A shiver runs down my spine as I imagine straps running through them and securing us to torture chairs.
Carolina once taught us that when imprisoned, Red Runner operatives must remain quiet or say they acted alone. Betraying their organization and their comrades will lead the Nobles to believe that every Harvester is a rebel, and that will mean sanctions for all.
Everything I’ve seen of Vitelotte leads me to believe she has been sent to the palace by Carolina. She executes attacks with precision. When she warned me that Ryce didn’t have the respect of his mother and led a group of no-hopers, I think she got that information directly from our leader.
The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Why would Carolina only send one girl to the Princess Trials? Knowing that it was an opportunity to infiltrate the palace and knowing that the selection process was arbitrary, she should have sent every eligible girl within her organization.
My poisoning the guard who attacked Emmera only attracted the Wintergreens’ attention, making me a last-minute addition to the number of girls sent.
I stumble to my feet and place a hand on the bar, but an electric shock races through my arm. When it reaches my heart, I scream.
Emmera raises her head and stares at me through bloodshot eyes. “Careful, those bars are electrified.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “What’s happening?”
“When you were helping His Highness, guards stormed the restaurant and brought us here.” She breaks into a sob. “I think they killed the chef.”
“What?” I whisper. That poor man only made the mistake of setting down a knife.
Emmera wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “They shot electroshockers at him, and bolts of electricity covered his body. How could she do this?”
I turn to Vitelotte, who pulls her gaze away.
My heart sinks. Vitelotte probably thinks she’s making a sacrifice for the good of the Harvesters. All she has done is condemn us and our families. I can’t voice any of this because it will make no difference to our plights. Someone is watching us on a screen to see what secrets we might divulge, and anything we say will be used to prove our guilt.
As the hours stretch out, my legs ache from standing between the bars on the floor. I can’t lean against the wall bars for fear of being shocked, so I follow Emmera’s example and sit. Vitelotte does the same on my right but all I can see is her back.
“Why did you do it?” Emmera stares into my eyes.
My brows draw together, and I wonder if she’s referring to putting my hands on his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“You and Lotte,” she says. “Why?”
I rear back with a shocked splutter. If this is an attempt to throw me under the tractor blades, it won’t work. “Why did I save Prince Kevon’s life? Why did you stand in the corner and scream when you could have helped?”
“I gave you a napkin,” she whispers.
“Why don’t you shut your mouth?” I snap.
Emmera lowers her head into her lap and sobs. I turn to Vitelotte, who rolls her eyes, acting as though we’re still friends. Right now, I want to charge through the bars and tear out her purple curls. What the hell gave her the right to stab an innocent man?
Nobody speaks after that, and the silence stretches out for hours. We sleep, we sit, we stare at the bars, the walls, at each other, but nothing changes except for the deepening of our hunger and thirst. Not knowing what’s happening on the outside is a cruel form of torture, and I ache to see Prince Kevon.
I lie on my back and think about the rebel’s dilemma, a revolution tactic Ryce once explained to our youth cell. If the guards arrest two accomplices, one can betray the other and go free, meaning execution for their comrade. If both betray each other, they each die and the guards might even find others in their cell. But if they both stay silent, they might each get a whipping and return to their families.
Carolina added that the rebels who went free for betraying their comrades might live, but they would suffer the wrath of the Red Runners. I wonder if this is why Vitelotte is remaining silent.
I lose track of time. We might have been here for seventy-two hours or a week. It’s hard to tell when the lights remain forever bright and we don’t mark the days. The throbbing of my skull turns into pounding blasts of pain, the rumbling of my stomach turns to spasms, and the membranes of my throat become so dry that they stick together. My heart aches for a sign that Prince Kevon survived.
Footsteps echo from afar, and I scramble to my feet. My heart beats a fast and irregular pace, and my hands won’t stop shaking.
The person who emerges from around the corner isn’t the royal torturer, but a tall man dressed in black Amstraadi armor that clashes with his blonde hair and crystal-blue eyes.
“Mouse,” I whisper.
“You three ladies of the harvest seem to be in a spot of bother,” he says with a smile.
My gaze lingers on the leather strap around his chest. I’ve seen guards use that type of holster to carry guns. A fist of dread clenches at my gut as I picture Ambassador Pascale bribing Montana for the opportunity to televise our executions.
“What do you want?” I ask.
He steps close to my cage. “Is that any way to speak to your savior?”
“I didn’t do anything.” Emmera clutches the bars and snatches her hand away with a scream.
Mouse wags a gloved finger and frowns. “Be careful. They’re electrified.”
My eyes narrow. Something tells me he’s been watching us this entire time or at least listening to our conversation while supposedly building a juvenation hospital.
“Would you like to hear some exciting news?” he asks.
I gulp. Based on
