He’s very still for a long time. And so am I. As if waking from a dream, he points to me, and then towards the city gates, with a heaviness in his eyes.
“Why don’t I leave?” I ask him, puzzled. He mimics the same gestures.
“You know why I can’t leave.” I point to the Watcher, then to my heavy metal bracelet and the invisible wall surrounding us.
He reaches slowly for my elbow, cupping one hand beneath it, and slides another finger between my metal cuff and my arm. He’s very close to me, and I can see how his skin grows lighter from his neck to his collar, where the sun is blocked by his Driver shirt.
He begins to pull at the bracelet.
First he’s gentle. Then he begins to tug, trying to pry the contraption off my arm. Beads of sweat appear at his brow, and he climbs to his knees for more leverage. There’s a determined gleam in his eye, almost frantic. I want so badly to believe this thing can be torn off that I try to help him. I try to jerk my hand out, and can feel the bones of my wrist bend and crunch together until they nearly break.
I grind my teeth together, and keep trying.
Please, I pray. Please let this work.
We can do this. We can get it off. And then we can run through the barn towards the city gates and pretend that we’re both Drivers. We can … cut all my hair off, and Kiran can dress me as a boy. It’s too dark for the gatekeepers to tell the difference, and too late for them to ask too many questions. We can do this.
The pain from the metal bites at my skin. The tears stream from my eyes, but I don’t stop. Kiran doesn’t either. He’s pulling as hard as he can, until finally the breath bursts from my throat, and I know our efforts are wasted.
My dreams, that had come so quickly, are smashed into the dirt.
“It’s not working,” I say, already trying to put myself back together. I won’t let myself cry. I refuse to. But the look in his eyes is so full of resolve that it’s hard not to break down and weep. He tries one last time, before I find myself pushing him back, shoving him away from me so he’ll stop.
“Kiran, it hurts!” I say. “You have to stop! Please!”
He falls back on his heels. I feel a trickle of blood slide around my wrist, and pinch my eyes closed to fight the burning in my arm. In my eyes. In my chest.
Kiran’s hand rests on my shoulder, but I shove it off. I don’t want his comfort. I don’t want his help. I remember why I don’t have friends. Friends give you hope when you shouldn’t have it. They make you trust in things other than yourself. They trick you into forgetting what really matters.
“I would have gotten the key a long time ago if not for you,” I say. It’s not true, but I want to hurt him, just like he’s hurt me.
I jolt up to my feet, my aching wrist trapped against my chest.
“Go away,” I say firmly. The fire has returned, slicing through my veins. I hate myself for thinking Kiran could get that bracelet off. I hate that he’s distracted me from getting out of here for twenty-one days. Tam could have drowned in these three weeks. Nina could be starving. All because I’ve been talking to a mute boy who doesn’t even know what I am saying.
How many escapes have I missed? How many times could I have grabbed the Watcher’s key, or returned to the Garden, or snuck out through the infirmary? I’m failing them because he’s distracting me. No. Because I let him distract me.
“Go away!” I nearly shout now. Brax jumps up from his place at my side and begins to growl. Reluctantly, Kiran falls back a step.
He looks hurt, but his eyes stay on Brax. My protector is now backing Kiran away from the plaster wall, back towards the barn. Step by step they go, until they cross over the bank, and Kiran’s knee-deep in poison water. He trips and falls back, making a splash. Brax snaps his teeth and Kiran rises, sloshing across the rest of the stream.
The automatic office door slides open. The Watcher has heard me yelling, or Brax’s growls, or both. He’s coming around the corner.
Kiran looks at me one final time before spinning and disappearing inside his safe haven. And seconds later, Brax is gone within the sewer.
The Watcher comes out and stares at me with his horrible, dead eyes. I can’t stand it any longer. I fall to the ground, and curl into a ball.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING I wake before dawn, feeling terrible. Kiran’s trying to help me, and I shouldn’t blame him if he can’t. No one’s more intent on getting out of here than me, and I can’t even get out. Next time I see him I’ll tell him I’m sorry, but just before I rise to go back to the barn-side, I hear the slide of the doors behind me. A bright light comes from the panel within, and I blink, and open my eyes to shiny silver shoes with black laces standing before me. I don’t have to look up to know what I’ll see, but I do anyway, because I’m surprised. They’re early.
“Get up, girl! Pip, pip. I don’t see why she doesn’t use the bedroll. It’s disgusting sleeping in the dirt like that. Just like an animal.”
I still have three more days. Kiran still has three more days. This can’t be right.
I look up at another black caftan. The pale, flawless face with the smoothed-out features. He’s talking to another Pip.
Slowly I stand, and my head begins to pound. It’s time. They’re taking me back to the Garden. I must have miscalculated the days until the next auction.
“Is it market day?” I ask. My voice is scratchy.
“Tomorrow,” says a Pip, as if I’m some kind of idiot. He places a clean hand with perfectly squared nails on my arm. I shake him off. He scowls, a stream of pips emitting from his mouth.
“She didn’t learn much,” comments the other Pip.
The Watcher joins them outside. I begin to back away from the three of them, the chain trailing me like a snake. I don’t know why exactly. It’s not like I have anywhere I can go now.
I pass the glass edge of the room and glance one last time towards the barn. And there is Kiran. Sitting on a fence with his hand on the withers of the chestnut mare. He’s looking at me as though he’s expected that I would emerge from hiding right at this moment.
We meet each other’s eyes, and all I can think is that I’ve disappointed him. But no one’s disappointed me more than myself.
The Watcher approaches just as Kiran scoots off the fence. Kiran turns immediately, so that the Watcher can’t see that we’ve had this connection.
“Take my bracelet off,” I demand of one Pip. His eyelids are glossy from a shiny charcoal powder.
“Once you’re inside,” he says.
“My skin’s tore open underneath it,” I try.
“Then you’ll be taken to the infirmary.”
“Can’t you take it off now? It really hurts.” I could run to the barn. The guard would catch me, but I would still have to try.
I can feel Kiran’s gaze on me. I suspect he’s hiding this, looking the other way, grooming the horse maybe. All of a sudden, more than anything, I want to see his face. His kiran-stone eyes, calm and attentive. Staring up through the night haze to the stars beyond. Maybe that will make me stronger.
I try to think of something he’d say. Anything. In that voice that doesn’t really exist. That voice that I’ve created. I can’t.
So I lock my jaw shut. And I throw my shoulders back. And I follow the Pip through the automatic doors, hesitating only slightly as I do so.
Because there’s still time before the auction.
PART TWO
THE AUCTION
CHAPTER 8
THE NIGHT BEFORE MARKET is the first time I dream of Kiran.
Maybe this is because since I’ve met him, we’ve never been so far apart. Only two hundred more paces really, not that far, but it might as well be half the country on account of the fences and sliding doors and walls and security systems. It’s the first night I can’t sense his presence. Even in my sleep I feel alone.
In my dream I’m on the auction stage. The wood is rough with splinters that jab into my bare feet. The sun is be
ating down from a clear, haze-free sky. Instead of buildings and factories, the stage is surrounded by trees. The ground below is dusted with pine needles. The air smells fresh.
The Governess is standing before me beneath a silk-draped awning. Beside her is a Pip who is manning a flat, black machine that’s tallying my votes. Only there’s no one around to vote on me.
And then Kiran appears. He’s wearing his daytime Driver gear, but it’s clean now, and his golden hair is slicked back with oil—just like a Magnate. With his hands in his pockets, he stares at me, judgment in his bright eyes. He walks to the left, then to the right. He looks me up and down. Up and down again. His expression switches between impressed and disappointed. I want to see what parts of me he approves of, but I’m afraid to look down and see what I’m wearing. It feels too light to be a dress. It feels like I might be wearing nothing.
Kiran walks to the Governess, and they exchange words that I cannot hear. She hands him an electronic board, and he writes something on it. A look of relief lifts her features as she shakes his hand, and I’m filled with a staggering sense of betrayal. Suddenly there are chains around my neck and my wrists. Heavy, black chains. They are weighing me down, and though I force myself to stand up as tall as I can, I stumble to my knees.
And then I wake up.
* * *
THE BUNK I’VE BEEN assigned to sinks in the middle like a hammock, only not half as comfortable. The bars across the bottom of the bed stick into my back, and the sheets smell like the hair glue the girls wear to market. It’s too hot in here to sleep. I’ve stripped down to my underclothes and I’m still sweating.
Today is Auction Day. The day of a thousand maybes. I might finally be able to break free today, to escape the guards, to get out of this cursed city and back to the mountains where I belong. I might be forced up on that stage, too. I might have to stand there in front of a drooling crowd.
I might even be sold.
The farmers in the outliers have market once a week. The high sellers join the city merchants for Trader’s Day, twice a month. Those who make enough to pay the fee for a booth will bring their wares to auction, the only event where girls are sold, which is held on the last day of the month. It’s a spectacle. Regular work is cancelled, and the party begins at dawn.
Whispered voices float across the room from the side wall. I angle my head towards the sound and hear the groan of a nearby mattress.
“What are you—” I recognize the voice: Buttercup, Daphne’s little friend with the slanted eyes. She’s shushed, and the mattress groans again.
“Not now, Daphne,” she says, bored.
I try to lower my right arm, forgetting that it’s been chained to the post. The night-watch Pip didn’t want to take any chances, since I tried sneaking out the latrine window after they brought me in yesterday. I might have made it if that little rat Buttercup hadn’t squealed on me. The chains make a clinking noise, and the conversation pauses.
“It’s just practice,” I hear Daphne whisper. “We’ve been getting quite a crowd outside the rec yard lately.” Her voice is high, and a little too loud. Now Buttercup shushes her.
“That’s just for show,” says Buttercup. “It’s not real.”
“I know that,” Daphne responds quickly.
They’re both quiet.
“You don’t think…” Daphne laughs. “That’s witch stuff. That’s not me. I’m going to be Promised.”
“And I’m not?”
“I didn’t say that,” says Daphne. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Well what did you mean?” Buttercup’s getting sassy.
“Nothing,” says Daphne. “Nothing, all right? I just thought you wanted to practice, that’s all.”
“I don’t.”
“All right,” says Daphne. The mattress groans again. “I’m sorry,” she says, and if I’m being honest, I feel a little bit bad for her. For some reason it all makes me think of Kiran, and his hand on my scar, and how I sent him away.
I roll onto my side, trying my best to tuck my right elbow under my head, and wince.
My whole body hurts.
After they brought me back to the Garden yesterday, my legs and arms were waxed, my eyebrows plucked into thin lines, and my hair and nails were trimmed. They didn’t bother putting me through the weight shifter because there wasn’t really enough to shift, but every other girl with a hint of fat was lined up and molded into a shape the Governess calls “ideal.”
The way I look feels unnatural. My feet are still bright red from where a Pip scrubbed the calluses off my feet, and the rest of me is blotchy from a full-body skin scrub. I’m glad I don’t have freckles or moles—those girls had to spend hours beneath a laser getting evened out.
The time passes too quickly, and soon other girls are up whispering to each other in excited tones. Those who’ve been through this before start to snap at each other. A few lie silently, probably nervous about their first time on stage. Most have been looking forward to this day for weeks.
The overhead lights flicker on—all but the one in the center, which has been blinking since before I was thrown in solitary.
My blood buzzes.
I sit up slowly, the grimace still weighing down my face. I wait for my assigned Watcher, offering no help as he lifts my arm to unbuckle the restraint. He sticks like sap to my side as he brings me to the latrine, holding the door open while I go. Even though I know he couldn’t care less, it’s still humiliating. I only glance in the mirror, disturbed by the way the high arch of my eyebrows makes me look constantly surprised. At least that dreaded bracelet is off my wrist.
Twenty minutes later I’m walked to a line in the main foyer outside the theater so that I can get my one-and-a-half-pill breakfast allotment. All the Garden girls are here now. Fifty or so of us. There are a few new ones I don’t recognize who must have arrived in my absence, and several more missing who have been Promised or handed over to Mercer the Pimp in the last twenty-four days. Most of us will go to auction today, but as always, there are a few bitter ducks in the back of the line. The Governess doesn’t feel this handful of girls has been conditioned enough yet to make an appearance on the stage. I can hear their whining all the way from where I stand in the middle.
“I hope your new friend doesn’t plan on holding your hand all day. It will kill your bidding,” says a girl behind me. Daphne. Her freckles are now completely gone, leaving flawless, pale skin. Her green eyes sparkle. She’s talking about the Watcher, who’s checking his messagebox an arm’s length away.
Heat rushes through my veins. Maybe it’s the light on her perfect face, or the way she’s always acting like she’s better than me, but I forget all about feeling sorry for her.
“Shut up, Daphne.”
“It’s nice to see you too,” she says.
It’s the first time we’ve talked since Straw Hair ran herself into the fence, and I’m reminded all over again how awful it was.
“You could have stopped her,” I say under my breath.
“Who?” she asks innocently.
“You know who. The one with yellow hair. The new girl. I know you saw her.”
Daphne’s ultrathin eyebrows lift. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You shouldn’t have laughed at her.” The Watcher has heard my tone sharpen, and in a warning, winds his printless fingers in the shoulder fabric of my dress. Surely he has orders not to touch me today; bruising can’t look good on the auction block. But I suppose there’s always makeup for that.
We’ve reached the front of the line. I tilt back the pills and swallow them with a swig of water. Though it’s normally tasteless, today a sour tinge makes my jaw hurt.
I splash the rest of the water on the Watcher’s jacket. He tilts his head to the side, just slightly, before stepping out of line to get a towel from a Pip.
“Oops.” I breathe, for the first time in a while, as soon as he turns his back.
“You think you’re so much better?�
� asks Daphne as we step away from the table. “Calling the other girls names and getting them in trouble. Don’t pretend to be innocent.…”
“It was different and you know it,” I interrupt. It’s not like I enjoy picking fights. Besides, Sweetpea started the last one when she and her friends began making fun of me.
“She was swimming in the pond. It was funny.” Daphne shrugs. She’s quickly losing status as my half friend/nonenemy, and working towards full enemy. “She should have been happy. Her paperwork had just gone through.”
“She was Promised?” I ask.
“Yes. Just that morning.”
I picture the boy waiting for her by the fence. Remember how upset he was. He must have known she’d been sold. For some reason that brings a strange ache in my heart.
“You should have stopped her,” I say again.
Buttercup walks by with another girl, their arms linked. She giggles loudly, and I see the strain in Daphne’s face.
“I’m going to be Promised today,” Daphne announces. “And you won’t see me crying about it.”
“You won’t see her crying about it either.” I glare after Buttercup, remembering how she told on me for climbing through the bathroom window. My scalp still hurts from where the Watcher dragged me back in by my hair.
Daphne’s head whips around to face me. “You’ve been in solitary too long this time. You’re not making any sense.”
I give her a look. “I can explain if you want.”
She glances back at Buttercup, a little worried, and then back to me. Her green eyes harden like glass.
“You really are a witch,” she hisses. “Not just some dense mountain hack like I thought. Your family is probably relieved to be rid of you.”
I’ve shoved her before I’ve even thought about it. She’s flung backwards into three other girls, but doesn’t fall. I’ve got to hand it to her. Instead of crying for a Pip, she wheels back and charges me.
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