Bending, I peer out into Rugosa Square. Floodlights illuminate thick clouds of smoke billowing from the parked vehicles. It’s so thick that I can barely see the Harvesters fleeing into the streets.
Gasps and hacking coughs fill the air. Our gas masks filter out the smoke, but the effects of being exposed onstage still hurt my eyes.
We step out together into the chaos, and my heart rate trebles. Prince Kevon apologizes for not giving me a mask earlier. He hadn’t expected the guards to use cepa gas in an enclosed dome.
He reattaches the panel and secures it in place. It’s probably some secret escape route just for Nobles, but I’m too worried about Mom and Dad to ask. We live too far from the square to reach roll-calls before the dome fills, so they’ve probably escaped into the streets by now.
The smoke clears enough to reveal that most of the Harvesters have gone. We hurry through the square, passing guards helping limping colleagues to safety, and others carrying their fallen comrades to their vehicles. Less than half of them wear masks.
Prince Kevon grabs my hand. “Now will you tell me what’s happening?”
I shake my head and hold up my Amstraad wrist cuff. We’ve had conversations about the technology being used as a spying device. It’s the reason why Leonidas Pixel is imprisoned somewhere and poor Gemini died in his place. I can’t afford to speak freely. Queen Damascena is probably forcing the man to broadcast from one or both of our monitors.
He mimes writing with a pen. “Later, then?”
We continue across the emptying square, and noise blasts us from behind. I turn to find hundreds of Harvesters streaming out through the dome’s multiple doors. They’re screaming and coughing and panting. Prince Kevon scoops me up and through the smoke sprints across the square.
A sob tears from my throat. They must have gassed those people in the dome while the square emptied. Prince Kevon carries me through the space between two Guardian trucks. Across the road, the lights of a four-seater car flash.
He flings open the door, bundles me into its interior and scrambles in after me. The driver already wears a gas mask, and Prince Kevon reaches into a side-pocket for a notepad and pencil.
As the car pulls out from the road, he scribbles down: WHAT IS WRONG?
I take his pencil. YOUR MOTHER HAS STATIONED GUARDS OUTSIDE MY HOUSE.
Prince Kevon points in the direction of my street, as though asking if we should go there. I raise both hands and shake my head, making him tilt his head to the side. Since we’re both wearing masks, and my eyes still water from the gas, I can’t see his expression.
I write down on the notepad: SHE ALSO THREATENED TO TAMPER WITH MY BROTHERS’ VACCINATIONS IF I DISOBEY HER.
Prince Kevon rears back, and his entire body goes still. I chew on the inside of my lip, hoping he believes me. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell that Queen Damascena is related to Prince Kevon by blood.
WHAT DOES SHE WANT? He writes.
Her ugly words ring through my ears. She referred to me as a bed warmer and a murderer, even if the last one is partly true. I dip my head. Prince Kevon’s about to discover the reason why I encouraged him to spend time with the other girls.
He places a hand on my shoulder, urging me to write my answer.
It takes ages for me to form the right words, but I write: I HAVE TO CONVINCE YOU TO CHOOSE A NOBLE. THEY ALSO MADE ME READ FROM A TABLET COMPUTER TODAY.
“Vitelotte’s entire family is banished,” I say out loud as I scribble over the words. The queen can’t see that I’ve disobeyed her order to be silent.
His face tightens. “You must believe me, that wasn’t my intention.”
“I know.” My throat thickens. I want to ask him to save them, but what if that backfires?
“Unfortunately, the Chamber of Ministers will do whatever they can to circumvent my attempts to make Phangloria a just place for all Echelons.” He picks up the pencil and writes, THEY DON’T ACT WITHOUT THE MONARCH’S CONSENT.
I nod and exhale a long breath. At least he believes me.
“There is something I’m desperate to know,” he says.
“What?”
“How your family enjoyed the paella.”
My brows draw together as he leans forward and instructs the driver to take me to my address. Harvesters have been gassed and entire families are facing bleak life sentences for crimes they didn’t even commit. Why is Prince Kevon bothering about something so trivial?
As the car turns a corner, Prince Kevon pulls off his mask and gives me an encouraging nod, and realization sinks through my thick skull. He’s making an excuse to check up on my family.
Warm gratitude floods my chest. “There were ingredients in that dish we’ve never eaten in our lives.”
He takes my hands. “One day, wide varieties of food will be available to everyone in Phangloria.”
“Do you think that’s possible?” I whisper.
Prince Kevon unstraps my gas mask and raises it off my head. “I had some very interesting conversations with the young ladies from the Amstraad Republic. If we focus less on their juvenation technology and import their agricultural devices, we should increase our yields and free up Harvesters for other matters.”
He smooths a strand of hair off my face and tucks it behind my ears. “Your eyes are red.”
I don’t know how he can tell with only the dashboard lights illuminating the back of the car, but he reaches into the space between the front seats and pulls out a plastic box. Inside lies an array of items in sterile packaging. Prince Kevon picks up a four-inch foil package and tears its wrapper.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs in a deep voice.
I let my eyelids flutter shut, and he wipes them
