“I love you, Zea-Mays Calico,” he says. “You’re the bravest, most interesting girl I’ve ever met.”
The words hit a wall of shock. I can’t believe that Ryce Wintergreen, the future leader of the Red Runners, and the man I once thought would rule Phangloria, just forced himself on me.
He pulls my limp body into his chest, and it feels like torture. “Go back to the others,” he murmurs in my ear. “Before they notice you’re missing.”
My entire body trembles, and tears fill my eyes. All those times I watched Harvester girls get accosted by guards, I had been a bystander and never imagined myself one of their victims. It turns out that Harvester men are just as capable of such atrocities.
Something inside me cracks. Maybe it’s a sense of idealism that all Harvesters are good and all Nobles are bad. Maybe it’s my indecision about handing over the country to the Red Runners.
Ryce turns me around, swats me on the behind, and tells me to hurry back to the cameras. I rush out from behind the marquee and through the space between the stalls on legs that feel like brittle saplings. If the Red Runners want a revolution, it won’t be through me. Prince Kevon will be the king to smash through the inequalities in Phangloria.
The crowd around the tomato seller thins, and Nobles call my name. Some chuckle and others call me the bucking bronco. Maybe they’re waiting for one of my famous tantrums. Instead, I offer them waves and weak smiles.
Vitelotte stands at the edge of the crowd between Cassiope and her production assistant. She sees me first and glances over my shoulder, not commenting until I reach their side.
“There she is,” she says. “Chatting with fans as I told you.”
I shoot her a grateful smile, answer a few questions about the tomatoes I weed, then a few people in the crowd ask me more tomato-related questions.
Afterward, we walk with the production assistants past fruit and vegetable stalls. The sweet, warm aroma drifts across the market, and somebody rings a bell. I raise my gaze to a triple-width marquee in the corner, where women dressed as Harvesters sell pastries and freshly-baked bread.
“Be careful,” Vitelotte whispers in my ear.
“About what?”
“Ryce Wintergreen.”
A spasm of shock squeezes my chest and ripples up my tightening throat. I glance at the assistants walking together at my side, but neither pays us any attention.
I croak, “What are you talking about?”
She flicks her head toward the marquee next to the bakery, where a tall girl clad in a scanty version of the Harvester uniform rises from a black cow and holds up a pitcher. Ryce stands beside her and drinks a glass of milk.
“If that guy over there tries to talk you into something, ignore him,” she mutters.
“Huh?”
Vitelotte’s sharp stare slices through my veneer of false innocence. “He’s not a bad person, but he acts like he’s going to bring about a revolution for the Harvester Echelon. He’s just a pretty boy who talks big and can’t even gain the respect of his mother.”
“You know him?”
She nods. “His father used to run the cornfield my brother supervises.” She raises a shoulder. “I don’t know if Ryce sees him as a mentor or something, but he’s always coming to our house crying about how his mother makes him take care of lost causes and ranting about becoming the president or something.”
Lost causes. My stomach hardens. Like Ryce’s Red Runners youth cell? “Right.”
We continue past the bakery and past the milkmaid, who hands Ryce another glass of milk. He raises it to the crowd and grins. The crowd cheers back.
I snatch my gaze away and focus on Constance, who waves, blows kisses, and poses for photos with ageless Nobles. I don’t know what to believe, but I don’t think it matters. This will be the last I see of Ryce Wintergreen until Queen Damascena allows me to leave the Oasis, and by the time I return to Rugosa, I’ll be done with the Red Runners.
I turn to ask Vitelotte about Carolina, but she’s gone.
“Oh, look.” Cassiope points at a crowd of reporters by the door. “Ambassador Pascale is here. Let’s see if he will offer his support in finding the missing girls.”
Vitelotte avoids me for the rest of the outing and sits with Emmera on the journey back. I’m not being paranoid, but she hasn’t been the same since pointing out Ryce. Part of me wonders if that’s because she spotted him dragging me behind the tomato seller’s gazebo, but she didn’t mention having seen us together.
When we reach the palace, there’s no sign of Byron or Prunella, and when I reach my room, there’s no sign of Forelle and Georgette. Instead, I find Lady Circi sitting on the velvet sofa, looking into the screen of her tablet computer. She wears a teal jumpsuit today and balances a gun on the sofa’s arm.
I clap both hands to my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
She glances up then returns her gaze to the screen as though I’m not even a threat.
“Wrong question.” Queen Damascena steps out from my walk-in closet, clad in a carnation-pink one-piece with flared culottes that look like they belong to a gown rather than a jumpsuit. Her blonde hair falls in a cascade of curls, framing smoky eyes that glint with malice.
My pulse accelerates. All the moisture leaves my throat and gathers on my palms. I place a hand on the wall to steady myself, and my legs collapse into an awkward curtsey. “Your Majesty.”
“Breaking my son’s heart wasn’t part of the arrangement,” the queen snaps.
“What?” I whisper.
Lady Circi raises her head. “She told you to help him choose a suitable Noble, not to leave the trials.”
Just because they once made an arrangement over a man, it doesn’t mean I could be as heartless. I force my expression into a mask of calm. “How can I guide him to
