The Glass Arrow(13)

“Finally. Get her out of here. I’ve got so much to do before tomorrow,” says the Governess, and she turns and slams the door behind her. The Pip scurries away like a field mouse.

The Watcher grabs my arm stiffly and leads me again down the bruised hallway, past the parlor and the dangerous private screening rooms, and through the main foyer. We pass the amphitheater and make a sharp right. He pauses while a Pip presses the button that releases the magnetic hold on the door.

We travel down a long hall, this one rimmed with dust and cobwebs, and overhead lights flicker, on the verge of death. There are no windows here, but I know if there were, they would show the metal-and-glass high-rises of the city on one side, and the rec yard on the other. But the passage extends past the edge of the pond and its high containment fence, and finally we reach an office.

The Watcher types a code into the lockbox outside the door and it pops open. I memorize the pattern his finger makes, but know the code is useless without his thick leather gloves. If I touch the keys they will melt my skin to the metal with a clear acid, pinning me there until someone else can release me.

I know this, of course, because I’ve tried. The attempt cost me three skin-grafting surgeries and two weeks in the infirmary.

The Watcher’s office for the solitary paddock sticks out like a leg from the Garden. The walls are glass on all sides except for one, which is plaster. He seals us inside with another lockbox code, and then crosses the small room to a glass door. It slips open just as soon as he approaches it.

One more step and we’re outside. Here the weed-infested yard wraps like a horseshoe around the office. On one side, fifty or so paces away, I can see the outer edge of the rec yard; its buzzing fence sounds like a honeybee is somewhere close. On another side is the crumbling gray stone wall of the facility’s trash incinerator. And on the third side, completely hidden from the rec yard, behind the office wall, is the yellow Driver rental barn. Only a runoff stream separates this back lot from the back fence of the horses’ paddocks. The Pips don’t maintain this area of the Garden; no potential buyer will ever come back this far into the facility.

There are a dozen places I could sneak out. Over the stone wall, cut through the barn, follow the stream down to where it disappears into the sewer. But the Watcher’s hand is heavy on my shoulder, and as I twist, his tightening grasp becomes painful.

A stake sticks out of the ground, and attached to it is a long tarnished chain that curls like a snake. The Watcher lifts the end of it, and holding my arm steady, attaches it to my bracelet with his key. It makes a hiss, welding into place so there’s nothing I can do to remove it.

When he’s released me, I round the corner to the plaster wall, the chain dragging after me through the dirt. Here, I’m hidden from view from the office, but the Watcher follows me, seeing if I’ll try to cross the stream. Once, there was a metal roof shelter out here, but that has since rusted away. All that’s left is the orange line where the plate attached to the wall.

Before I reach the water the chain stops me. I’ve gone as far as it will let me.

I look up and the sun is only a pinprick of white through the grayish-green haze. I breathe in the soot-filled city air.

At least I’m not going to auction.

*

I HAVE BEEN IN solitary nine times in my one hundred and seven days at the Garden. The first few times for three days. The next few for a week. Then two weeks. This is the longest I will have been here.

Sometimes I wonder why the Governess puts up with me at all. My body may be healthier from growing up outside the city walls, but I wonder if that makes me worth her trouble. As hard as I push to stay away from the auction, I sometimes worry that she’ll try to dump me early—give me to some pimp from the Black Lanes, like the others who don’t make the cut.

At least while I’m here I’ll get to see Brax. If he’s stuck around, that is.

The Watcher goes inside and sits in his rigid metal chair before the window. If I’m going to get out of here I have to get that key on the belt across his chest. I can’t be too quick about it though; I need to sit back, bide my time. Wait until he stops expecting me to bolt. That’s when I’ll strike.

I just need to get close enough to slip it off without him noticing. Not an easy feat, but there’s no way around it. The bracelet can’t be cut off—I’ve tried with every sharp piece of metal and rock I’ve managed to smuggle back here. I have to get the key, and for that I’ve got a plan.

Once this bracelet’s off, I’ll wait until dark and then follow the runoff stream through the weeds into the sewer. It’s big enough for Brax to fit through, so it’s big enough for me.

Then, freedom. I’m getting my family, and going so deep in the mountains the Trackers will never find us.

I unlace my slender black boots and set them aside. My toes curl around the grass and weeds, and I cringe at a bite of pain from the gravel beneath. My feet have been spoiled by these city-wearer’s shoes. They’ve lost their calluses from my life in the mountains. I add this to my checklist of things I must remedy before my escape. If I’m going to run, my body’s got to be ready to move.

The Watcher stares at me blankly as I pass in front of his station. The way a dead person stares at some fixed point in the distance. The way my ma saw through sightless eyes after her soul left her body.

Daphne’s words return to me—about men proving that Mother Hawk doesn’t exist. The idea of it sours in my stomach. But the thought of my ma’s soul going to the next life, of her bearing more children and loving them as she loved me, feels even worse.