Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(68)
Scythe Volta, though, was different. Yes, he stormed the office building and gleaned his share, just as the others had, but he said little as their god-machine carried them home across the sky. And now at dinner, he barely touched the food on his plate. He kept getting up to wash his hands. He probably thought nobody noticed, but Rowan did. And so did Esme.
“Scythe Volta is always cranky after a gleaning,” Esme leaned over to tell Rowan. “Don’t stare at him, or he’ll throw something at you.”
Halfway through dinner, Goddard asked for a final count.
“We gleaned two hundred sixty-three,” Rand told him. “We’re ahead of our quota now. We’ll have to glean fewer next time.”
Goddard slammed his fist down on the table in disgust. “The damn quota hobbles us all! If it weren’t for the quota, every day could be like today.” ?Then Goddard turned to Scythe Volta and asked how his task was coming. It was Volta’s job to set appointments with the families of the deceased, so that they could be granted the obligatory immunity.
“I’ve spent the whole day reaching out to each family,” ?Volta said. “They’ll be lining up at the outer gate first thing tomorrow morning.”
“We should let them onto the grounds,” Goddard said with a smirk. “They can watch Rowan train on the lawn.”
“I hate the bereaved,” Rand said, as she stabbed a fresh piece of meat with her fork and dragged it to her plate. “They always have such awful oral hygiene—my ring always reeks after an hour of granting bereavement immunity.”
Unable to stomach any more, Rowan excused himself. “I promised Esme I’d play cards with her after dinner, and it’s getting late.” There was no truth in that, but he threw a glance to Esme and she nodded, pleased to be part of an impromptu conspiracy.
“But you’ll miss the crème br?lée,” said Goddard.
“More for us,” said Chomsky, shoving a forkful of prime rib into his maw.
Rowan and Esme went to the game room and played gin rummy, mercifully undisturbed by talk of gleaning and quotas and the kissing of rings. Rowan was thankful that the suicide king held the monopoly on misery in this room.
“We should get others to join us,” Esme suggested. “Then we can play hearts or spades. You can’t play those games with just two.”
“I have no interest in playing cards with the scythes,” Rowan told her flatly.
“Not them, silly—I mean the servants.” She picked up his discarded nine—the second one he fed to her, as if he didn’t know she was collecting them. Letting her win today was payment for helping him escape the dining room.
“I play cards with the pool man’s sons sometimes,” she told him. “But they don’t like me very much on account of this used to be their house. Now they all share a room in the servant’s quarters.” ?Then she added, “You’re sleeping in one of their rooms, you know. So I’ll bet they don’t like you much, either.”
“I’m sure they don’t like any of us.”
“Probably not.”
Maybe it was because Esme was young, but she seemed entirely oblivious to the things that weighed so heavily on Rowan. Perhaps she knew better than to question things, or to pass judgment on what she saw. She accepted her situation at face value, and never spoke ill of her benefactor—or more accurately, her captor, for she was clearly Goddard’s prisoner, even though she might not see it that way. Hers was a gilded cage, but it was a cage nonetheless. Still, her ignorance was her bliss, and Rowan decided not to shatter her illusion that she was free.
Rowan picked up an ace, which he needed for his hand, but discarded it anyway. “Does Goddard ever talk to you?” He asked Esme.
“Of course he talks to me,” she said. “He’s always asking me how I am, and if there’s anything I need. And if there is, he always makes sure I get it. Just last week I asked for a—”
“—No, not that kind of talking,” said Rowan, cutting her off. “I mean real talking. Has he ever hinted as to why you matter so much to him?”
Esme didn’t answer. Instead she lay down her cards. Nines over threes. “Rummy,” she said. “Loser shuffles.”
Rowan gathered the cards. “Scythe Goddard must have had a good reason to let you live, and to grant you immunity. Aren’t you at all curious?”
Esme shrugged, and stayed tight-lipped. It was only after Rowan dealt the next hand that she said, “Actually, Scythe Goddard didn’t grant me immunity. He can glean me any time he wants, but he doesn’t.” Then she smiled. “That makes me even more special, don’t you think?”
? ? ?
They played four games. One Esme won fair and square, two Rowan let her win, and one Rowan won, so it wouldn’t be as obvious that he had thrown the others. By the time they were done, dinner had broken up and the others were going about their particular evening routines. Rowan avoided everyone and tried to go straight to his room, but on his way he heard something that gave him pause. There was faint sobbing coming from Scythe Volta’s room. He listened at the door to make sure it wasn’t his imagination, then turned the knob. The door wasn’t locked. He pushed it open slightly and peered inside.
Scythe Volta was there, sitting on his bed, head in hands. His body heaved with sobs that he tried to stifle, but could not. It was a few moments before he looked up and saw Rowan.