in purple armor rush through the doors, and the men in black throw grenades that fill the exits with fire. Guards fly from left to right amid a spray of debris.

A pair of the men in black turn their guns to us. One shoots at someone up the stairs, and the other yells, “Stay still, and no one will get hurt.”

“Get down,” Lady Circi barks behind us.

Everybody, including Prince Kevon, crouches. I twist around to find both Lady Circi and Queen Damascena shooting at the invaders. The men who pointed guns at us fall, and the two women rush down the stairs, leaving the Amstraad ambassador standing at the throne with a smirk.

My hands curl into fists. “I knew it.”

“Zea?” shouts Prince Kevon at my side.

The machine-gun fire is so loud, so relentless that I can’t tell when one shot starts and another ends. Eventually, they stop firing, and footsteps thunder down the stairs.

“These gunmen are Amstraadi,” I say.

“Everybody, follow us.” Lady Circi runs down the side of the orchestra. The conductor cowers behind a man sitting around a set of kettledrums, but the musicians remain in their seats with terror etched on their faces.

I turn to the tables that border the dance floor. Everyone has either fled, fallen, or is flinching at the far walls. The girls stream behind Queen Damascena, who disappears into an exit set within the staircase. Lady Circi stands to one side of the door, beckoning us to hurry with a small machine gun.

Prince Kevon ushers some of the more frightened girls to run. I stay at his side, making sure everyone is following directions.

Ingrid rushes toward us and grabs at his lapels. “What’s happening?”

“I’m not sure,” he replies. “Stay with the group. Her Majesty will lead you through an underground tunnel to transportation out of the palace grounds.”

My throat spasms. I’ve found a secret passageway, but why am I thinking about my mission amid murder and chaos? More girls rush ahead, and Ingrid remains close. As the last few depart through the door, Prince Kevon, Ingrid, and I take up the rear.

“Hurry,” hisses Lady Circi.

As we pass the lady-at-arms, I glance at the door. Its interior consists of metal thick enough to secure the safest of vaults. We’re in a long hallway that slopes downward and is lit by bulbs so dim they’re barely noticeable. Lady Circi steps in after us, pulls the door shut, and slams her palm on a glowing view-screen. The bulbs flare to life, bathing us in light.

I turn to Prince Kevon. “What about Garrett?”

“Move!” Lady Circi sprints ahead.

Prince Kevon and I break into a jog. He turns to me and replies, “Garrett left the ball an hour ago.”

“Thank Gaia.” Ingrid places a hand on her chest.

As soon as Lady Circi disappears into the crowd of girls, Ingrid stumbles and holds onto her calf. “Oh!”

Prince Kevon pauses. “What’s wrong?”

“Leg cramp,” she replies with a sob in her voice. “Run ahead, Your Highness. Save yourself.”

Prince Kevon scoops her into his arms, and Ingrid rests her head on his broad chest. The part of me that might have bristled at her transparent tactics remains dormant. Gemini’s mouth, the horror in her eyes, the explosion of her body parts on my bare skin rush through my senses. All I can do is keep running and hope that the palace’s security system isn’t built on Amstraadi technology.

“What’s happening?” Ingrid whispers, her voice soft and vulnerable. “Why do so many people have to die?”

Ingrid’s arms wrap around Prince Kevon’s neck, and she sobs into his chest all the way to the end of the slope.

We reach an underground space that reminds me of the one I saw in the Concert Hall, except it’s not filled with vehicles. Lady Circi stands at the door of an armored bus about half the size of the coach that transported the Harvester girls to the Oasis.

“Hurry,” Lady Circi hisses.

Prince Kevon steps aside and says to me, “You first.”

I bound up the stairs and meet rows of frightened, tear-streaked faces. The Artisan girls hug themselves, the Guardians sit stiffly despite their tears, and the Nobles’ faces are pale and unmarked. Emmera wails in the back, her head on Vitelotte’s lap, and Corrie Barzona strokes her hair.

“Get on your feet, Strab,” snarls the lady-at-arms from outside.

Feeling no stab of satisfaction at Ingrid’s reprimand, I walk past the front, where Queen Damascena sits next to the empty driver’s seat. She clips a fresh magazine into her automatic rifle, making my skin crawl as I pass the Noble girls and lower myself into the place next to an ashen-faced Berta.

The door slams, then Prince Kevon bounds up the stairs. Lady Circi emerges from behind him, rushes to the driver’s seat, and fires up the engine.

“Ladies.” Prince Kevon stands in the aisle with his hands on the tops of the front seats. “Please remain calm. This is an armored personnel carrier. It’s bullet-proof, shrapnel-proof, and will withstand even weapons of mass destruction of a chemical, biological, or nuclear nature.”

Someone in the back row shrieks. It’s probably Emmera, but I don’t turn around to check.

The vehicle rushes forward into the dark.

“My mother, Lady Circi, and I have practiced this drill dozens of times. We will drive through one of the underground roads that lead out of the Oasis and into a secure facility where we will wait in safety until Guardians arrive to subdue the rebels.”

“Rebels?” snarls Berta. “It’s those cyborg Amstraadi. They’re probably tracking us as we speak through our health monitors.”

Nausea ripples up my throat, and I wrap my hand around my neck. Berta is right. I should be the one coming to these conclusions, but my mind keeps skipping back to Gemini and the chandelier, and my insides won’t stop trembling.

“Alright,” says Prince Kevon. “Miss Ridgeback, will you collect everyone’s monitors, please?”

Ingrid shoots to her feet, unclips her ear cuff, and drops it into a sick bag. “I’ll be happy to help.”

Berta stands in the aisle and demonstrates with a hairpin how to remove a wrist cuff. Following her instructions, I find the red and green flashing lights and stick the pin into the tiny dip hidden between them. With a stinging sensation of needles withdrawing from my skin, the cuff clips open. I let it fall onto my lap and rub the damp ring it’s made over my wrist. My skin is raw over the parts the cuffs pierced, but it doesn’t bleed.

“Have you calmed yourself yet?” Ingrid says to me in a cloyingly sweet voice. She stands in the aisle and shakes a plastic sick bag. “You know, those in our Echelon are accustomed to the dangers that Royals face. We practice security drills all the time. You should go home. Life is much safer in the Barrens.”

“Is that why you faked a sprained ankle and needed Prince Kevon to haul your carcass?” I snap.

Berta snorts. “Nice one.” She drops her wrist cuff into the sick bag. “I never pegged you as a fainting fancy, Strab.”

Ingrid fakes a laugh. “Oh, Ridgeback. It’s wonderful that you’re so robust.”

“Actually, it is.” Berta folds her arms across her chest and raises her chin.

I drop my cuff into the bag, and Ingrid wrinkles her nose as though it’s somehow tainted. I turn away from the girl and stare out of the window. Yellow lights whizz past in the dark with the occasional red marker. Either this vehicle’s wheels are thick enough to absorb the bumps in the tunnel, or the ground beneath us is as smooth as a regular road.

“Did you see?” I whisper.

“What? Pixel’s explosion?” Berta replies.

I nod.

“That was a bunny bomb.”

I turn and meet the other girl’s pale eyes. “What?”

Berta scratches the side of her chin. “Border guards use it all the time when the wild men group at the Great Wall. Stick a small explosive down the mouth of a Checkered Giant, send the creature through a hatch and let it run. They all go chasing after the fresh meat and boom.” She spreads her hands wide. “No more wild men.”

“What if the rabbit runs faster than them?” I ask.

“What are you talking about?” Berta twists in her seat, impatience etching her features. “No animal, no matter how fast, can escape human endurance. Those wild men are insanely strong. It might take a minute or two, but they catch up with the bunny eventually. That’s when the guard at the viewing tower or someone watching the creature’s collar will detonate the bomb. Simple.”

Swallowing hard, I restrain myself from asking how they put the bomb in Gemini’s throat. If Berta provides me with a callously worded explanation, I don’t know how I will react.

The adrenaline from our escape wears off, leaving me feeling like I’ve had to fight my way through poisoned gas. My shoulders slump, and I bow my head. “I should have said something earlier.”

Berta leans into me and whispers, “If you’re feeling guilty about Pixel’s death sentence—”

“Not that.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I knew the Amstraadi were up to something.”

“So did everyone else with a set of eyes,” Berta says with a chuckle. “So does everyone who noticed they didn’t join us on the bus. The Amstraadi girls who didn’t make the palace round also walked out of chandelier-range. Nobody but those dependent on juvenation treatments trust them.”

“Aren’t you worried?” I ask.

“Hey.” She nudges me on the side. “Do you really believe the entire Royal Navy is out there investigating a tsunami?”

I raise my head. “What?”

“My cousin’s brother-in-law’s uncle is a commander camping out at the base of the Smokies. As soon as the border guards, the navy, and the palace guards regroup, they’ll reduce every single Amstraadi in the Oasis to body parts and circuits.”

I bite down on my lip and wonder if Carolina’s plan to infiltrate the palace via a secret entrance is over-optimistic. The Red Runners might be able to defeat two-hundred palace guards, but there are enough people in the Guardian Echelon and with enough weapons to wipe out the Harvesters. To take control of Phangloria, she would need to subdue every single Noble and all the Guardians loyal to the Royals.

The underside of the vehicle bumps against something large, making us all jolt. And a flash of light explodes outside our window.

My heart jumps into my throat, and I turn to stare outside, but Berta leans forward and takes up all the space. “What’s out there?”

She leans back, her face grim. “Take a look.”

Dark figures in open-top jeeps ride alongside us. Bursts of light explode from their machine guns, and I clench my teeth and remind myself that this vehicle is designed to protect the Royals and won’t fail.

“Trucking hell,” Berta moans.

My stomach tightens with dread. “What?”

“They’ve attached some sort of computerized bomb to the side.”

“To make another explosion?” I squeak.

“They’re overriding the security programming with nanobots, aren’t they?” she snaps.

I feel too sick to get offended. Even if this getaway vehicle isn’t of Amstraadi construction, our enemies are more technologically advanced than I can imagine.

Lady Circi revs the engine, and we lurch forward in a burst of speed. I hold my breath, waiting for the explosion. Waiting for the Amstraadi to board the vehicle and slaughter us.

There’s no bang—only the hiss of the doors as they open. A man wearing the same black bodysuit as the palace intruder boards.

“Now,” snarls Lady Circi.

Queen Damascena twists and sprays bullets at the intruder. He falls, and another emerges, holding a perspex shield. Behind him, another person crouching low points the gun at the queen, but she’s too busy attacking the man in front to notice.

“Watch out,” I yell, but it’s too late.

The queen falls, and everybody screams. Her gun slides down the aisle, and Prince Kevon traps it with his foot.

The man in front lowers his shield and points a gun at Lady Circi’s head. “Stop driving.”

Keeping a hand on the steering wheel, the lady-at-arms shoots him in the gut, and he falls back. Lady Circi swerves the vehicle left and right. I jerk sideways into Berta, then she falls onto me. The intruders topple back, but in the confusion, one crawls down the aisle and holds a gun to Prince Kevon’s head.

“Stop driving and drop your weapon, or the Royal line ends with this boy.”

Lady Circi slams on the breaks, and everyone lurches forward. Prince Kevon shoots the intruder in the gut in a spray of gunfire, and he crumples into the floor. He steps into the aisle with his gun pointed at the entrance, but a man snatches Ingrid from the front and points a gun to her head.

“You.” The man beckons at Prince Kevon with the gun. “Come quietly with us, or your little harem dies.”

Prince Kevon’s shoulders rise. “These girls have done nothing—”

“Except volunteer to be part of an oppressive regime,” says the gunman with a sneer.

Lady Circi rises from the driver’s seat. “Go with them.”

Prince Kevon turns, and our eyes meet. Terror wars with confusion across his features, but he nods and steps toward the attackers.

CHAPTER 26

M y pulse flutters in my throat. It’s the only other part of me that’s moving right now except my eyes, and an ache forms in my heart because I can’t let Prince Kevon leave with those people. It’s hard to explain why.

Ever since Mr. Wintergreen lost his life for protecting a Harvester girl from that border guard, I have wanted those who rule us destroyed. But Harvesters were supposed to take over the country—not the Amstraadi—and I planned on sparing Prince Kevon.

I gaze down the aisle at Prince Kevon’s retreating back. He continues down toward the front, where Queen Damascena lies face-down on the floor among the dead soldiers. Lady Circi edges out from the driver’s seat and reaches for her holster.

Prince Kevon’s shoulders stiffen, his hands curl into fists, but the man with the gun points his weapon into the prince’s face.

“Wait here with your hands up,” he snarls.

Prince Kevon pauses a moment before raising his hands.

“You.” The man holding the gun turns to Lady Circi. “Place your hands out front.”

Hatred burns in the older woman’s eyes, but she doesn’t move. I lean forward in my seat and gulp. The lady-at-arms might have dropped one of her guns but likely has more weapons hidden in her outfit. If she doesn’t want to become a captive, she needs to make a move now.

“We’ll do this the hard way, then.” The man in black turns his gun to the front seat, where Ingrid shrieks.

“Do it,” Prince Kevon says to Lady Circi. “We can’t let them hurt the girls.”

Her features harden, and she tightens her lips. I would bet my entire collection of blowguns that she wants to do the opposite. Her priority is protecting the Royals, even at the cost of our lives. My gaze flickers to Prince Kevon, whose chest rises and falls with rapid breaths.

“Please,” he says, his voice imploring. “For me.”

Lady Circi gives him a sharp nod and stretches out her arms but steps back into what looks like a fighting stance. Her gaze darts toward the aisles, and I draw in a sharp breath. If she attacks, Ingrid Strab will die. The man lowers his gun, pulls out a thick pair of cuffs, and steps into kicking distance.

Thin, silver wires shoot out from the cuffs, attach themselves around Lady Circi’s heart, and send bolts of electricity into the lady-at-arms. Her teeth clench, her body stiffens, and she drops like a ripe persimmon in a faint breeze.

A gasp tears from my lips, and the girls’ screams ring through my ears. Is she dead, too?

Prince Kevon lurches forward. “Don’t hurt—”

The man grabs the prince’s throat. Prince Kevon slams his fists down on the man’s forearm and breaks the hold, then he grabs the back of his attacker’s head and forces his knee into the other man’s chest.

A female attacker emerges through the vehicle’s door with her gun raised and pointed at Prince Kevon’s blindside.

My heart spasms. I scream, “Watch out!”

He twists, ducks, but the woman slams the butt of her rifle into the back of the prince’s head, making him fall into the first man. This time, even I shriek.

The woman slams her elbow into Prince Kevon’s back, shoving him forward, and the man punches the prince full in the face. Blood explodes from Prince Kevon’s nose, eliciting more screams from the girls.

My stomach tightens into knots, and my hands curl into fists. Fury surges through my veins, and without thinking, I shoot out of my seat.

Berta grabs my shoulder and shoves me down. “Don’t make yourself a target.”

A dazed, bleeding Prince Kevon sways on his feet, and the woman places a black sack over his head. She yanks on a cord around its base, and it tightens around his neck like a garrote.

The prince’s hands fly up to his neck, but she pulls harder. His choking sounds bring back the anguish of last night, and I clutch at my own throat.

“That’s enough from you.” She drags him across the front of the bus and out of its doors.

The man who electrocuted Lady Circi turns her over with his foot and slaps the cuffs on her wrists.

A siren wails in the distance. I twist around in my seat and glance out of the back window for signs of the reinforcements Berta mentioned earlier, but it’s a white ambulance. My pulse pounds within a throat already dry and hoarse from the horrors of the evening. Even if the medics are here to help, these hijackers will kill them like they killed the queen.

A pair of women board. They wear the same black armor and helmets as the men and point machine guns down the aisles. One of them shouts, “Remain in your seats, or we’ll shoot.”

Their accomplices drag out the bodies of Lady Circi, Queen Damascena, and their fallen comrades.

Berta leans her head against the window. “We’re dead.”

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” I whisper.

“Not in centuries,” she whispers back. “Amstraad had a choice on who to back in the last civil war, and they chose the Nobles.”

“Everybody, pay attention,” says one of the women up at the front. “You are now the hostages of the Freedom Army. Sit still, stay quiet, and no one else will get shot or electrocuted.”

I lean forward and study our captors. They’re both statuesque and move with the same grace and precision as the Amstraadi girls. The high collars that meld with the base of their helmets flash with the same kind of lights I saw on Mouse’s collar.

“Do you think they’re the girls from the trials?” I whisper.

“Does it matter?” mutters Berta.

She’s right. Identities don’t matter right now, and neither do the motives of our attackers. These people are resourceful, ruthless, and ready to use us as leverage to achieve their ends. But there’s a flaw in their plan. A flaw that fills my stomach with acid and burns the back of my throat.

King Arias will soon return to the Oasis with reinforcements, but I doubt he would negotiate for our safe return. Even if Prince Kevon pleaded with his father for our lives, his experience with Gemini proves how little sway he has over his parents’ decision-making.

“Where are you taking us?” asks a Noble with long ringlets sitting in the first row with Ingrid. I’m sure she’s Constance Spryte, who got the second-highest votes.

The woman on the left pokes Constance with the muzzle of her gun. “The next person who speaks or rises from her seat will get shot, is that understood?”

Nobody replies.

“Good.” The smirk in our captor’s voice makes me cringe.

Her companion lowers herself into the driver’s seat and fires up the engine. I lean forward, place my head on the backrest in front, and massage my pounding temples.

The vehicle speeds down the road toward our unknown destination, and I breathe harsh, ragged breaths. A worst-case scenario flashes before my eyes. All the girls filthy and hungry and huddled together in an underground bunker as our captors film footage of our misery.

Trepidation tingles up my spine and settles around my tightening throat. They might even execute a few of us on camera to prove that they are serious about their demands, but it won’t work. Maybe King Arias will make concessions for Ingrid, Constance, and the other Noble girls, but I doubt he will value the lives of the Harvesters.

Across the aisle, a pair of Nobles weep into their hands, and the corset around my bodice constricts my chest and steals my capacity to breathe. I force shallow breaths in and out of my lungs, but it’s not enough, and sweat gathers on my brow.

If the events of the ballroom were broadcasted live across Phangloria, Dad will know the Harvesters will be the first to get slaughtered. He’ll prepare himself for the worst, but Mom will remain optimistic until the end.

“We’re going to die,” I whisper.

“You’re only working that out now, genius?” Berta whispers back.

With a flash of annoyance, I twist around in my seat and scowl. “Will you shut up for a minute?”

Berta’s lips tighten. Red rims her eyes, and dark smudges of makeup mar her skin from having wiped them without care. Despite the sarcasm, Berta is just as frightened as Emmera, who won’t stop wailing at the back.

Leaning close, I whisper, “If we don’t do something, the underdog and bucking bronco will be the first to die.”

“That’s not how Amstraadi games work,” she whispers back.

I shake my head. We’re not safe. Mouse had given me a cryptic warning that something was going to happen. He might have been serious earlier about wanting to protect me, or he might be watching us from a camera somewhere and laughing that I didn’t take up his offer. He was a creep, and I don’t care.

Besides, Berta never heard Ambassador Pascal lament on how dependent Phangloria had made his country by supplying food whose seeds couldn’t germinate in Amstraadi soil. The Princess Trials might have been a game, but this violence is real. If we’re going to survive, the only person I can rely on in this hijacked vehicle is Berta.

“There’s a gun under Prince Kevon’s seat,” I say. “It rolled there when they told him to drop it.”

Berta’s brows draw together. “So?”

“I’m going to get it.”

She shakes her head. “It won’t work.”

“Because I’m a bumpkin who can’t handle a gun?” I snap.

“Don’t you think that rabble knew the prince dropped his weapon?” Berta snaps back. “Unless your prints are authorized, no automatic weapons will work for you.”

My heart sinks, and my shoulders droop. “Oh.”

“Any other bright ideas?” she snarls. “I can’t wait for the little Harvester girl to save the day.”

Irritation bristles across my skin. It’s partially because of Berta’s misplaced anger and partly because she’s right. Despite all the training I did with the Red Runners, I didn’t even manage to land a single blow. I turn to the front, where the vehicle moves up a slight gradient. It feels like we might soon resurface.

One of the Noble girls sitting across from Ingrid and Constance turns around at the same time. Tears streak her face, and the sleeve of her dress hangs in tatters. She dips her head and sniffles. A glance around to the back of the bus tells me that the other girls are faring about the same.

The only person not silently weeping is Ingrid, who sits in the front and folds her arms. I rub my chin. Is she just calm under pressure, or did Mouse say something to her as well? I shake off those thoughts. If she knew about the attack, she would never have gotten on the bus.

My gaze lands on the lights flashing on the women’s collars. If they’re linked to a device like a health monitor, maybe we have a chance. I twist around to face Berta, who rests her head against the window with her eyes closed.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“What?” she whispers back.

“Are there any sources of electricity on this bus?”

She glares at me out of the corner of her eye. “This isn’t a cross-country luxury stagecoach.”

“Answer the question,” I snap.

Berta blows out a long, weary breath, turns from the window, and her shoulders slump forward in the bored posture the twins make whenever they have to tidy up after themselves. She places her large hand on the armrest between our seats and flips up the cushion, revealing an electronic console. “These are for charging our portable Netfaces.”

“Do you have one?” I ask.

“Mine got confiscated before they press-ganged me onto the Princess Trials.” She leans down and frowns. “If you’re trying to send a message—”

“I need enough power to electrocute those women.”

Something flashes in her pale eyes. I hope it’s an idea and not a new way to tell me that nothing I suggest will work.

She taps a socket and whispers, “Gadget chargers aren’t like the refrigerators. They always use kinetic batteries that run on the engine’s movement. That way, it doesn’t drain any of the power that should go to the vehicle.”

“Can I take it out?”

Her brows lower into a deep V. “Tell me your plan first.”

I whisper an idea based on the assassination of Rafaela van Eyck. If I can overload whatever’s behind those flashing lights on our captives’ collars, I can disable them for long enough for us to run and get help.

Berta nods throughout my explanation. “Wait until they resurface the vehicle.”

“Why?” I whisper.

She points at the window into the darkness streaked by the occasional electric light. “Access to these underground passages are restricted. If we attack now, we’d never get through to the surface by ourselves. Once we’re out in the streets, we can make a run for it on foot.”

Berta raises her unadorned wrist, and I give her a sharp nod. Without the cuffs, it won’t be so easy to track us through the Oasis.

While Berta eases open the workings of the console with a hairpin, I tap my fingernails on the plastic armrest to disguise the sound of scratching. The slope we’re driving through becomes steeper, making me lean back into the seat. A clang of metal rings through my ears, and Berta curses under her breath. I lean forward and cough.

“Do you mind?” snaps the Noble girl from across the aisle. “No one wants your Foundling germs.”

The woman at the front twists around and fires a shot into the ceiling. “No talking!”

Screams fill the air, and the gun-woman yells at everyone to be quiet. I duck, expecting bits of debris to rain down on our heads, but the plastic remains intact. When I glance over my shoulder at Berta, the plastic casing from the console rests on her lap, and she pulls out a thick wire attached to a metal box.

“Is that it?” I lean close so I can hear her reply over the screams and shouts.

“One minute,” she hooks her fingernails under a plastic connector and yanks it off the cable, revealing two wires.

“How do I use the electricity?”

Berta flips a switch. “It’s live now, but the voltage is low. You won’t disable her unless you combine your attack with a few sucker punches.”

Light streams through the windows and fills the vehicle’s interior. We’re on a floodlit highway that stretches across what appears to be the foot of a mountain. I turn around to find a tall wall of electrical masts linked with tight rows of barbed wire.

“This isn’t the Oasis,” I mutter.

“We’ve just passed the wall that separates the Harvester region from the Barrens,” Berta moans. “This is the road that leads to the Great Wall’s north gate. They’re taking us out of Phangloria.”

Panic spasms through my chest. There’s toxic wasteland on the outside, wild men, and creatures mutated by radiation. The Great Wall filters the worst of the sandstorms, and its filters remove pollution from the air. We would choke within minutes. My gaze flicks to the two women sitting at the driver’s seat. Now I know why they’re wearing gas masks.

“Where do you think they’ll go?”

Berta winces. “They might be taking us to the aerodrome, which is a mile outside the Great Wall.”

“That’s even worse,” I twist around and glance further down the vehicle. A few rows back, the Guardian girls sit in their seats with ashen faces, looking like they’ve already guessed our fate.

My mind brings up Ambassador Pascal’s rant about having to travel through hoards of wild men to get to Phangloria. I don’t know which is worse—facing what’s out there or being flown on an airship across the continent to the Amstraad Republic.

Shaking off those thoughts, I reach down to the little refrigerator between the seats in front and pull out a bottle of water. My hands are so clammy, they slip over its cap, so I place the lid between my teeth and twist.

Berta gives me an approving nod. I drink half the contents of the bottle, letting the cold liquid slide down my throat. It cools my nerves and leaves me calm as a cornfield on a still day.

My heartbeat slows, and all traces of panic evaporate into the ether. I snatch the bottle from my lips and read a label that says CALM.

A laugh huffs from my throat. When will I ever learn that water is seldom ever water? But this time, I don’t mind. This time, I need all the help I can get.

The second woman rises from her seat and walks down the aisle. It’s hard to see her features through the visor of her helmet, but I’m sure this is the dark-skinned Amstraadi girl who was first to emerge at the beginning of this interim round.

She turns her head from side to side, seeming to watch our faces, but there’s probably a camera somewhere in the visor that’s recording our every expression. When she reaches the back seat, where Emmera still cowers on Vitelotte’s lap, I fill my mouth with water and wait.

My heart pounds as hard as the pulse booming through my eardrums, but at least it’s slowing.

My fingers tremble over the metal box I hide in the folds of my voluminous skirt.

My throat spasms in time with the woman’s approaching footsteps.

As she passes, I leap out of my seat, spit a mouthful of water on her flashing lights, and stick the wires into her collar. With a loud snap, sparks fly from the device, sending a stinging jolt through my fingers and down my arm.

“Ow!” I snatch my hand away and step back, but the woman twists and elbows me on the side of my face. Pain explodes across my cheekbone, and I fall onto my back.

Smoke billows out from the woman’s collar. She turns around and points her gun in my face. I kick her feet, but Berta rears up and rams her shoulder against the woman’s middle.

“Get down, girls,” Berta yells.

Everybody screams. The woman stumbles back, but it’s not enough to make her fall. She points her gun in the air and sprays the ceiling with bullets as Berta pummels her with massive fists.

“Stop!” The driver slams on the brakes, and the gunwoman staggers several steps down the aisle, now with enough space to shoot Berta.

The woman’s entire collar is on fire, and black smoke streams toward the ceiling. She screams even louder than the girls and tries to douse the flames with the hand not holding the gun. Berta ducks behind the seats, leaving the woman and me alone on the aisle.

I scramble onto my hands and knees, and hot smoke sears the scent of melting plastic and burned flesh into my nostrils. Gagging on the thick air that dries my throat, I wrap my hands around the burning woman’s arm and point her gun at the driver. She struggles, but I’m not the one being asphyxiated with a helmet full of smoke.

Flames spread down her back as we wrestle over control of the gun. The side of my face heats and pieces of molten plastic drop onto my arm. She shoulders me in the throat with the arm holding the weapon, and I fall back onto the side of the seat. Someone kicks me in the side—one of the ungrateful Nobles, probably—and I use the momentum to shove the woman onto her knees.

The gun falls to the floor. I snatch the weapon, point it at the driver, and shoot.

Ryce lets us practice with guns during Red Runner training sessions, but never with live ammunition. He says we can’t risk the sound of gunfire attracting informers or guards. Until today, I had no idea if I was an accurate shooter or if it was just like using a blowdart. I also never fully understood what it meant to shoot a bullet into a living person.

Sparks burst from the driver’s throat, and she falls with a thud. Behind me, Berta stamps on the burning woman, dousing her flames.

Ingrid shoots out of her seat. “What did you do that for? She’s dead.”

“Are you working with them?” I point my gun at Ingrid.

She flinches. “No, but I’m beginning to think that you are.”

“What?”

“How does a tomato-picker know so much hand-to-hand combat?” She glances from left to right at the other Noble girls. “Or know how to shoot a gun with pin-point accuracy?”

Another Noble girl stands. I’ve never spoken to her before, but her eyes burn with loathing. “Why would a girl from a community of people who cover themselves from neck to ankle parade herself naked in front of the prince?”

“That footage was faked!” I shout.

“No.” Ingrid ducks beneath her seat and emerges with Prince Kevon’s gun. “Everything about your joining the Princess Trials was suspicious, starting from your juvenile record.”

“What about her friendship with the Amstraad ambassador?” shouts someone in the middle of the vehicle I’m convinced is one of the Guardians. “They would have sent her back to the Barrens if it wasn’t for him.”

My nostrils flare, and my gaze darts from side to side at a sea of hostile female faces. Of all the times to dredge up wild speculations, why are they choosing the middle of an invasion?

Ingrid’s lips twist into a smirk, and malice glitters in her eyes. “Zea-Mays Calico, I find you guilty of high treason, and I sentence you to death.”

CHAPTER 27

A t Ingrid’s words, a cold fury seeps through my veins. I glance down the aisles from girl to girl, looking for someone, anyone to speak in my defense, but they’re all silent. My jaws clench, and the pounding between my ears drowns out the sounds of the girls’ chatter.

“You don’t have the authority to sentence anyone,” I say.

Ingrid tilts her head to the side and smirks. “In the event of a hostile invasion or an uprising and the death or incapacitation of the Monarchy, members of the Noble Echelon must protect Phangloria at all costs.”

It sounds like she’s reciting a law, but it’s either paraphrased or a complete fabrication. Another Noble girl nods in silent confirmation, and sweat beads on my brow.

Ingrid wants me out of the Princess Trials by any means, but the others? I just saved their worthless carcasses. How dare they stay silent and let this lying Noble twist events to make me look like a traitor?

She stretches out the hand not holding Queen Damascena’s gun. “Give me that weapon.”

“Why?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“How do we know you won’t turn on us next?”

“Are you crazy?” I hiss. “They were going to take us beyond the Great Wall and maybe to Amstraad. I had to do something to stop them.”

“And you endangered our lives in the process.” Ingrid points her gun at my chest. “One of us could have gotten shot during that little scuffle.”

I inhale a sharp breath and straighten my features. She’s right, but I would rather die from a bullet than leave Phangloria. A large hand lands on my shoulder. I flinch, but it’s only Berta.

“Of all the ungrateful wenches,” she snarls. “Calico just saved your pampered behinds, and this is how you repay her?”

Ingrid sniffs. “From where I was sitting, it looked like you were the one doing all the work.” She points the rifle at my feet. “Surrender that firearm, and I’ll consider reducing your sentence of treason to reckless endangerment.”

“Why don’t you surrender yours?” I snarl.

“Strab can’t fire that gun,” says Berta. “She doesn’t have the clearance.”

Ingrid’s lips pinch. “You know nothing about the Noble Echelon. I’m the great-granddaughter of King Phallon. If Phangloria maintained an extended Monarchy, I would be the daughter of a duke.” She raises her gun’s muzzle into the air. “And as such, my fingerprints are in the database of personnel authorized to use emergency Royal weapons.”

She fires a shot into the ceiling, and all the blood drains from my face. Constance steps beside Ingrid and smirks, as do the other two Nobles from the front seats. The echo fades, leaving the kind of tense silence, the stomach-churning trepidation I’ve only ever experienced before a whipping.

My fingers tighten around the gun. I can’t release it. Last night, some of the girls in this vehicle gassed my room, and one of them tied a noose around my neck. If the attempted murderer was Ingrid, relinquishing my only means of protection would be suicide.

“We’ve got to drive away from here,” I say, particularly to change the subject but mostly because it’s true. “The Amstraadi have probably dispatched a fleet of hijackers after us.”

Constance shakes her head. “That may be so, but I don’t feel comfortable in a vehicle with a murderer.”

“Get out, then,” mutters Berta.

“Ridgeback is right,” says Ingrid. “We should all leave this secure vehicle and wander around the Barrens in the middle of the night, just to please one selfish, murdering rebel who cheated her way into the Princess Trials,”

The girls behind us shout their protests, and my skin prickles with irritation. They were fine with Ingrid pointing a gun at me after I disabled our hijackers, fine with Ingrid calling me a traitor, but the moment they need to rise from their comfortable seats? I twist around and shoot them my filthiest glare.

“Silence,” Ingrid snaps. “We might have discarded our Amstraad monitors, but the vehicles are tracked. Our next best chance of survival is traveling on foot to the nearest watchtower.”

“Why can’t we just drive there?” Emmera whines from the back.

“Because I’m not going to stay in a confined space with that maniac and her gun,” Ingrid yells.

Emmera sobs, “Then let her get off the bus.”

My free hand curls into a fist. So much for Harvester sisterhood. I want to fly down the aisle and ram my fist down Emmera’s throat.

Ingrid’s eyes shine like lit coals. “You heard your Echelon. Get out.”

“Wait,” I shout. “You can’t—”

She fires a shot that lands an inch away from my feet. “The next one won’t miss.”

“Strab,” Berta bellows. “What are you—”

Ingrid raises her gun to a point above my shoulder. “Quiet, or you’ll be next.”

“Alright,” I yell. “But lower the gun first.”

Berta shoves past me toward the front. “They’ll probably turf me to the side unless I’m driving this thing.” When she settles into the driver’s seat, she turns to me but doesn’t meet my eyes. “It’s nothing personal. When we reach the watchtower, I’ll ask them to send a search party.”

Bitterness coats the back of my throat, but I don’t speak. I don’t cry, complain, or rant. It’s what the Nobles want—an excuse to shoot me. Ingrid and Constance’s gleeful smiles convince me that they were the girls who gassed my room last night.

Pointing my gun at Ingrid’s chest, I edge around the driver’s body toward the exit. If she shoots me, I’ll blast her through the heart on the way down.

The door hisses open, bringing with it a gust of balsam-scented air. Normally, the smell of tree resin soothes my senses, but right now, it grates on my sinuses.

I reach the top of the stairs and take a final look down the aisle. Dozens of faces stare out at me from rows and rows of seats. Most are frightened, but some are defiant. Emmera sits proudly in the middle of the back with a face gleaming with sick triumph.

Not daring to turn my back on the Nobles, I grope behind me for the handrail. “The next time someone tries to abduct any of you, I’ll let them do what they want.”

Ingrid places a hand over her mouth and mimics a yawn. “Get out before I fill you with bullets.”

I clutch the metal rail with my free hand and take my first backward step down the vehicle’s stairs. Ingrid turns to me and winks. She probably knows that she’s landed me in the worst trouble of my life. Mom told me all about life in the Barrens. The electrified fence that separates that part of Phangloria from the Echelons isn’t just to keep out the Foundlings. It’s to contain deadly creatures, including black bears, great wolves, and rattlesnakes.

A few steps later, my feet hit the ground. The doors hiss closed, and the vehicle continues down the floodlit highway that stretches for miles.

“Thanks for nothing,” I mutter to the vehicle’s retreating backlights.

I tilt my head to a cloudless sky littered with stars, and a sigh slips from my lips. Which way should I go? To my left is a steep slope covered in scrub and the occasional umbrella-shaped tree. I can’t tell how deep the mountain goes, but a fire flickers about half a mile down, streaming smoke up to the sky.

A shiver travels down my spine. I pick up my voluminous skirts and rush to the other side of the road, where the ground slopes up at an even sharper angle. There’s less of a chance of being seen by whoever has started that fire. I walk back toward the Oasis. If I hide close to the electric fence, I’ll be able to slip through the gate when the Freedom Army sends vehicles after the girls.

Leaves rustle overhead. A screech fills my ears, then the frantic beat of wings. My heart pulses, and I spin around. The largest bird I’ve ever seen launches itself into the sky and soars above the valley. But further down the road, the vehicle’s brake lights glow red before it reverses toward me.

Relief loosens the tension around my chest, and I cross the road. Did Ingrid run out of bullets or Berta change her mind about leaving me alone in the Barrens?

I stand at the roadside with my feet planted at hip-width in case I need to duck. My gun rests in my hand at chest-height in case I need to shoot. The armored personnel carrier speeds toward me, and I step back in case I need to dive out of the way. It stops ten feet ahead from where I’m standing, and the doors open.

“Hello?” I shout.

Nobody answers.

“Hey!”

When there’s still no answer, I gulp. That woman I set on fire wasn’t dead. What if she released toxic gas into the bus and made everyone fall asleep or worse, killed them? I place my finger on the trigger and take a tentative step toward the open door.

It’s a stupid move. Those girls left me alone to fester in the Barrens, not knowing if I would get attacked by any of the dangerous creatures lurking in the dark, and not caring that the reinforcements would be rushing to avenge my attack on their comrades.

I should run down into the trees, but the notion of encountering whoever started that fire down the mountain scares me more than a furious Amstraad soldier wanting to shoot me in the face.

I glance up at the window, and the pale face of an Artisan girl stares back. It’s the pink-haired girl who excelled in Mistress Pavane’s class. I search her expression for clues, such as the barest shake of her head, but she only leans forward and nods.

The Noble girl who sat across the aisle from me pokes her head out of the door and scowls. “Are you coming, or should we leave you to become the bride of a two-headed Foundling?”

My shoulders relax, and I quicken my steps. “Fine.”

She pokes her head back into the vehicle. Just as I reach the door, she ducks, revealing Constance Spryte with a pistol held in both hands.

A gunshot rings through the air. I leap aside, but intense heat sears my left shoulder. With a pained hiss, I fall backward and roll down the mountainside amid a rain of gunfire. Clouds of dry earth fill my mouth and eyes and throat as I tumble toward the source of the fire. I grab at desiccated undergrowth to slow my descent, but only uproot the plants.

My head slams into the side of a tree trunk, sending a shock of pain across my skull. I scramble around the shelter on my hands and knees and sit at its base. Somehow, I managed to hold onto the gun, but my hands shake too much for it to be of any use.

Everything aches. I’m sure I’ve knocked my shoulder out of joint, but the pain is nothing compared to the bullet wound. Breathing hard, I raise my trembling fingers to the injury and snatch them away. Right now, the best thing I can do for myself is to leave it alone. There’s no telling how long I can survive if I catch an infection or get blood poisoning.

“Zea-Mays Popcorn,” shouts Ingrid’s taunting voice. “Where are you?”

I clench my teeth, wondering what kind of idiot she thinks I would be to answer.

“We took a vote,” she says. “Should we return to save you, or should we return to eliminate you from the Princess Trials?”

My shoulder wound has a pulse of its own that pounds in sync with my rapid heart. I lean against the trunk and breathe through the pain. Why on earth would she concern herself about the trials with Prince Kevon taken prisoner?

“Guess what?” She pauses. “The majority wanted you dead.”

I shake my head. If I ever got Ingrid alone…

“We’ve found a cache of weapons,” she says with a giggle. “When King Arias arrives to rescue us, we’ll tell him that you fought bravely to save our lives, but the hijackers were merciless and took out their frustration on your poor, Harvester body.”

The most powerful flashlight I’ve ever seen shines down the mountainside and illuminates my tree. A tight fist of panic squeezes my chest, and I regret every decision I’ve made since Mouse offered to keep me safe.

“Damn it.” I clutch the side of the trunk and pull myself up. The light swings to the left toward the source of the fire, and I run right down the slope.

The earth is dry and erodes under my feet, but I stumble in the semi-darkness for a better hiding-place.

“Bring me Popcorn alive or dead,” Ingrid’s voice booms through a loudspeaker.

I shake off the terror that prickles down my spine. No one authorized to use royal weapons would leave the safety of the vehicle to come after me. Not even Ingrid Strab. The announcement is designed to make me panic, stumble through the wilderness, and fall to my death.

“There she is,” someone shouts.

Footsteps pound down the mountainside. Maybe an animal darted across the flashlight’s beam because the girls are going in the wrong direction. Excited cries fill the air along with the shots of at least three different guns. My hands curl into fists. Ingrid wasn’t joking about having found more weapons. If every Noble has descended from some dead Phanglorian king, I’m in a whole stack of trouble.

The slope flattens, and the ground no longer sprays out clouds of dust with each step. I continue through a copse of tall, thin trees whose dry leaves crunch underfoot. The sharp, menthol scent of eucalyptus clears my head and brings the throbbing pain of my shoulder into sharp focus.

Every crunching footstep, every snap of a twig or a piece of dried bark sends prickles of alarm across my skin. At this rate, the girls will hear me and know which way to point their guns.

Up ahead, a huge white tree reflects in the moonlight. It’s not as big as the persimmon tree in Rugosa, and its branches aren’t as thick, but they might support my weight. It looks like a dozen trunks have grown close together to form a single tree whose roots snake across the ground, but I doubt that any of these Nobles can climb as high as me in their slippers and gowns.

I sprint to the base of the tree and run up a prominent root that’s over a foot in width. As I reach for the trunk, a large hand grabs the back of my neck and flings me to the ground.

My stomach lurches. I land on my hands and knees and turn around to meet the black eyes of my attacker. This is no Noble or Amstraadi or any competitor in the Princess Trials. His head is as broad as his shoulders with bulging eyes, a bridgeless nose, and ears that recess into the front of his face.

A new wave of terror turns my skin cold. He’s… I’ve never seen anything like him.

The Foundling flips me onto my back and pins me down by the shoulders. Pain sears up the left side of my neck, down my forearm, and into my heart. I clench my teeth against the onslaught and jerk my head away from the sight.

“Noble,” he hisses.

“Harvester,” I say. “I’m a Harvester.”

“Lies!” His spittle sprays across my cheek, and my stomach ripples with disgust.

I shake my head from side to side. “Nobles are back there, trying to kill me. That’s why you heard the gunshots. I’m just trying to run away.”

“Why do they want you dead?” he says with a sneer that makes me think he still considers me a Noble.

“They hate me.” I swallow hard. What I’m about to say will probably condemn me, but there’s no blood flowing to my brain. My heart is jumping to the back of my throat, and my flesh is trying to crawl off my bones. “We’re all in the Princess Trials—”

“Princess Trials?” he roars. “You’re one of them.”

“I’m a Red Runner. A spy.”

He pauses. “What?”

“Do you know them?” I whisper.

The man gives me a hesitant nod. “Who leads your cell?”

“We don’t give out that information,” I say through clenched teeth. One of the conditions for joining was never to reveal details of those in my cell. I’ve already gone far enough by admitting to being a rebel. “Let’s just say I’m associated with someone desperate for justice after the unfair slaughter of a Harvester male.”

He releases the weight from my shoulders and sits back on his heels. “Alright, then. I’ll let you go.”

The man’s rib cage stretches down to his ragged pants. It’s barrel-shaped with dimpled, breast-like deposits of fat in the space between each rib. A shudder runs down my spine, and I press my lips together. I hate that the Nobles’ obsession with genetic perfection has poisoned my mind. This man can’t help the way he looks.

My gaze wanders to the quiver on his hip, and I raise my gun. “Do you want to swap?”

He glances down at his quiver. “Do you know how to use a blowgun?”

“My Mom taught me how to shoot.” I sit up and shake the dust out of my hair. Pain shoots out from my shoulder wound at the movement, so I let my right arm flop to the ground. “It’s a skill she learned while growing up in the Barrens.”

He steps back and sweeps his gaze down my form. “My sister was genetically perfect, like you.”

“What happened to her?” Frowning, I peer up at the man.

“After I was born, she stopped visiting,” he says.

My lips part, but no sound comes out. She might have rejected her family because of her brother’s birth defects, but the Guardians also might have done something sinister to prevent her from birthing a child like him.

“What kind of poison do you use in your darts?” He holds out a completely normal hand.

Instead of letting him help me up, I struggle to my feet. “Mandragon berries. What’s in yours?”

He hesitates for a moment, and I don’t know if I’ve hurt his feelings. An apology rises to my lips when he says, “The venom of a golden frog. A dart is strong enough to take down a one-hundred-pound pronghorn.”

“Does it kill humans?”

“The first will paralyze a man, and a second will stop his heart.” He unties the fabric attaching his quiver to his waists and hands me the entire bundle.

As I offer him the gun, an animal roars in the distance. The girls shriek, gunshots echo across the mountainside.

“They’ll be heading this way.” He takes the gun and tucks it into a side-pocket of his pants. “Are you ready?”

I swallow hard. “Can I borrow your dagger?”

His thick brows form a deep V, but he hands me the blade and stands back.

Sending a silent apology to the Thymel siblings, I tear the fabric of my skirt and bundle my outer petticoat into a shape about the same size as a human torso. The man watches my back as I climb the tree and place it on a high branch, where I spot the perfect hiding place, a giant Eucalyptus with rainbow-colored bark a hundred feet away.

I jump down from the tree and offer him my hand. “Thanks. This way, I can protect myself without killing any of the girls.”

The man stares down at my palm, and his hand twitches toward mine. He raises his head and meets my eyes. “Maybe we’ll meet again when the revolution comes. My name is Firkin.”

I wrap my fingers around his hand and squeeze. “I’d like that a lot. Please call me Zea.”

He nods and darts away, while I scale the eucalyptus tree and settle onto a high branch. My heart pumps with anticipation, and I take a deep breath, letting the strong menthol fill my nostrils. The wound on my shoulder pounds, but the pain sharpens my resolve.

As soon as Firkin disappears into a thicket of eucalyptus trees, I load the first dart into the blowgun, throw my head back, and scream.

Pinpricks of light approach from a distance. I lie flat on the thick branch and wait.

The first girl to arrive holds a flashlight as long as her forearm, she sprints past my tree and pauses at the scraps of fabric I left on one of the white eucalyptus tree’s roots. From her blonde hair, which glows silver in the moonlight and her golden dress, it can only be Emmera. She pants like a golden retriever that guards sometimes bring to Rugosa to sniff out alcohol stills and tilts her head up.

“She’s up there.” Emmera’s voice is breathy with excitement.

My resolve falters. I expected the Nobles to hunt me, along with maybe even the Guardians and the Artisans, but another Harvester and one from my village? I clench my teeth and correct my aim. Emmera chose her side, and I will show her as much mercy as she has shown me.

“Where?” Constance rushes to the white tree.

I glance around for signs of Ingrid, but she’s not there.

Emmera points up at the branch. “That’s her gown.”

The Noble girl who sat across from me in the personnel carrier points her rifle up in the trees. Its built-in flashlight illuminates the blue of my gown. “That’s her.”

I fill my lungs with air, point the blowpipe at Constance’s arm, and exhale a sharp breath. In the blink of an eye, Constance drops the gun and falls.

Emmera jumps back and presses a hand to her chest. “What happened?”

The other noble points her rifle at the ground. “A rattlesnake?”

“What?” Emmera staggers back.

I load another dart into the blowpipe and aim at the girl with the rifle. She falls just as easily as Constance.

“Oh no.” Emmera turns in a circle and howls.

I reload and watch the other girl from my vantage point.

Emmera aims her flashlight at the ground, looking for an imaginary rattlesnake. She screams the girls’ names, but neither of them move.

I place my lips around the blowpipe and pause. There’s no doubt why she’s here. Emmera wanted to watch me die. She deserves to lie paralyzed and vulnerable to the predators that lurk on the mountainside, but I can’t bring myself to shoot at another Harvester girl.

Footsteps approach from the other direction. I peer down to find a short-haired figure wearing thick goggles, standing under my tree’s canopy with a gun pointed at my branch.

“Can’t you recognize a decoy, you idiots?” shouts Ingrid. “She’s hiding in this tree!”

CHAPTER 28

A  spike of adrenaline pierces my heart, and I clutch at the blowpipe. Even with nighttime goggles, Ingrid shouldn’t be able to see me in the tree. The branch is thick enough to conceal my entire body. Slowing my breath, I place my palm on the bark, ready to jump in case she’s not bluffing.

“Mistress Staub?” says Emmera’s whining voice. “Zea-Mays is over here. Look”

The back of my throat burns with hatred for the girl who is determined to have me killed.

Ingrid’s footsteps crunch on dried leaves as she passes, but it’s too soon to feel relieved. I peer down the side, watching her walk backward toward Emmera with her gun pointed at where I’m hiding.

My fingers tremble over the blowgun, and my muscles tense. Ryce once explained to us that guards use heat sensors to detect illegal distilleries and gatherings of large groups. It’s one of the reasons why Red Runner cells are so small. If Ingrid is sensing my body heat, no amount of hiding will keep me safe.

“What happened to Constance and Paris?” she asks, still keeping her gun trained on my tree.

“Rattlesnakes.” Emmera’s voice shakes.

“Did you hear them rattle?” Ingrid’s voice hardens.

Emmera doesn’t answer.

“Check their bodies for bite marks. See if they’re still alive.”

“But what if the snake is—”

“Do it!” Ingrid snaps.

Emmera whimpers but remains silent. I can’t see her from this angle, but I’m praying to Gaia, Uranus, and whoever might be listening that Emmera is too terrified to notice the poisoned darts sticking out of the fallen Nobles. Finding the poison darts means that I’m not just a frightened Harvester girl hiding in a tree. It means that I have a means of protecting myself and need to be shot before I attack.

“What’s this?” says Emmera.

My stomach plummets, and a silent groan escapes my lips.

Ingrid laughs. It’s a wicked, rattling sound that makes Emmera force a nervous giggle. I press my blowgun to my lips, but I can’t move to get a clear shot without exposing myself. Ingrid steps out of range, and gunshots fill the air. The tree trunk I’m using as cover blocks my decoy, but I see pieces of torn fabric floating down.

“Did you direct the other girls to this tree to help your friend?” asks Ingrid.

Emmera moans an incoherent and gibbering denial.

“I should fill you with bullets,” Ingrid snarls. “Because of your stupidity, Constance and Paris are probably dead. Go and fetch someone to carry these girls back to the personnel carrier.”

“Who?” says Emmera.

“Do you want a dead body to match your brain?” Ingrid roars.

Emmera shrieks, and the sound of her rushing footsteps echo across the mountainside. If I wasn’t stuck up this branch like a cat waiting out a horde of rabid dogs, I would smile. I can’t because Ingrid makes her way back to my tree.

“I’m going to enjoy killing you, Zea-Mays Popcorn,” she says in a sing-song voice that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “It’ll be like hunting a Foundling, only instead of ridding Phangloria of a scourge that should be left to the wild men, I’ll get the crown.”

She shoots a bullet into my tree, and I flinch.

“What’s wrong?” Ingrid says in a taunting melody. “Do you think if you lie on that branch still enough that you might fool me? I can see how all the heat has left your extremities and is pooling around your frantic heart. Riling you up is more exciting than chasing prey.”

Disgust ripples through my insides. The girl is as vicious as a border guard and twice as insane. Before I can stop myself, I say, “How many girls have you killed?”

“Not as many as you,” she replies with a laugh.

“At least I killed that hijacker out of self-defense.” I lean to the side, trying to get a clear shot of her, but she steps out of range, leaving a glimpse of her silver gown. “It’s nothing like how you murdered Rafaela van Eyck.”

“No,” says Ingrid in the kind of tone people use for small children. “You killed Rafaela to break Prince Kevon’s heart, so you could stitch it together with your lurid, naked self.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, that was—”

A gunshot cuts off my words. I dart behind the massive trunk, my pulse quickening. Sweat moistens my fingers, and I have to wipe my hand on a petticoat, so the blowgun doesn’t slip. Either Ingrid believes Prunella Broadleaf’s ridiculous lies or she’s reconstructed events in her mind to justify my murder.

“Zea?” says a male voice. “Are you al—”

“What’s that?” Ingrid shoots a round of bullets, and a heavy body thumps to the ground. She stops shooting and shrieks, “Oh my Gaia, oh my Gaia, I’ve never seen anything so horrible.”

A bolt of cold shock hits me in the gut, followed by a flash of hot anger. She killed Firkin. She shot down an innocent man because he looked different. I wrap my lips around the blowpipe, tilt my body sideways, and aim the barrel of my weapon where Ingrid staggers into range, still screaming at Firkin’s dead body.

Every ounce of my rage channels into an exhale, and the dart hits her in the neck. In the blink of an eye, Ingrid falls.

I scramble off the branch, fall into a low crouch, and stumble to Firkin’s side, my heart shattering with every step.

The Foundling lies on the forest floor on a pile of leaf litter a few feet away from the fallen girls. Dozens of dark bullet wounds tear open his chest and blood flows from a hole in his short neck. He’s not moving or breathing or showing any signs of life, but his bulging eyes stare lifelessly into the sky.

“Firkin.” The crushing feeling in my heart spreads across my chest and up my throat. An apology would be inadequate. He returned because of me, and now he’s dead. “She won’t get away with this, I swear.”

I turn my gaze to Ingrid, who lies on the ground like a sleeping beauty. One dart will paralyze a human. Two will stop their heart. I walk to Ingrid’s side and crouch. Slumber smooths her pinched features, and her face radiates serene innocence. Revulsion swirls through my insides. Why does the Council of Ministers favor this deranged creature? I reach into my quiver and pull out a dart.

“You and I both know that if I showed you mercy, you’d see that as a weakness,” I say, my voice full of bitter tears. “As soon as you wake, you’ll point that gun at me and shoot.”

A hand wraps around my wrist. With a yelp, I turn to meet the confused eyes of Berta.

“What are you doing with that thing?” She raises my arm and squints at what’s in my hand. “Are those poisoned darts?”

“Ingrid just shot an innocent man to death.”

She wrinkles her nose at Firkin’s dead body. “So, you murdered Strab for putting a mutant out of his misery?”

I pull my arm away, but her grip is too strong. “You didn’t hear her boast about hunting them in the mountains?”

Berta drags me to my feet. “He probably went rogue and escaped from the camps. They all know when we let them through the Great Wall that the sentence for disobedience and becoming a nuisance is death.” She places her hands on my shoulders and gives me a hard shake. “That Hull girl from your town says a rattlesnake killed Spryte and Kanone, but it was your darts.”

“They’re paralyzed, not dead,” I say. “It will wear off soon enough.”

Berta kicks at Ingrid’s side. “What about Strab?”

“Same.”

“Right, then.”

“What?” I ask.

She glances to the side and frowns. The gesture reminds me of how she couldn’t make eye contact earlier when she stepped into the driver’s seat. “Strab told everyone that the Chamber of Ministers promised her the crown. The Princess Trials was just a farce to make the Echelons feel like they had a chance, you know.”

“Right.” I step back, wondering why Berta is telling me something I already know.

“Strab also said that whoever kills you will become her lady-at-arms.”

Before I can react, Berta slams her head into my face. Pain explodes in my nose and spreads across my skull. My head snaps back so fast, it jerks forward again, and she wraps her hand around my neck.

My eyes water, and blood flows down from my nostrils into my mouth. Shock numbs my body, steals the movement from my limps, only fading when Berta squeezes my neck and cuts off my air.

“Why?” I croak.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you?” She punches me so hard across the face, I stagger and smash my side against the white eucalyptus tree. “You can murder and scheme all you want, parade yourself naked in front of the whole of Phangloria, but girls like us never get the handsome prince.” Berta knees me in the gut, and an eruption of pain makes my knees buckle.

I land on my knees and heave the contents of my stomach onto the ground.

Berta picks up Ingrid’s gun and points it at my head. “This isn’t personal, Calico.”

A rush of self-preservation helps me stagger to my feet. She pulls the trigger. Nothing happens.

Berta huffs out a noisy breath. “Well, that was dumb.” Her gaze drops down to my right hand and switches to the left. “Where’s that gun you took from the driver?”

My vision blurs. My head pounds. I step back toward Firkin’s corpse, where I remember him placing the gun in his side pocket. If I can get to it before Berta, I might have a chance of surviving.

“That’s a Foundling weapon.” She points at the quiver attached to my hip. “Did it belong to that guy?”

I take another step back and blink away the tears filling my eyes. My nose throbs to the tempo of my quickening pulse, and won’t stop spilling blood down my face. With another step, my foot brushes against his cooling corpse.

“Never mind.” She bends over the Guardian girl. “Kanone had a dagger somewhere.”

It’s the quickest I’ve ever moved while in agony. I drop to my knees, slip my hand into Firkin’s side pocket, and point the gun at Berta’s back. I shoot just as she turns to me with the dagger. Berta falls back and lands on the ground with a pained roar.

I point the gun between her eyes. “How could you?”

“What?” she says between clenched teeth. “Do you think because we took down a pair of hijackers together that we’re suddenly best friends?”

Rising to my feet, I try not to let my finger tremble. Berta helped me fight off attackers in a gas-filled room. She stopped me from getting blown into pieces by a bunny bomb and saved me from one of the hijackers.

My lips press into a hard line. “Perhaps we weren’t best friends,” I say with a voice thick with emotion. “But you were my biggest ally in the Princess Trials until you decided to side with the Nobles.”

She lets out a shaky laugh. “You don’t know how these Amstraadi games work, do you? People are only allies until it suits them. I kept you alive because you were a bigger target than me.”

My mouth falls open. “I don’t believe—”

“Wake up,” Berta roars. “This is the Oasis, and we’re in the biggest game of our lives. You treat it like we’re traveling through a cornfield in the back of open-air wagons, singing songs of peace to the tune of a banjo.”

I swallow hard. There’s no point in telling Berta I came to the Oasis on a mission. She would only laugh at my failure. My fingers tremble over the gun.

“Go on, then,” she says from between clenched teeth. “Shoot me.”

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, and rasping breaths fill my ears. Berta stares up at me from the ground, her eyes wild. Blood spreads through the pale fabric of her halter dress, making her resemble a tragic figure instead of a fallen warrior. She had looked so lovely tonight, performed so bravely, but her betrayal makes her ugly.

“You can’t do it.” Berta laughs, and the sound reminds me of an ancient nature documentary about hyenas. “Deep down, you think we’re friends.”

“Ingrid would never make you her lady-at-arms.”

“Why?” she snarls. “Because I’m not stunning like Lady Circi?”

“Prince Kevon wants to marry for love, not form an alliance with someone like Ingrid, who sees him as a route to power. She’s never going to be the queen.”

Berta bares her teeth. “Maybe it’s time I ingratiated myself with the ministers. Your death at my hands might elevate me beyond waste disposal.”

A cry forms in the back of my throat. “And what will Prince Kevon do to you when he discovers you’ve murdered me?”

“Stupid bumpkin,” says Berta. “You should have stayed in the Harvester region if you think life is a fairytale.”

My finger hovers over the trigger. I don’t know what to do. If my first shot had killed Berta, then that would have been self-defense, but I can’t execute her even though she would do the same to me. A tiny voice in the back of my head that sounds like Carolina’s says that I was prepared to kill Ingrid and that Berta is no different.

I swallow hard around my aching throat. People like Berta support the regime that subjugates Harvesters, but the lines between good and evil aren’t so clear. Take Emmera Hull. Before today, I would have dismissed her as an attention-seeker but still worth saving, but now I would group her with the Nobles and their supporters.

I won’t be Berta’s executioner, but I will fix things so that a maniac like Ingrid who murders people for being different never gets to rule Phangloria.

“Get up.” I point the gun at her heart. “And don’t try anything.”

Her eyes widen. “You’re sparing me?”

“Get up and get out of my sight.”

Berta rises to her feet and raises her palms. Her gaze falls on Ingrid’s prone body. “What are you going to do?”

“Leave.” I flick the gun toward the roadside.

She takes a step back. “If you kill Strab, they’ll program every piece of surveillance equipment with your image and DNA. You’ll have to spend the rest of your life in the Barrens with wild animals and freaks like him. That’s if you survive the hunting parties.”

“What do you want me to do?” I step toward Berta and point the gun at her neck. “Lie down and die?”

A bullet whizzes past my ear, and I spin in the direction of the rainbow eucalyptus.

Berta charges with a flying kick that sends the gun leaping out of my hand. The hidden shooter fires again, and Berta roars with new agony.

I break into a run, zigging from left to right, using the trees as cover. Whoever is shooting has terrible aim, and I’m not giving her an easy target. Berta yells at the gunwoman to stop shooting, and I pick up my pace.

Her ragged breaths and her heavy footsteps fill my ears, and terror ripples down my back. She was right. There’s no such thing as an ally in the Princess Trials, only temporary alliances. I should have shot her when I had the chance. Now, my only hope of survival is that she makes a bigger and slower target for the inept Noble’s gun.

The mountainside descends at a sharp angle, and the canopy thickens, plunging me into darkness. I run through the pain, not knowing if this is a good or bad thing. The unseen Noble might wear the same kind of heat-sensing goggles as Ingrid. Loose soil gives way under my feet until I’m slipping on my behind down the slope.

Berta’s footsteps also skid, and a boulder of dread drops into my stomach. I tuck my arms into my chest to quicken my fall. If she catches up with me, I can’t let her strangle me with those huge hands.

Later, moonlight floods the mountainside, and my leg catches on a rock, breaking my tumble. I stagger to my feet and glance over my shoulder, where Berta’s huge figure rushes toward me. A knife glints in her raised hand, and panic spikes through my chest.

I leap away. Stones come loose underfoot, and I land hard on my tailbone.

Before I can process the pain, a rockslide pulls me down, scratching my arms raw. I move at an unstoppable, heart-wrenching pace, and Berta tumbles loudly behind.

The ground gives way, and I fall into a huge cavern of dagger-sharp stalactites as tall as eucalyptus trees. Light shines from below, and a scream tears from my lips as I fall.

Horror sharpens the pain of my every wound, and the fall seems to last forever. The bullet to the shoulder, the broken nose, bruised jaw, shattered cheekbone, and blisteringly deep scratches make my fragile nerves scream. I’m so broken that I can’t even twist around to see what’s beneath me, but if it’s anything like the monstrosities that hang from the cavern’s ceiling, it will be a quick but brutal death.

My back lands with a hard smack on water, and I sink like a millstone in the freezing liquid.

One hand breaks the water’s surface, then another, and then my head. Water spills from my lips, and I release several, hacking coughs. The cold numbs my wounds, cools my heated skin, and slows my pulse.

Bright, rectangular-shaped bulbs light this underground grotto, and the water stretches out for miles. I sip a mouthful of the liquid, and it’s rainwater-soft just like the Smoky Water brand. Why are the Nobles hoarding so much water when this could sustain all five-hundred thousand citizens of Phangloria?

I paddle toward a stone walkway. Did Firkin know he was living above such a treasure? Did Mom? I swim to the bank, aggravating the wound on my shoulder. She never mentioned it to me. This water has to stretch to the Great Wall and beyond. If it extends to beneath the Oasis, then it has to pass through the Harvester Region.

A large splash turns my body cold. This can only be Berta.

I swim as hard as I can to the water’s edge and place my hands on the stone. My numb fingers can’t get a purchase on the hard ground, so I fling my arms over the ledge and hook a leg over. Pain flares across my shoulder, making me cry out.

As I haul myself onto land Berta hooks her fingers into the back of my bodice and holds me under the water. I thrash with my arms and legs, pound at her muscular forearms, but she’s too strong.

There’s a yellow reptile called a maizard that camouflages itself in the cornfields. It sleeps during the day, and most people don’t notice the creature because it’s inert as stone. Dad says that if you go near it to investigate, the maizard rears up and poisons whoever disturbs it with sharp fangs. That’s what I need to do. Berta isn’t patient, and she has never credited me with much intelligence. If I play dead, she’ll think I’m a weak Harvester girl who couldn’t stand up to her Guardian might.

I force my arms and legs to go limp and hold my breath. This has got to work.

Berta continues holding me down, and in seconds, I realize the flaw in my plan. Her head is above water, and she can keep me under all night until she’s a thousand percent sure that I’m dead. My pulse reverberates through my skull. Pressure builds up in my lungs, and the back of my throat burns with the need for oxygen.

I reach into the quiver, pull out one of Firkin’s darts, let my hand drift up, and plunge it into her forearm. Berta flinches but maintains her immovable grip. I clench my teeth and thrash. The water probably washed away most of the poison. When my lungs are about to force me to inhale, she releases my hair, and I flail through the freezing water with limbs too cold for speed.

As I haul myself out of the water, something sharp pierces me between the ribs, and I collapse onto the hard ground.

Berta falls back with a loud splash, and the edges of my vision go dark.

I lie helpless on my side, rasping out choking breaths. My lung capacity dwindles, but I’m not sure that it’s from nearly having drowned.

Footsteps echo in my ears. A figure in black armor walks toward me. No matter how much I command my limbs to crawl away from the water, away from the approaching male, they won’t move.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. A tiny voice in the back of my mind says that Ryce has come to rescue me, but I haven’t heard from him since yesterday. Besides, he and Carolina probably think I switched to the other side.

My only consolation is that I will die before the approaching man exacts vengeance for his fallen comrades.

CHAPTER 29

Being stabbed in the back isn’t as painful as I had imagined. After the shock of a blade cutting through my chest, it’s just a background pain that’s no different to the bullet wound.

Numbness seeps through the edges of my consciousness, and darkness races toward the center of my vision. I don’t know if I accidentally scratched myself with one of Firkin’s poisoned darts, but I can’t move. It’s only when large, gentle hands roll me onto my side, and pain quickens through my wounds that I remember that I’m in the biggest danger of my life.

The man’s tone is sharp, but the roar of blood between my ears muffles his words. A groan pours from my lips. This has to be Colonel Mouse or whatever he calls himself. I dismissed his warning and the offer of help, and now he’s either here to punish me or to gloat.

He places something heavy on both sides of my wound, dislodging something deep inside my body. I hiss through my teeth. Berta left the dagger in my back.

“Sorry.” The word echoes across the cavern.

For what feels like forever, the man tends to my injury under the instruction of a voice at the other end of a mechanical device. As he tears strips of material and packs it around my wound, I force my thoughts to drift.

Did Carolina know she would send me into a nest of backstabbing sand snakes? My throat convulses. I doubt that even she could have predicted the Princess Trials taking such a violent turn. It was supposed to be a beauty pageant, but surely her spies in the Oasis would have given her some kind of warning.

I force rasping breaths in and out, but they only reach the tops of my lungs. What about Ryce? Did Prunella Broadleaf publish that awful footage of Lady Circi dragging that girl out of a hospital room? My heart sinks. Maybe they have abandoned me after all.

The man lifts me off the ground and cradles me to his chest. He’s warm and strong and smells of antiseptic, but I’m not safe. Safe would be watching this spectacle from the comfort of the Rugosa dome. Safe would be never to have overestimated my abilities and agreed to this suicidal mission. I’ve failed Ryce, I’ve failed my family, and I’ve failed every Harvester who longs for freedom.

Maybe before the Amstraad ambassador executes me for wrecking his invasion, he might explain why on earth he asked me to join the Princess Trials.

The next time I awaken, it’s in a white room similar to the one in the Royal Hospital, except I’m alone and pale light streams in through a square window feet away from the bed. The screen overhead shows my vital signs: blood pressure, heart rate, body temperature, and a few other measurements I can’t fathom.

My shoulder itches, and I ease the white gown down my arm. The bullet wound has knitted together, and there’s no scar. I roll my shoulders, and there’s no stabbing pain in my back, but a metal cuff wraps around my wrist.

Carolina and Ryce don’t have access to this level of technology. I’m likely being held by Mouse or one of his comrades.

Someone turns the door handle. I flop down on the cot and close my eyes.

“Good morning, Miss Calico,” says a male voice. “There’s no need to feign sleep as the elevation of your blood pressure indicates that you’re awake.”

My eyes snap open, and I stare into the ebony gaze of a man wearing a doctor’s coat. His ageless features and cropped, blue-black hair tell me he’s the same kind of Noble as Montana and the Chamber of Ministers.

“Is this the Royal Hospital?” I whisper. “Who brought me here?”

He chuckles. “Your host will fill you in on all the details. Needless to say, you’ve suffered a few cut and scrapes—”

“I was shot and stabbed in the back.” My insides cringe with mortification. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but this doctor talks like I just tripped over and wasn’t in a fight for my life. “Sorry. Could you tell me who saved me?”

The doctor smiles and pats me on the shoulder. “Microsurgery and a few nanobots fixed the damage. I can’t say you won’t itch for the next few days, but don’t do anything strenuous for forty-eight hours. I’m glad you got through the trials relatively unscathed.”

My throat thickens with gratitude, and I blink back tears. A knife in the back is certain death in the Harvester Region, and a bullet in the shoulder can mean blood poisoning. “Thank you.”

“Good luck, Miss Calico.” He strolls to the door. “I sincerely hope you have a favourable outcome.”

Before I can ask what he means, the door opens again, and Prince Kevon steps inside. He wears the burgundy jacket of a palace guard. A breath catches in the back of my throat. I knew King Arias and the Guardians would regain the palace but thought it would take at least a few days. Relief lightens my heart, and the back of my eyes sting.

Prince Kevon’s gaze lands on me. “Zea?”

“I thought you were a hostage.”

His face darkens, and he tightens his lips. He turns to the older man and says, “Doctor Palatine, is it safe to move Miss Calico?”

The older man inclines his head. “Of course, Your Highness.” He walks to the exit and pauses by the door. “You can be assured of my discretion.”

I glance from the doctor to Prince Kevon, wracking my brains over the unspoken tension. Did whoever rescue me tell the prince what I did to Berta? My knees draw into my chest, and I wrap my arms around my bent legs.

As soon as the doctor leaves, Prince Kevon blows out a long breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Did I say something wrong?” I whisper.

“How did you find the underground river?” he asks.

“I thought it was just a cavern.”

Prince Kevon opens a closet and pulls out a white jumpsuit. “Zea, this is very important. You must not tell anybody about what you saw last night.”

Dread lines my stomach. I swing my legs off the bed and pad across the room to where he stands. “What was that place?”

“A network of water-filled caverns that stretch from the Smoky Mountains to beyond the Great Wall.” He closes the closet door and places the jumpsuit in my hands. “What on earth happened to you last night?”

I tell him how Berta and I overpowered the hijackers, how Ingrid and the others tried to hunt me, and how I fell through a fissure in the rock and ended up in the water. Prince Kevon’s eyes widen, and I’m not sure if he believes my outrageous tale.

When I stop talking, he cups the side of my face. “Seeing you with a dagger in your back was horrific. I swear that I will never let you get hurt again.”

My eyes meet his, and the intensity of his gaze makes my heart somersault. I whisper, “That was you in the cavern?”

He nods.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“I’m sorry for spying on you.” His fingers trail down my neck and skim my collarbone, sending tingles up and down my spine. He holds the tiny tomato pendant between his fingers. Pain creases his eyes. “This tracks your location and vital signs. After what happened to Rafaela—”

“Thank you.” I place my hand on his. “This tracker saved my life. As did you.”

He stares into my soul as though he’s reading my deepest thoughts, then his gaze drops to my mouth. My heart skips, and my tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. Prince Kevon is going to kiss me, and I’m going to let him.

“Zea.” His low voice makes my nerve endings tingle.

“Yes?” I whisper.

He squeezes his eyes shut and deflates. Disappointment settles in my belly like a stone. He knows I killed Berta. He couldn’t have missed seeing her body in the underground river. I should explain myself, tell him that the girl meant to drown me, and I was saving my own life, but his lips tighten, and a muscle in his jaw flexes.

“What is it?” The memory of the hijackers comes into sharp focus, along with the violent death of Queen Damascena, and I realize that he’s grieving, and I’ve been self-centered. “Your mother—”

“Is fine,” he says through clenched teeth.

“The king returned with reinforcements?”

He jerks his head to the side. The muscle in his jaw clenches again, and I place my palms on his burgundy jacket. I don’t understand the anger.

“Your Highness?”

“Kevon.” He places his large hand over mine and squeezes. “Please call me by my given name.”

“What’s wrong? Is the queen injured?”

He turns to the window and steps away. “It was part of the Princess Trials.”

I stare at his broad back, trying to decipher his words. Prince Kevon places his hands on the windowsill and sighs. It must be five in the morning, as wisps of dawn light bathe his olive skin and bring out a hint of the indigo in his black hair.

The view outside is of a familiar-looking fountain surrounded by roses. We’re somewhere in the palace.

“Kevon.” I place a hand on his arm. “What is it?”

He turns his head but still doesn’t make eye contact, and dread courses through my insides. Whatever he will say next is going to be awful, and I brace myself for the worst.

Eventually, Prince Kevon clears his throat. “The rebels, the supposed shooting of Montana, my mother, and the driver’s death at your hands. None of it was real.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It was another trial, broadcasted to everyone in Phangloria.”

I stare at his profile, waiting for the words to sink in. That can’t be right—I saw the blood. I felt the bullet wounds and the dagger in the back. I saw those people die.

“What about Gemini?” I ask.

“That part was real, as was the chandelier.” I’ve never heard Prince Kevon sound so harsh. He gazes at me over his shoulder, and one corner of his lips lifts into a sad smile. “After we left through the escape tunnel, medics came to heal the Harvester and Industrial girls. They’re going home tomorrow with—”

“Wait,” I snap. “You played along with this for the television show?”

He turns around with his hands raised. “Not me. Montana and my mother withheld this addition to the Princess Trials to see how I reacted. It was a test of which girl I cherished the most.”

“But you carried Ingrid through that passageway.”

Annoyance crosses his features. “The editors failed to broadcast the part where she twisted her ankle.”

Anger rushes through my veins, and I curl my hands into fists. “She knew.” Right now, I need to find that viper and prick her with two poisoned darts. I shake out the jumpsuit, pull down its zipper, and place a foot into the left leg. “Ingrid knew exactly what she was doing.”

Prince Kevon’s eyes widen, his cheeks darken, and he spins around. “I beg your pardon?”

I place my right foot into the jumpsuit’s other leg and pull the garment up to my hips. The rest of the jumpsuit slips on easily, and I pull up the zipper. “Ingrid was stomping down the side of the mountain easily enough when she tried to kill me with a real gun.”

Prince Kevon turns around, his face pale. “What?”

“They must have cut out that part of the Princess Trials, too,” I mutter.

We sit on the edge of the bed and piece together how the events of last night differed from the televised version. The edits focussed on Prince Kevon’s attempt to stop the hijackers from hurting Ingrid, and not on his attempts to ensure the safety of all the girls. The injuries he sustained at the hands of the Amstraadi soldiers disguised as rebels were real, but everyone else wore props to mimic gunshots.

“When did you find out?” I ask.

“In the ambulance.” Prince Kevon’s hand brushes against mine in silent permission. “As soon as the medics brought me to the Royal Hospital, I escaped to find you.”

My heart warms, and I lace my fingers into his. “Why would they go to all this effort to manipulate the public into thinking Ingrid Strab will become the next queen?”

“Her father is the Minister of Integration.” Prince Kevon squeezes my hand. “The high standards he sets for allowing Foundlings to join the Echelons are popular, which makes Ingrid popular. But the Amstraad ambassador also has a large influence over the show.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Amstraadi shows are blood-thirsty and full of surprises and violent twists. He’s offering a lot to export the Princess Trials to his country.” Prince Kevon explains that Phangloria pays heavily for the technology it imports from the Amstraad republic in the form of fresh produce.

I want to comment on the injustice that Harvesters don’t benefit from Amstraadi health devices, but I don’t have the heart to say such bitter words after Prince Kevon saved my life. Instead, I shake my head. “I can’t believe they would let us suffer to make entertainment.

His shoulders deflate. “That ends today.” His watch chimes, and he stands. “It’s almost time.”

“For what?” I ask.

“The changing of the guard.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “May I?”

For a second, I don’t know what he’s asking, then my cheeks heat. Last night, I was too injured to notice the closeness of his embrace, but I can walk without assistance.

“Dr. Palatine says you’ll be unsteady on your feet for the next hour or so, and we need to sneak through unsteady ground to exit the palace.”

“Why did you bring me here?” I ask.

“The Royal Hospital sends messages to the Royal guard every time I step through the threshold. Someone would be obligated to tell Lady Circi that I entered with an injured girl, and after hearing how the producers endangered your lives, I couldn’t risk them knowing your location until I was sure you were alright.”

My heart lightens, and I raise my hands in the universal pick-me-up gesture.

Prince Kevon slides one arm around my back and the other under my bent legs. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he lifts me to his chest. A tingle of pleasure ripples across my heart. The only man who has carried me like this was Dad, and it’s thrilling to have a young man my age hold me like I’m precious.

I rest my head on his shoulder and relax into his embrace. Right now, I feel closer to Prince Kevon than I have ever felt with Ryce, and a pang of regret spoils this special moment.

It’s not fair to compare the two young men. Prince Kevon has a perfect life, and Ryce is still haunted by the murder of his father. I stare at his handsome profile, at his perfect nose, high cheekbones, and strong jaw. He meets my eye and flashes me a crooked smile, making my heart melt.

Instead of exiting through the door, Prince Kevon walks to the closet and presses his hand on a screen on the wall. It scans his handprint, his retina, and prompts him to identify himself before the back of the closet clicks open.

We walk into an identical room, except it has no door or window. A dark-haired man with days of stubble lies on a cot with his eyes closed. He is pale with broken capillaries marring his skin, but there’s no mistaking the resemblance between him and Prince Kevon.

“Who’s that?” I whisper.

“My father,” he says.

“I thought he was with the Royal Navy.”

“As did I,” Prince Kevon mutters. “But I’ve come to learn that nothing Jimeno Montana broadcasts contains a hundred percent truth.”

I twist around to get a better look at King Arias. The man’s face is gaunter than it appeared on the OasisVision screen. I wonder if the editors made enhancements to his features or if whatever happened in this room caused his condition.

“He looks so different from the footage I saw of him last week. When was that shot?”

“Last month.”

I frown and place my head back on Prince Kevon’s shoulder. It seems odd that they didn’t show any live footage, but with Prince Kevon boarding the stagecoaches to observe the girls, I doubt he was around much during audition week.

He reaches the other side of the king’s room, passes another security panel, and we continue into a dim passage that reminds me of the one underneath the ballroom steps. Prince Kevon explains that he wanted to make sure I was out of the palace infirmary before the morning guards performed their inspection. We continue four stories down a spiral staircase and left into another narrow, windowless hall.

My Red Runner instincts force me to remain observant, although I don’t know what to do with this information. At the end of the passage is another door that accepts the prince’s handprint, which leads to an underground space where another armored personnel carrier stands next to a two-seater car with a solar top.

“Are we still under the palace?” I whisper.

He sets me on my feet. “This tunnel stretches beneath the grounds and leads to a passage on the other side of the navy barracks.”

A rush of dizziness makes my head spin, and I stumble onto the side of the car.

“Zea!” Prince Kevon wraps his hand around my waist and holds me steady.

“I’m…” My throat dries, and realization batters my brain.

The mission is complete!

I know the location of a secret passageway that leads directly to King Arias and I know how to access it. My gaze meets Prince Kevon’s worried eyes. The person I was at the start of this mission would celebrate this information, but I now just feel conflicted.

“Should I call Dr. Palatine?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I rasp.

Still holding me by the waist, Prince Kevon opens the car door and helps me inside. I melt into the leather seats and sigh. He shuts the door and races to the driver’s seat. Guilt thickens my throat.

All this time, I’ve been blinded by his Echelon and have not noticed his heart. I could never betray someone who has shown me nothing but kindness and compassion, but I also can’t betray my people.

As he sits and taps commands into the steering wheel screen, I whisper, “You’re trusting me with a lot of sensitive information.”

He holds my hand. “Did you know that Garrett chose you?”

“Huh?”

Prince Kevon grins. “You practically fell at his feet in the Rugosa Square. He said you were the one.”

“Why?”

“Because you share some similarities with Rafaela, Garrett thinks you’re my type.” His head dips, his shoulders slump, and the car rolls forward.

He remains silent for several moments as we travel past the black van and through a dark passageway. Grief shrouds my heart for the girl I never knew, and I can’t imagine how deep it must cut to lose his friend. It isn’t difficult to work out that Prince Kevon was probably attracted to Rafaela, even if she couldn’t return his feelings.

Mom might believe that Gaia blesses us all, but I can’t place my faith in a goddess who would bestow riches on one Echelon while leaving others to suffer. Reaching across, I place my hand in his. “Rafaela’s in a better place, now.”

He nods. “I still can’t believe that woman would go so far as to murder an innocent girl.”

“What?”

Prince Kevon raises his head, confusion crossing his features. “It’s been all over the news.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Sorry. You’ve unconscious. Someone in Lady Circi’s team arrested Prunella Broadleaf during the ball. She was also responsible for the attack on you.”

My mouth falls open. “What did she have against Rafaela?”

“Everybody’s speculations are different. Some say she wanted to sensationalize the show, others say she wanted to impress Montana, but I think she saw Rafaela and you as threats to the running of the Princess Trials.” He sighs. “We’ll learn the truth when the Minister Channel broadcasts her hearing live today.”

“That’s…” My brows draw together. Nobody would be deranged enough to murder to keep the show going. “Aren’t those motives flimsy?”

“I thought so at first, but after seeing footage the Lifestyle Channel put together of her very public breakdown, I’m not so sure.”

The car moves about the same speed as a horse and cart, so it feels like we’ve traveled nine-hundred feet. It turns left and advances up a gentle slope.

“It just seems too convenient,” I mutter.

“I don’t follow,” he says.

“Prunella Broadleaf is the unwanted wife of a powerful man, and everyone thought Rafaela was the favorite to win, even though the Chamber of Ministers wanted someone else. Blaming Prunella gets rid of two problems.”

He caresses my hand, making my breaths quicken. “But you were always my favorite.”

I dip my head. “Kevon, I can’t—”

“You’re cautious, and we’re only a few days into the Trials. After the ordeals you have suffered these last two nights, I’m not surprised you’re hesitant.”

Guilt lances through my chest, and it’s as sharp as Berta’s blade. I push away the thought of the girl I killed in self-defense and focus on Prince Kevon. He is nothing like I expected of a Noble, let alone a Royal. He’s kind, compassionate, and listens to my point of view, even when he disagrees.

Prince Kevon has also shown me more affection and devotion than anyone outside my family. He’s also patient, even though he’s made his interest clear. My heart says he’s right for me, but sixteen years of living as a Harvester says he’s not.

“Those things I said when you were disguised as a guard.” I chew on my bottom lip, struggling for words. Light floods the windscreen, and I glance up to find that we’re traveling through an overground tunnel that opens up into a huge lawn. “I’m not in love with you.”

“I know,” he replies.

“What?” I turn to him and gape.

His dark eyes glisten with compassion. “No one can truly love a person they’ve known from afar. It’s only been a few days, and I don’t expect you to return to the trials to face the wrath of those girls.”

“But you want me to stay in the Oasis,” I reply.

“Very much.”

“Why?” I whisper.

He turns to me, his brows furrowed. “After everything we’ve experienced together, do I really need to explain?”

I nod.

Prince Kevon inhales a long, deep breath. He tilts his head up as though gathering his thoughts. “You’re so different from the girls I know. Always thinking about others, both as individuals and as a people.”

I gaze through the window as the car travels along a row of familiar-looking one and two-story cottages. Prince Kevon’s description could apply to any member of the Red Runners.

“You’re challenging,” he says.

I turn to meet his dark eyes. “How?”

He grins. “You hardly accept my first answer. Do you know how many people wouldn’t dare question royalty? You’re bold, brave, and beautiful. When you’re around, the world is a more exciting place. Colors are brighter and food tastes better.”

I can’t help but snort at the exaggeration, which makes him laugh.

“There’s no artifice to you.” He places a hand on mine. “Most people adopt a persona around royalty, but it feels like I’ve met the real Zea-Mays Calico.”

A breath catches in the back of my throat. I might never have put on a false front, but I haven’t been honest about my intentions for joining the Princess Trials. It’s a massive lie by omission and one he won’t forgive.

“Alright,” I say.

“One more thing. I like the person I become when I’m with you.” He chuckles. “You look through the title and see the real me.”

Empathy clutches at my heart, and I offer him a sad smile.

Prince Kevon smiles back. “Will you consider staying in the guesthouse with Forelle?”

A mix of emotions assaults me at once. Excitement, relief, and nausea because Berta’s words float to the surface of my mind. Girls like me don’t get the handsome prince. I want to leave the Oasis, and deep down, I want to stay connected to Prince Kevon, but not if that means he will choose someone else as his wife.

As we park outside one of the guesthouses, I can’t help but blurt, “Do you want me to become your royal mistress?”

His eyes widen, and he gasps out, “Zea…”

The passenger door flies open, and a strong hand wraps around my forearm. “Zea-Mays Calico,” sneers Lady Circi. “I knew you would return to Garrett’s little love-nest.”

CHAPTER 30

L ady Circi drags me out of the car, and a shocked breath hisses through my teeth as something hard presses into my kidney. My body freezes, and I gaze out into the vast lawn, not daring to turn around.

I don’t need to be an expert on firearms to guess that it’s a gun, but I can’t tell if Lady Circi is holding it to my back or if it’s just one of the many weapons she keeps strapped to her body.

Prince Kevon storms out of the car, his face flushed with fury. “Unhand her at once!”

“Why?” The sarcasm in Lady Circi bristles along my nerve endings. “So you can set her up as a mistress the way Garrett set up that Pyrus girl? Her parents are frantic with concern about the whereabouts of their daughter. After recent events, her disappearance is causing unrest in Rugosa.”

My throat closes. I’m sure Forelle and I spoke about the effect her staying in the Oasis would have on her parents, but maybe I just worried about them in my mind. Our last conversation seems a lifetime away.

Despite the weapon digging into my organs, I agree with Lady Circi’s anger. Forelle hasn’t been onscreen since her audition, and not mere days after that, Rafaela got murdered. I’m sure seeing Gemini explode on camera and the chandelier falling on those Industrial girls would have affected everyone in Rugosa, not just Mr. And Mrs. Pyrus.

“I command you to release Zea-Mays Calico at once,” the prince growls.

“You don’t have the authority,” replies Lady Circi.

Prince Kevon walks around the bumper and stops at our side. “We both know that will change in a matter of days or weeks.” There’s a hardness to his voice that I’ve never heard before. “Tread carefully, Lady-at-arms, your next actions will determine whether you lead the next king’s security forces or become the lady-in-waiting for a dowager queen.”

Lady Circi releases my arms and steps away. I spin around to find that she wears a streamlined, bullet-proof tunic shaped to look like an A-line mini dress. A holster wraps around her bust and holds guns at each side, and two others cross her torso. One of them contains the pistol that pressed into my back.

The prince’s strong arm wraps around my waist. “Are you alright?”

Concern pinches his eyes, and the warmth of his embrace shifts something deep in my heart. No one has ever looked at me like this before, and it’s addictive.

“You have feelings for her,” says Lady Circi.

Prince Kevon’s brows draw together, and his lips part. He’s already accepted that I don’t love him, but I didn’t dare to ask how he felt about me. Still holding me in his dark gaze, he nods.

My empty stomach flutters, and a dozen protests rise to the back of my throat. I’m on the opposite side of an upcoming war. I’m here to destroy the structure that keeps him in power. I’m supposed to be in love with Ryce Wintergreen.

Despite this, I can’t help losing myself in Prince Kevon’s adoring gaze. He sees me, not a candidate of the Princess Trials, not a Harvester girl or a soldier. The way he holds me, the way he gazes into my eyes says that I’m precious to him.

A lump forms in my throat as I realize that Prince Kevon would never send me on a mission of unknown danger.

“I have my orders, Your Highness.” She folds her arms across her chest. “As the target of attempted murder, Miss Calico is required to give evidence in the Chamber of Ministers.”

My gaze darts to the Lady-at-arms, who is probably exaggerating. With the number of guards available, why would they send Queen Damascena’s right-hand to fetch me? I suspect she’s here on the queen’s request to capture me, but the truth in Prince Kevon’s words has changed her mind.

“We’ll follow you,” replies Prince Kevon.

Lady Circi opens her mouth to protest, and then inclines her head. Without another word, she walks to the black van and climbs in the passenger seat.

Prince Kevon opens the car door. “I’m sorry about this, but we must ensure that Prunella Broadleaf doesn’t hurt you again.”

I slide onto the leather seat and stare at my hands.

Prince Kevon crouches at my side. “You can stay in the guesthouse with Forelle if you wish and make your testimony over Netface—”

“No.” I place a hand over his. “I want to go to Prunella’s trial.”

“Very well.” He brushes a gentle thumb over my ring finger, and it feels like a promise.

As he rises and walks around to the driver’s seat, my heart sinks. Why couldn’t Prince Kevon have been another Harvester, an Industrial, or even an Artisan?

Mom’s voice rings through my ears. She said that I should join the Princess Trials for a chance to influence those in power. I’ve captured the attention of the prince, found a hidden entrance to the palace as well as a source of water that will free the Harvesters from the tyranny of rationing, so why do I feel like I have failed?

Don’t fall in love with the handsome prince. Carolina’s words hit like the lash of a whip, and I bolt upright.

Prince Kevon slides in his seat. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Alright.”

I close my eyes and release my tension in a long breath. If whoever takes over the trials from Prunella is in line with the Chamber of Ministers, they will construe my leaving the armored personnel carrier as leaving the trials. This time, Prince Kevon won’t intervene, and I will tell him that I want to return to Rugosa.

“Say the word.” His deep voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I open my eyes to find him staring at me like I’m his last swallow of water. “Say the word, and I will withdraw from the Princess Trials.”

“I can’t,” I whisper.

Prince Kevon nods and taps instructions into the steering-wheel screen. He probably thinks I need more time to decide, but he’s got to know that not everyone wants to become royal. The car follows Lady Circi’s huge vehicle around the vast lawn, where metal spikes rise from the ground and spray jets of water over the grass.

We drive in silence through a wide street of tall, stone-fronted buildings lined with trees of pink and red flowers. Nobles sit outside glass-fronted stores, enjoying breakfasts served by people in violet uniforms. I wonder if they’re also Guardians but push away those thoughts.

The Chamber of Ministers is another white building constructed along the same lines as the palace, but it’s a lot taller because of the two-story round tower above its domed roof. Beneath the roof are two circular levels and beneath those, a square structure of two double-height stories and a grand entranceway.

Guards stand beneath a triangular roof held by four massive columns, holding scanners to Nobles’ ear cuffs.

Instead of stopping at the entrance, Prince Kevon follows the black van around to the back of the building, where one of the walls contains a metal shutter. A beam of red light scans the van’s front, the shutter rises, allowing the van to enter a small driveway closed off by another shutter.

The first shutter lowers, and red light floods the front seats. I tilt my head to the side. “What’s this?”

Prince Kevon raises his palm. “Recognition security. It scans the retina, handprint, and heat signature of the driver.” He winces. “If something is off, it sends a message to the driver’s Amstraad cuff to analyze their blood.”

That explains why he grimaced. I ask, “Why would they need to know what’s in your blood?”

“To make sure the driver isn’t under the influence of any mind-altering substances.”

“In case hijackers are forcing you to enter the Chamber of Ministers?” I ask.

“That’s part of it.” The shutter rises, and Prince Kevon drives into the enclosed space. “They’ll probably perform a visual or ultrasound inspection to ensure you’re not holding me at gunpoint.”

I steal a glance at Prince Kevon. His readings are off because he’s upset, even if he doesn’t show it in his voice or on his face.

A lot has happened in the past twelve hours. Queen Damascena broke her promise to spare Gemini, and those running the Princess Trials subjected us all to a terrifying experience. I’ve lost count of the number of times someone has either attempted to assassinate me or incited others to attack me.

My throat thickens, and I glance down at my lap. There are several reasons he’s off-balance, but a tiny part of my heart knows it’s because I said I didn’t love him.

After several moments of silence, the second shutter rises, and the car rolls into a paved courtyard with a less grand stone porch that leads to the main building.

“The security in the palace wasn’t that thorough,” I say.

“In most entrances, it is,” he replies. “But sometimes, the best security measure is not telling anyone a secret passage exists.”

Lady Circi waits for us on the steps, and the sourness that usually twists her beautiful features when she looks at me is gone.

I don’t know if Prince Kevon’s silent declaration of affection has changed her mind or if she’s resigned to respect the wishes of the imminent king. The only part I care about is that she’s one less enemy with a dagger pointed at my back.

We walk through marble hallways adorned with gilded portraits of all the monarchs of Phangloria in a century and a half. Guards in black bow as Prince Kevon passes, and at the end of the hallway, they open the door of a semicircular auditorium of tiered rows that curve around a low stage.

Thousands of people sit within the seats, and I wonder if these are the same Nobles who attended the ball. Prince Kevon and I walk around the edge of the room and sit in the back row.

The wall opposite broadcasts what’s happening onstage. The Nobles from the garden party sit in two-tiered rows, facing a wooden throne where a tall Noble whose long hair is tied into a severe bun that’s about half the size of her head.

Prince Kevon explains that the Noble on the throne is the Minister of Justice who has served in the position for forty-five years. Unlike the ministers, who wear burgundy robes, hers is white with a burgundy trim.

A few feet away from the Minister of Justice, a smaller figure cowers within a box-like structure. A closeup of their face appears onstage. It’s Prunella Broadleaf, her face twisted with anguish, and her reddened hands clutching a metal collar around her neck.

“By the blessings of Gaia,” Prunella says through panting breaths. “I only meant what was best for Phangloria.”

The Minister of Justice leans forward and steeples her fingers. “Am I to believe ambition was not a factor in your decision to murder Rafaela van Eyck?”

“Never.” Prunella’s shoulders rise to her ears, and her eyes roll to the back of her head. Her spasming fingers scratch at her chest, and convulsions wrack her torso. “Aaah!”

“What is this?” I whisper.

“An interrogation collar that monitors heart rate, brainwaves, and body heat for signs of falsehood,” he whispers back.

My brows draw together. “How do you know there isn’t someone sitting in another room with a computer and making it shock her for saying something the ministers don’t like?”

“Do you think she’s innocent?” asks Prince Kevon.

“I don’t know.”

Prunella Broadleaf reveals that she wanted the Princess Trials to be the most sensational event of a generation. She hoped the Chamber of Ministers would reward her with a place in the Noble Echelon to replace the status she lost on the dissolution of her marriage.

Strangely, nobody asks if she was under orders from Montana, or asks if she collaborated with the Amstraad ambassador over Rafaela’s murder. From the way they speak, it’s as though the girl died from her fall.

The Minister of Justice shakes her head. “This is a very sorry tale indeed, Miss Broadleaf.”

Prunella opens her mouth, but she raises a finger. Either Prunella is terrified of the other woman or her finger operates the collar because Prunella stiffens, and her mouth clicks shut.

“Please only speak when invited to by the Council.” The Minister of Justice pauses. “You say the purpose of the interim round was to whittle forty-five girls to thirty. Is that correct?”

Prunella nods.

“How do you explain the chandelier that fell on Miss Pixel, the Harvester, and those unfortunate Industrial girls?”

“I wasn’t there—” Prunella’s shoulders rise, and her arms twist across her chest. She slumps forward and sobs.

“Miss Broadleaf, we don’t have all morning,” says the Minister. “I would encourage you to cooperate with the interrogation collar.”

Prunella lets out a gasping breath. “When the attack on Miss Calico’s room failed, the chandelier was set up to eliminate her from the trials.”

Prince Kevon squeezes my hand, and I lean forward. Prunella didn’t admit to setting up the chandelier accident. Why is the minister protecting her accomplices?

“Thank you, Miss Broadleaf. Please sit on the bench for further questioning.”

An assistant in a burgundy vest and matching pants scurries across the semicircular floor to open a hatch in Prunella’s box. She rises from her seat and leans heavily on the assistant, who escorts her to a bench on the stage’s left.

The Phangloria insignia appears on the screen for several seconds, followed by the Minister of Justice’s face. “We all got to witness the thrilling adventure-simulation our plucky candidates undertook at the palace ball. Let’s show our appreciation for Ambassador Pascal and his Amstraadi volunteers, Queen Damascena, and Lady Circi for the wonderful performance they put on for the Princess Trials.”

Cheers and applause fill the chamber. I huff out an exasperated breath and turn to Prince Kevon. “Did anyone actually die last night?”

Prince Kevon shakes his head. “The bullets shot last night were beeswax encased in spider silk that break the skin and tear through muscle, but they are not supposed to kill.”

A knot tightens in my belly. Ingrid’s gun had killed Firkin. No one could survive such a horrific neck wound. She implied that her gun was the one Prince Kevon left behind, but what if someone had placed a real gun under her seat?

As the applause fades, the Minister of Justice says, “Next, we will hear from a young woman who witnessed the off-camera events. Darby Abraham, please step forward.”

The Noble girl who sat across the aisle from me rises from the front tier. She wears the flowing dress that’s been our uniform during the interim rounds, but her long, blue-black hair is adorned with white roses.

An assistant leads her to the box, and she sits. “I thank Gaia for the opportunity to address the learned Chamber.”

“Can you tell us in your own words what happened when the bus reversed to retrieve Miss Calico?” asks the Minister of Justice.

As Darby tells a garbled version of the events of last night, Prince Kevon wraps an arm around my shoulder and warns me not to interrupt as the consequences for disrupting the Chamber of Ministers are dire. Nodding, I clench my teeth and listen to a pile of horse manure big enough to feed Dad’s micro gardens for a year.

According to the Noble girl, I ran off the vehicle in another tantrum. She and a few others chased after me and got attacked by a mutant with a blowgun. Ingrid fired on the Foundling in self-defense, who dropped dead from fright.

The Minister of Justice offers Darby a sage nod. “It was fortunate that help arrived before the Foundling’s poison could take effect.”

An assistant rushes to the minister’s side and hands the minister a tablet. Her perfect brows rise before she announces, “Zea-Mays Calico has entered the building.”

Applause breaks out, and I exchanged a confused glance with Prince Kevon.

Someone places a hand on my shoulder. Another assistant in burgundy leans into my side and whispers that I must give evidence.

Prince Kevon nods, I rise and follow him on shaky legs down the steps, past the guards at the bottom, and onto the stage, where the applause turns to wild cheers.

I watch my brow furrow on the big screen behind the ministers. What on earth did these people think I did yesterday?

Once I’ve settled in my seat, the assistant closes the box, and the Minister of Justice leans forward with her palms resting on the throne’s wooden arms. “Miss Calico, I understand this is your first time in the Oasis?”

“Yes, Minister.” My voice projects around the room, giving me a mild surprise.

“You must only speak when addressed, and you must answer only the questions posed. Is that understood?” The condescension in her voice makes me curl my fists.

I shake my head, and a few people in the public gallery chuckle.

She frowns. “What is the matter, Miss Calico?”

“I want to tell everyone what happened last night.”

“That won’t be necessary as we already have the camera footage,” says the minister.

“But, not everything was—” A mild jolt of electricity pulses through my seat. I flinch, taking the sting as a warning to stay quiet, or they’ll dial up the voltage. I clench my teeth. “I didn’t just leave the vehicle, those girls—”

The microphone that broadcasts my voice cuts off, leaving me talking to myself.

“Then I am glad we have witnesses like you to paint the rest of the picture of last night’s events.” The Minister of Justice glances down at the tablet. “Why did the Foundling attack the other girls and not you?”

Alarm pulses through my heart, and my seat becomes too warm. I can’t tell the ministers that it was me who attacked the girls. They’ll never believe me that it was in self-defense, and I’ll end up with a metal collar around my neck.

My tongue darts out to lick my lips, and I think of something to say. “I was in another part of the mountain and heard gunshots. When I found the girls lying unconscious, I thought a rattlesnake had gotten to them, so I ran to get help.”

“What happened to Berta Ridgeback after the Foundling attacked?” she asks.

“She…” My gaze catches a couple sitting in the front of the visitor’s gallery, who lean forward.

The woman wears the white coat of a doctor with the same ash-blonde hair as Berta, and the man is clad in a guard’s uniform. He’s twice the woman’s size with Berta’s strong jaw and hard eyes.

“She chased after me, and then there was a rockslide. I hit my head and lost consciousness after that.”

The woman turns to the man and buries her head in his shoulder, but the man’s stare hardens. Panic spikes through my chest. He knows I’m lying. I snatch my gaze away and meet the Minister of Justice’s dark eyes.

The woman raises her brows. “Where was Miss Ridgeback when you awoke?”

I shake my head.

“Miss Calico?” she asks.

“She wasn’t there.” My rasping voice echoes across the vast chamber, making me cringe. “Last night, I heard her tumble after me down the mountain… I don’t know what happened after that, Minister.”

On my left, the screen switches to Prince Kevon, who stands with his hand raised, and chatter spreads across the tiers of spectators.

The Minister of Justice turns to the source of the sound and leans forward. “Your Highness, do you have something to add?”

“As soon as I discovered that the ballroom attack was part of the Princess Trials, I rushed to the Barrens to the girls’ aid. I found Miss Calico severely injured in a ditch, but there was no sign of Miss Ridgeback.”

My throat spasms. Prince Kevon just lied to protect me.

“I commend your act of chivalry, Your Highness.” The minister claps her hands together. “Very well. Now that we have heard from all parties and uncovered what happened to Rafaela van Eyck, it is time to finalize who will join Prince Kevon in the palace.”

My lips part to let out a surprised breath. That’s it? My gaze darts to Prunella Broadleaf, who slumps on the bench. What’s going to happen to her?

Wasn’t the vote at the ball the decider for the palace round of the Trials? These people keep changing the rules to suit themselves.

The assistant returns to my sides and pulls a lever that makes the door click open. Without waiting to be dismissed, I step down from the interrogation device and walk across the floor, through the gate, and back up the stairs with Prince Kevon.

“Ambassador Pascal has already chosen which six of his young ladies will join the palace,” says the minister. “We would like to speed things along by paring down the number from our side to twelve. On your tablets are the names and faces of each eligible girl.”

I reach the top and slide into the seat next to Prince Kevon, who holds my hand. Even though I can guess with certainty that I’ve been removed from the list of candidates, but I no longer care. My mission is complete, and every fiber of self-preservation tells me that if I stay a single day longer in the Oasis, I will be the next to die.

Prince Kevon gives me a warm, optimistic smile that crushes my heart. If I don’t make the final twelve, he’ll want me to stay in the guesthouse. But the more information I gather on palace security, the heavier the obligation becomes to share that information with Carolina.

A lump forms in my throat. If Prince Kevon becomes the ruler of Phangloria, I no longer want a revolution.

“The votes are in,” says the Minister of Justice. “Montana, will you do the honors?”

Montana rises from his seat and walks to the middle of the floor. “The twelve Phanglorians to progress to the palace round are Ingrid Strab, Constance Spryte, Darby Abraham, Villosa Belmont, Virginia Moyesii, Jaqueline Bellini, Petra Lombard, Paris Kanone, Minnie Werfer, Tulip Ironside, Emmera Hull, and Vitelotte Pyrus.”

Applause echoes across the chambers and reaches my ears in a roar of sound. I lean back and stare at the faces projected on the screen. Five Nobles, three Guardians, two Artisans, two Harvesters, and neither of them are me.

I’m going home.

Prince Kevon squeezes my hand so hard that it hurts. He doesn’t want to let go, and I stare ahead, not knowing how to explain that we have no future. Prince Kevon might have filled my heart to the point where there’s little room for my one-sided infatuation with Ryce Wintergreen, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to risk my life to be with a prince.

Another assistant rushes in and hands the Minister of Justice a computer tablet. She frowns and taps the side of her throat.

“We have located Berta Ridgeback.” Her voice projects over the applause.

A tight fist of alarm squeezes my insides, and my adrenaline spikes. If they’ve found Berta, it means that they know whoever killed her entered the underground river. Despair washes through my veins like acid. If one drop of my blood spilled in that cavern…

The chamber falls silent, and the assistant points out where Berta’s parents sit. The Minister of Justice turns to them and says, “I’m afraid she drowned.”

Berta’s parents fill the screen. Her mother claps her hand over her mouth and sobs, but her father twists around in his seat and turns. I glance down at the front row to find that he’s staring in our direction. Our gazes meet for a moment, but the look in his eyes says he will discover what happened to his daughter even at the cost of my life.

The double doors open, and everybody stands.

Queen Damascena walks into the floor, holding the same kind of tablet as the Minister of Justice.

My throat dries, and I squeeze Prince Kevon’s hand. “Does she visit the Chamber of Ministers often?”

His features slacken, and his olive skin turns ashen. “Never.”

The queen stops at Montana and passes him the tablet. He reads the contents and rears back with his brows raised. I draw in a deep breath. Did something happen to King Arias?

She turns to the public gallery and spreads her arms wide. “I am saddened to hear of the passing of such a brave, young woman.” Her voice fills the room. “Brigadier and Dr. Ridgeback, you have my deepest sympathies.”

Footage of Berta’s parents appears onscreen. Her father trembles with rage, and her mother continues to sob into his chest.

The camera switches to Queen Damascena. “In honor of your daughter, I would like to extend an invitation to her dear friend to stay with us at the palace.”

Nausea swirls in my empty stomach. Berta and I were never friends. The queen knows my secret. She knows I killed Berta. She knows I’ve seen the secret subterranean river. She knows I have information that could end water rationing.

“What is she doing?” Prince Kevon whispers.

With a smile that looks more like the baring of fangs, Queen Damascena raises her head toward the back row, where I sit next to her son.

“Zea-Mays Calico.” Her grin widens. “Please come down and rejoin the Princess Trials.”

END OF BOOK ONE

READ BOOK TWO

THE REBEL: A PRINCESS TRIALS STORY

What does Ryce Wintergreen really think about Zea?

Discover his point of view in The Rebel:

http://rebel.theprincesstrials.com

THE PRINCESS TRIALS

When the revolution comes, border guards won’t harass Harvester girls and water will be available to everyone—not just the Nobles. Until then, it’s just me and my poison darts.

The Princess Trials

The Princess Games

The Princess Crown

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Contents

Copyright © 2020 by Cordelia K Castel

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

The Rebel: A Princess Trials Story

The Princess Trials

Cordelia Castel’s Books

Writing as Delia E Castel