The Princess Trials: A young adult dystopian romance

your impulsive act?” he snarls.
Any remaining triumph I felt now drains, and my shoulders slump with defeat.
The girl I saved steps forward. Her short apron indicates that she’s also an apprentice, but the faded tomato stains on the fabric tell me she’s been on the job at least a year.
Without looking me in the eye, she holds out her arm.
Ignoring the rise of bile to the back of my throat, I reach into the pocket of my skirt, pull out a dart, and give the girl’s arm the barest prick. She blinks once, twice, and falls back. One of the twins catches her before she hits the crops, and they carry her to the persimmon tree. Now, it will look like they both got stung.
When the twins return, we walk to the edge of the tomato field, and I have to sting them, too.
They remain conscious for long enough to position themselves in the shade, and Krim strides to the fallen guard and plucks the dart from his neck. I chew on the inside of my cheek, hoping the girls will stay unconscious for long enough to corroborate Krim’s cover-up.
A moment later, he returns with the dart and presses it into my hand. “I’ll report the sighting of jimson scouts.”
He glances around at the other harvesters. “Everyone was too busy weeding and picking tomatoes to notice what happened by the tree, is that understood?”
Mutters of agreement spread out from the tomato trees, and relief washes through my veins like rain. Krim’s plan might work.
As we walk toward the persimmon tree, he says, “Go home.”
“But—”
“The next squadron will arrive soon enough.” He squints up at the sky. “When they take the register, I’ll explain that I sent you home with sunstroke, a common ailment for a careless apprentice.”
Home is a two-mile walk through the cornfield Dad supervises. Giant stalks loom at my sides like sentinels, their leaves rustling in the breeze. The milky, sweet scent of ripe kernels teases my sinuses, and saliva trickles into my mouth. Swallowing hard, I dip my head and pull down the brim of my bonnet, so no one recognizes me as I walk home in disgrace.
The sun beats down on my back like an admonishing parent, and for the next half-hour, Krim’s voice rings in my ears. Maybe there was a better way to handle the situation, but if I had let that guard drag away Forelle—I shake my head. I can’t dwell on old memories. I can’t keep punishing myself for those I couldn’t save.
Along the dirt track, I pass a few Harvesters, their heads bowed with the weight of drudgery. Dust blends with the beige and browns of their clothing and many of them carry gourds of water.
I rub my throat and gulp. Water, not food, is the currency in our Echelon. Echelon’s are levels of society that define a person’s caste, social status, access to resources, and freedom. Harvesters are at the bottom of Phangloria’s Echelon system, even though we’re the ones who grow the food and tend to the livestock.
Phangloria is the largest country in the continent of North America, separated from the desert by the Great Wall. Harvesters live in a dry region closer to the outskirts and miles away from the Oasis, the country’s only source of water.
My tongue darts out to moisten my dry lips. With more water, Harvesters won’t feel so beaten down. More water also means we can grow more food at home and on our window sills. I fan myself, but the effort is futile.
At the end of the cornfield, dust drifts off a hundred-foot-long stretch of parched earth that marks the beginning of Rugosa, a mishmash of pale houses built from the earth and arranged around a public square. Rugosa isn’t a city like the Oasis, and the word village would imply that we have a community. We don’t. Toil and hunger and thirst keeps us too weary of doing anything but surviving and biding our time for the revolution.
My foot catches on a deep crack in the earth, and the ear-piercing shriek of a royal raptor overhead reminds me of the dangers of standing still for too long in the sun. Shuddering, I quicken my pace and try not to think why such a dangerous bird of prey has escaped the notice of the Great Wall’s riflemen.
Like most Harvesters, we live in an earth house. It’s white with curved walls, and a huge roof sloped to catch every drop of water during the rainy season. At the window, Flint and Yoseph wave and jump up and down. Squinting up at the cloudless sky for signs of the royal raptor, I wave back at my little brothers.
As I step into the shade of the veranda, Mom opens the door and steps aside. “What did you do?”
I enter the welcoming cool of the house and mutter, “Krim sent me home with sunstroke.”
Her brows rise. I’m not the best of liars, but Mom knows my mannerisms well enough to tell that I’m hiding something. The twins rush out from the family room and wrap their arms around my waist. They’re five, identical, with the same front tooth missing on the bottom left. Flint pats down my pocket for tomatoes, and Yoseph pulls out a poisoned dart.
“Careful.” I wrap my hand around Yoseph’s wrist. “Don’t touch.”
“Did you bring us something from work?” asks Yoseph, his hazel eyes dancing with excitement.
I ruffle his hair. “How about a story before bedtime?”
“Now!” Flint grabs my arm and jumps.
Mom ushers them back into the family room, which doubles as a classroom during the day. “You took your blowgun to the tomato field?”
With a sigh, I follow her into the kitchen. It’s a space as large as the family room with wall-width windows and raised beds running along both sides of the back door. It’s where we grow food from all the spoiled fruit we’re allowed to keep. Because of her childhood, Mom’s the blowgun expert. She taught me how