“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
