The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(8)
My pulse flutters in my throat in time with the butterflies in my stomach. Ryce Wintergreen has never looked at me like this, as though I’m the answer to a longing deep within his heart.
“When you lead us into the revolution, Harvesters like us will be free to choose more than one path.” His gaze drops to my lips. “I’ve never courted a girl. Do you know why?”
Every instinct tells me that his interest in me is moving too quickly. Mom would warn me that this was just a ploy to get me to agree to something reckless. Despite this, I find myself whispering, “Why?”
“Phangloria is no place for a Harvester to start a family,” he says. “I won’t condemn a child to a life of hunger and hard labor.”
His words stir up the well of dissatisfaction in my heart. It no longer matters if Ryce Wintergreen is faking an interest to get me to perform a mission. I’m a Harvester and a Red Runner committed to the revolution. This might be our one chance to smash the oppressive Echelon system.
I break eye contact. “What do you want me to do?”
Ryce steps away, and Carolina’s harsh features fill my vision. The strobe light turns the blue in her eyes white. “Infiltrate the palace, find the hidden entrances, and don’t fall in love with the handsome prince.”
Chapter 3
Carolina and Ryce stare at me, their postures taut and their eyes bright with expectation. The racks of weapons gleam under the strobe light, and I can now picture them in the arms of brave rebels. Of all the Harvester girls in the kingdom, the leaders of the Red Runners have chosen me to open the gates to the revolution.
My lungs fill with deep, satisfied breaths, and I bask in their attention. This is the proudest moment in all my sixteen years.
If I succeed in this mission, it will erase the cowardice that taints my soul. It will be for Mr. Wintergreen, for all the Harvester girls who have ever suffered at the hands of a guard, for those Foundlings who survive in shanties by the Great Wall because they’re not deemed genetically fit to live in Phangloria.
Mom will be surprised when she discovers that I’ve taken her advice. One girl can make a difference, and that girl is going to be me.
Raising my chin, I say, “I’ll do it.”
Carolina wraps me into a hug. Her arms are wiry, her chest bony, and she squeezes as tight as rope. “Your name will be remembered in the new democracy.”
As we draw away, my gaze meets Ryce’s. One corner of his lips rise, and he gives me an approving nod. “I’ll take care of your kakapo—”
“Sharqi,” I blurt.
His eyes soften. “I’ll make sure Sharqi and her chicks have everything they need while you’re in the palace.”
A siren blares before I can thank him. It’s an early roll-call, ordering every able-bodied person in town to Rugosa Square.
Ryce wraps a hand around my forearm. “Come with me.”
We rush through a door that leads into another darkened hallway, and I stumble blindly at his side.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“This region is filled with underground caverns, did you know that?” he asks.
“No—”
“My family has been in Rugosa for five generations, but it was my great-grandfather who discovered a network of tunnels under the town. He thought their purpose was for removing excess water from the streets.”
“I can’t picture that much rain ever falling.”
“It’s hard to imagine that the Mississippi River ran through this place centuries ago.”
As we hurry down a maze of dark passages, Ryce explains that the discovery of these tunnels was what started the Red Runners. His great-grandfather had confided in a fellow soil-builder about his find, who told another harvester, who told someone else. Eventually, word reached the guards, who took everyone who even suspected the tunnels’ existence to the Oasis.
Ryce stops and places my hands on a wooden ladder. We climb up in the dark, and he explains that an urn of ashes one day appeared outside his great-grandmother’s house. It had been a warning to everyone else never to venture into the tunnels.
At the top of the ladder, he reaches past me and pushes at something in the ceiling. It gives way, and light and a musty scent floods the ladder, making me squint.
I stare up at the wooden roof of an outhouse. To the left of my head sits an earthenware chamber pot. I turn around, and Ryce gives me an encouraging nod.
The outhouse is in the backyard containing dwarf date palms with oversized fruit bunches that hang from thick stalks. I blow out a breath through my teeth. The soil where we live is only suitable for growing cacti.
“This way.” He places his hand on the small of my back, and for a moment, it feels like we’ve been together forever.
The sun is an incandescent ball of light half obscured by the horizon, and the oppressive heat of the day fades to a gentle warmth. Mingled scents of pomegranates and pears and persimmons carry in the breeze, which sweeps dark strands of hair off my face.
We step out from the garden and join a road of houses made of mud bricks. The white rendering has faded to brown over the years, but these homes are much older than ours and closer to Rugosa square.
Whole families of Harvesters pile out of their houses toward the stairs. The Nobles encourage us with extra water rations to marry early and reproduce, but very few households contain more than three children.