The Glass Arrow(21)

My legs are cramped, and out of exhaustion, I finally sit down. My toes slide under Brax’s body for warmth, and I wrap the long slinky skirt around my ankles.

“There’s a Driver I know named Lorcan,” I say almost in a whisper, breaking our silence. “Well, knew. Before they brought me here.”

The second the words leave my lips, the Driver turns his head, and I pop back up to my feet. Then I relax. He’s recognized the word Driver again.

Warily, I sit back down.

I can picture Lorcan as clearly as if he is standing right in front of me. He’s a wiry man with long silver hair and a pointy nose. Not a handsome face, but a peaceful one. Eyes that beckon trust like a moth to the flame. His skin is the color of oiled leather, but for the thin white scar running from his chin down to the notch in his collarbone. My ma told me once that a Watcher did that to him, and if Mother Hawk had not loved Lorcan, he surely would have died.

I clear my throat. “We called him Silent Lorcan because he never talked. I didn’t realize until I got here that none of you can. He bartered with me when I lived in the mountains. Not with Salma or Metea or even Bian. Just me. He brought us clothes or wheat or yeast in exchange for the jewelry I made. He sold it at Trader’s Day—the market they hold in the city every other week.” I glance at the Driver’s calloused hands, thinking how my own used to look like that. “One time, when I was little, he brought me back a blueberry pie.”

The Driver is still watching me curiously, with no sign to indicate that he’s understood a bit of what I’ve said. For some strange reason, I continue.

“He had a yellow horse with white socks and a star between her eyes. She was crankier than Salma in the morning and liked to bite. I tried to ride her.” I grin, the memory coming back to me in vivid colors. “Bian helped me up on her back while Lorcan was down by the river. I didn’t last long—I ended up on the ground with a broken arm. Lorcan was furious when he found us.”

Furious, and something else as well. I’d thought Lorcan was mad because I hadn’t asked permission to ride his horse, but he seemed angrier that I’d been hurt doing it. The way my mother would get angry when I disappeared in the woods for too long.

My ma had died before his next visit. After Lorcan found out, he never came again. That’s when I realized Drivers weren’t to be trusted.

For a moment, I fiddle with the scar on my earlobe from the earring I pulled out, then realize I’ve become so consumed with the memory, I’ve completely forgotten the Driver boy is still sitting less than ten paces away. I jolt up, feeling a flood of heat rush through me.

“I know all about your tricks,” I say. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his brows. “You can’t fool me. I know…”

He rises quickly, and I brace myself to attack. But he’s already turned around and is walking back towards the stream and the barn. He has a smooth, confident stride, so contrary to every other skittish Driver I’ve seen in the city. He leaps over the stream without hesitation and doesn’t even glance back before disappearing into the darkened entrance of his quarters.

I remain standing, shocked. He didn’t try to hurt me. He didn’t even come close enough to touch me. He just sat there, letting me ramble on about things he doesn’t understand.

When I’m convinced he’s not coming back, I slide back down to the ground and lay my head on Brax’s shoulder. But it takes me a long time to go to sleep. I’m thinking about the Driver and his golden hair. About how much I miss home.

And about how long it has been since I’ve talked that much to anyone.

*

THE WATCHER DOESN’T EVEN come outside for three days. He sits behind the glass, tossing meal pills out into the dirt from behind the slider door, infuriating me, because now it’s me that’s watching him, not him that’s watching me, and I’m starting to think I really missed my chance.

During this time the Driver stays away. I see him sometimes, leaning against the paddock fence on the left side of the barn or leading a horse around to the other side, where a Magnate is probably waiting for his rental. I see him mucking stalls or tossing hay into the long wooden troughs. He’s dirty again during the daytime. He seems to wake up dirty, as though he slept in a mud puddle. His clothes are soiled with white lines from sweat and horse slobber he doesn’t bother to wipe away. On top of that, he walks differently during the day than he did that night when he visited me. His pace is short and clipped. His gaze stays aimed at the ground. He looks jumpy. So unlike the curious boy who stared and smiled.

Although I don’t completely understand why he does this, it makes me think of all my attempts to sabotage a sale. My torn earlobe. Broken nose. Last auction I even lay down on the stage and pretended to be dead during my individual exhibition.

My days are spent exercising, eating my meal pills, bathing as modestly as I can with a sponge and a pail of water, and watching that girl with the straw-colored hair wait by the fence. The boy has not returned to visit her, and I can’t help but think he’s been paid a visit by the Watchers. Daphne’s back outside during rec time. I can see her across the yard, lazing about with her friends. I guess she didn’t get Promised at the auction after all.

Sometimes what’s left of Sweetpea’s pack—Lily and Lotus and a few new ones—head towards the back of the rec yard, towards where I sit. Not that I’m scared of them or anything—they’re the ones behind a fence—but when I see them coming, I head behind the Watcher office, pulling my chain as far as I can. It’s not far enough that I can’t hear them singing prayers to make fun of me.