The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(11)

There are about two-hundred-and-twenty-thousand Harvesters. I clutch my temple and blink the spots out of my eyes. Using the calculations above, eleven-thousand girls will compete for six places. Nausea roils in my stomach, and all thoughts of a glorious revolution evaporate into the ether.

Music restarts, snapping me out of my musings, and Montana winks at the camera. “Good luck, ladies of the Harvest. Please make your way to the marquees set up in each of your towns where your carriage awaits. I look forward to meeting you all at the Oasis!”

My throat dries, and I picture the largest possible vehicles in Phangloria—long-distance stagecoaches that transport guards to the border hold sixty-four passengers. Since the Harvester region holds sixteen towns, it means that only four girls will be selected from Rugosa.

Ryce claps me on the back. “Fall out, soldier. Mother will station someone close to the capital. Report back as soon as you find the hidden passages.”

I nod and turn to the marquee, where every single Harvester—young, old, male, and female—are also heading. The crowd surges forward, leaving no gaps. I run around the perimeter, looking for an opening, but they’ve already formed a tight, impenetrable huddle.

People spill out of the dome, but they can’t move beyond the crowd blocking the marquee’s entrance. Excited cheers and shouts fill my ears and make them ring. My jaw clenches. At this rate, they will have already selected which girls will make it to the carriage. If I don’t do something drastic, I might be withered and old before our next chance for a revolution.

Gunshots explode around the square’s perimeter, and everybody stops.

“Everybody back,” roars a voice over the speakers. “Only girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one may approach.”

Guards force the crowd back, and there’s enough space for me to squeeze through the other Harvesters. Time is running out. The screen switches to a gorgeous flaxen-haired Harvester girl walking through the door with two equally beautiful twins who can only be her sisters. They have similar delicate features to Queen Damascena. I’ve seen them around Rugosa. This footage has to be our square. I’ve got to hurry before they fill their quota.

A quartet of oafish men steps in my path, their huge bodies an impenetrable wall.

Just before I yell at them to step aside, someone behind me cries out. The crowd parts to reveal a pair of guards looping their arms around a dark-skinned man. They’re dragging him toward a black van. He falls to the ground and loses his cap.

When they hoist him up, it’s Krim.

And my supervisor’s eyes lock with mine, mirroring my horror.

Blood drains from my face and settles in my pounding heart. This arrest had to be about the guard I attacked earlier. I rush forward, my arms outstretched. “Hey, it wasn’t—”

Something catches my foot. I trip and stumble onto my hands and knees.

“What do you think you’re doing?” says a girl who kneels at my side and helps me to my feet.

I meet Forelle’s wide, gray eyes and blurt, “They’re taking Krim—”

“And you want to tell them about your poisoned darts?” she hisses into my ear. With the strength of a girl used to digging trenches in hard, dry earth, she hauls me away from Krim and into the crowd.

Guilt lances through my heart, and I twist around. A guard punches Krim on the back, making him cry out and arch.

“I’ve got to help him.”

“You’ll condemn us all.” Forelle’s arm tightens around my waist.

My muscles go slack. “What?”

“We already gave statements.” She pulls me through the crowd. “If you contradict us with the truth, it means trouble for every single person working the tomato fields.”

Stumbling toward the marquee at Forelle’s side, I glanced through the crowds for signs of Krim, but the crowd closes around us, blocking any view of my supervisor’s fate.

A chill settles on my shoulders. How on earth am I going to help Krim?





Chapter 4





A guard’s meaty hand wraps around my forearm. I spin around. The crowd behind us has parted to let them through, and two armored guards stand at our backs. There’s no sign of Krim, but my immediate suspicion is that he has told them the truth.

He grins at me from behind a visor. “You look like a girl who needs help.”

“Let go.” I pull at my arm, but his grip is solid.

“Come on, flatfeet.” He marches forward, grabs Forelle, and yells at the crowd to make a path.

Everybody around us steps back, creating a few feet of space for us to advance toward the marquee. Forelle visibly relaxes, but the escort only makes my heart rate quicken. Guards never help Harvesters, so why are they helping us?

As I jog to keep up with his long strides, the crowd’s shouts and cheers quieten to whispers. They’re probably thinking the same thing as me, and for a moment, I wonder if the marquee conceals something terrible.

A line of about three-dozen girls gather around its entrance. Women wearing outfits similar to Lady Circi stand at the door assessing girls. There’s no pattern to who they allow inside and who they reject. I lean forward and shoot Forelle a panicked glance, which she returns with a grimace.

If I don’t get through that door, the mission will fail before it even starts. Ryce’s admiration—faked or not—will disappear along with any chances of a revolution.