I glance over my shoulder at Vitelotte, who rolls her eyes.
The drive to the farmer’s market is mercifully short. It’s located in an opaque dome close to the Botanical Gardens and resembles the domes in the Harvester town squares. We step off the bus and onto a red carpet flanked by guards holding back crowds of regular people.
They scream out our names, flash their cameras, and hold up tablet computers. Byron isn’t here to tell us what to do, but a group of production assistants crowds the entrance. None of them hold cameras, so I guess they just want to observe us as we browse.
Gnamma Market’s interior looks nothing like our dome. Instead of a long line of people stretching across the space to pick up their weekly rations, the market is made up of bell-shaped gazebos each manned by robust-looking Harvesters. Their uniforms are vibrant shades of brown that include hickory, cinnamon, and gingerbread, and they all wear pristine, white aprons.
My brows draw together. They look too stylish and individual to be from our Echelon, and the women sport cosmetics and hairstyles that require hours of preparation. I walk through the throng, scrutinizing the stall-holders. It’s almost as if someone like Master Thymel created the uniforms and placed them on Artisans.
The customers are mostly blue-haired Nobles dressed in one-piece outfits in the style of Montana and Lady Circi, but mingling among them are uniformed officers, flamboyant Artisans, and a few people whose uniform I recognize from the hospital.
Some of the stalls only sell one type of food, such as the round man with ruddy cheeks, who displays every imaginable type of lettuce from purple to green to white.
On his left is a woman whose tomatoes range in size from peas to pumpkin-sized monstrosities. There are so many varieties that her produce occupies two gazebos. Some of them are yellow, some are black, some are purple.
My head shakes from side to side as I take in all the shapes. Perfect spheres, plums-shapes, carrot-shapes, gourd-shapes, some shaped so irregularly I can’t even tell they’re tomatoes.
“You’re Zea-Mays Calico.” The tomato seller’s gold bangles jingle as she claps her hands together. Black hair curls around her ageless face, and her brown eyes sparkle with excitement. She grins, revealing whitened teeth. “What do you think of my selection?”
My mouth opens and closes, and words tumble through my brain. We don’t grow any of these in Rugosa, which is the only Harvester town that cultivates tomatoes.
“She’s speechless!” A man claps me hard on the shoulder, making me tumble forward. The slapper is a laughing, blue-haired Noble dressed in Harvester brown, who wraps his arm around the tomato seller. “Have you ever seen so many beautiful varieties?”
I glance at a pair of camerawomen filming my reaction with their thick glasses. “No. This is truly amazing.”
“Did you hear that?” says the Noble man. “Trumpeter’s Tomatoes are approved by Zea-Mays Calico herself.”
A crowd of Nobles swarms us, and I stagger back against the influx. My pulse quivers in time with the fury quickening through my heart. This is madness.
More and more people crowd the tomato sellers, pushing me further back into the crowd. I can’t see the camerawomen anymore, and I glance from side to side as more people arrive from all over the market, presumably in search of a spectacle.
A large hand wraps around my arm, and someone pulls me aside. I catch a glimpse of pale eyes, unsmiling lips, and a dimpled chin. My breath catches in the back of my throat.
It’s Ryce Wintergreen.
Chapter 8
Ryce pulls me through the crowd and down the gap between the tomato stall and its neighbor’s, who sells pumpkins and squashes.
He wears a regulation white shirt that’s either brand new or dipped in laundry bleach. His brown vest and matching pants look pressed, and there isn’t a speck of dust in his uniform. I guess that’s the only way a Harvester can blend in among these Nobles pretending to belong to our Echelon.
I glance from side to side to see if anyone has followed us, but he wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me into his chest.
“Zea,” he murmurs into my hair. “You look so good.”
His earthy scent engulfs my senses. It’s freshly-tilled soil, sugar beet… and something unusually floral. I try to pull back to look into his eyes, but he holds me tight and continues murmuring about being pleased to see me.
I relax into his embrace. Ryce reminds me of home, and that’s one step away from Mom, Dad, Yoseph, and Flint. “Ryce,” I say. “Have you seen—”
“Zea.”
The way his deep voice curls around my name makes me pause. I hope this means he’s about to tell me that the Red Runners took my family to safety so I can complete my mission without worrying about their fates.
He releases me, draws back, and cups my face with both hands. It’s the tenderest of touches, and his pale eyes soften. A corner of his mouth curls into the barest of smiles.
My throat dries. He looks at me as though I’m precious.
“After seeing you on that glider, I’ve suffered nothing but sleepless nights,” he says. “When you stopped answering my calls—”
“My family,” I blurt. Ryce is talking about the watch he gave Sharqi to hide in her beak. The watch I left in my boot and haven’t thought about for days. “Are they alright?”
His expression blanks, and the hands cupping my face stills. After a significant pause, he says. “Yes.”
“But I thought there were guards outside—”
“They visited that time when you spoke to them on camera.” He doesn’t allow me to complete my sentence, and there’s something in his assurance that doesn’t ring true. “Nobody’s watching your home, I promise.”
My muscles tense, my spine turns rigid, and my insides numb. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making my pulse thrash in my throat. I would sooner believe
