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.
“Thanks.” I use my sweetest voice to the guard, who stares down at me with smiling eyes. “How are they choosing which girls get inside?”
He grins. “What would you give me if I got you inside?”
I snatch my gaze away, and he laughs. What a creep.
He chuckles. “You were tripping over yourself earlier to get to the prince. Why have you suddenly turned shy?”
My teeth clench and a dozen scenarios whizz through my mind. I already tried breaking away, and that didn’t work. He’s wearing a helmet, so slapping him would only hurt my hand and get me arrested, and I would probably end up in the back of a vehicle with Corporal Can’t-Keep-His-Big-Mouth-Shut.
“I’ll take my chances with the door ladies, thank you,” I say in clipped tones.
The guard behind him snorts, and I turn around to shoot him my filthiest glare. He’s silver-blond with eyes greener than the cornfields, but it’s at odds with his olive skin. My lips tighten with disapproval. The Nobles must pay guards well if they get to use cosmetics.
After what feels like an eternity, we reach the crowd of hopefuls at the door. The guard releases my arm but doesn’t return to his duties. Instead, he and his companion usher the girls forward.
All vestiges of sunlight have disappeared, and the spotlights provide no heat to compensate for the drop in temperature. A cool, dusty breeze meanders through the crowd, and I regret not taking a jacket. Forelle and I huddle close, occasionally stealing glances at the guard, who stands close to his companion and surveys us the way people deliberate over which goat they think might produce the most milk.
Four women stand at the door, grabbing Harvester girls’ faces, turning them from left to right, and examining their features. They allow some in through the white door but turn away most. Frustration wells in my chest faster than I can push it out with my harried breaths. What are we, pieces of fruit to be inspected for flaws?
As the crowd before us thins to a handful of girls, Forelle’s fingers curl around mine. “We’re next.”
“Yeah,” I rasp. The water Ryce gave me earlier has already worked its way through my system and escaped my body through its pores. My bladder is empty, and I feel an ache in my kidneys.
A rough pair of gloved hands grabs my chin, and a light shines in my face.
“Smile,” says a voice. “Let me see your teeth.”
All thoughts of being scrutinized like goats or pieces of fruit evaporate into the night air. They think we’re horses. Squinting, I pull my features into what I hope is a grin.
Her hand drops from my face, and she ushers me toward the white door. “Go through.”
Before I can turn around for a glimpse of Forelle, the door opens, and another gloved hand pulls me inside. The marquee’s interior is as white as a hospital, with a bank of six desks in front. Behind them, a dozen perspex booths run down each side and are filled with medical staff clad in blue hazard-suits. They lead girls in and out of the opaque structures.
My feet stop moving, and Forelle bumps into my back.
She has to hold onto my shoulders to keep from knocking us to the ground. “What the—”
“Name,” snaps a woman with a blond chignon. She sits at a desk, wearing a pale blue version of Lady Circi’s catsuit and holds a thin computer tablet.
A woman at another desk barks questions at Forelle, who steps to the side to answer. It’s the usual inquiries guards make to identify us against the census records, but with a few additions.
“When was the last time you had sexual intercourse?” asks my interrogator.
Every muscle in my body stiffens, and I blurt out, “What?”
“Answer the question, Miss Calico.” Her voice hardens.
Hot shame spreads across my skin like poisoned ants. “I’ve never.”
The questions continue along this vein, and she wants to know if I’ve ever kissed a boy on the mouth and on other places too intimate to repeat. When she moves onto alcohol use and recreational drugs, my body relaxes. We couldn’t afford moonshine even if we wanted, and it’s difficult enough to obtain medicinal drugs here in Rugosa, let alone the ones people take for fun.
The computer transcribes my words into responses. When the interview finishes, the women line us against the wall and take photos. Camera flashes fill my vision, turning it an electric white.
“For the duration of the Princess Trials, you will wear an Amstraad bracelet until your elimination,” says a woman in rapid, clipped words.
“What?” I blink the light from my eyes.
Another woman slams a piece of metal on my wrist, which expands and forms a closed band that tightens around me. A hundred needles prick my skin, and I howl. “What is this?”
She ushers me through the bank of desks to the hospital part of the marquee, where a tall, female medic awaits with another computer tablet. I can only see her eyes with the hooded suit and surgical mask obscuring her other features. “Zea-Mays Calico, sixteen, neophyte.”
“What’s a neophyte?” My voice rises two octaves.
Ignoring me, the medic hurries to a booth in the middle of the room. “This way, Calico.”
A glance over my shoulder tells me that Forelle also gets fitted with one of those bracelets. Her pretty face contorts with the same kind of terror from earlier today when I pricked her with a poisoned dart. I turn around and follow the medic.
Her booth contains a bed-sized, perspex platform, and she stands with her gloved hands resting on a trolley filled with trays of plastic instruments that make my heart flip.
“Take off your underpants and lie down for your internal exam,” she says.
A bolt of shock jolts my heart, and I wrap the unmonitored arm around my waist. “Why?”
“Anyone who enters the Oasis must be deemed healthy and free of contaminants.”
“What kind of—”
“This is strictly a voluntary procedure,” the medic snaps. “Withdraw your consent, so I can release your monitor and let you leave.”
“And the Trials?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Nobody enters the Oasis without being deemed—”
“Alright, I get it.” I step into the booth and grit my teeth. This is for the revolution, and when it comes, the Oasis and its precious supply of water will be for everyone and not just a group of Nobles and those they deem clean enough to serve them.
Once I’m in position, blue, sanitizing light fills the booth. I guess it's for the protection of the medic, who frowns as though she’s just about to handle dangerous chemicals. She murmurs orders, telling me to place my wrist on an armrest that blips in time with my pounding heart.