The Glass Arrow(22)

At night, I wait for the Driver, the broken knife and chain ready in my hands. But he doesn’t come.

*

MY FIFTH DAY IN solitary, I wake alone, a damp meal supplement in the dirt beside my head. I wipe it off and swallow it down. Then I dig up my bottle and retrieve the broken end of the Pip’s beater and hide it just under the cuff of the bracelet.

Today I’m getting that key.

Thoughts about the Driver boy keep bouncing around in my head. I peer over at the barn, wondering where he sleeps inside. If he is already awake.

I shake my head, irritated with myself. The boy tried to kill me. He’s trying to fool me into relaxing so that he can do something to me. What, I don’t know, but it can’t be good. No man spends time with a woman just to lay ten paces away in the grass and listen to her babble.

Then I think about Lorcan. We didn’t make enough jewelry to truly make the trade worthwhile—Bian told me that once, after he’d been living in the city for a few years. But Lorcan still came up to the mountains. Sometimes, it seemed, just to walk with my ma.

If he just wanted to walk, maybe this Driver just wants to listen.

I kick the ground with my bare foot. That’s the bad thing about solitary—you think too much. I’ve got more important things to do.

In my third month here, as part of our lessons, the Governess let us watch one of Solace’s movies. In it, she plays a singer, the property of a big, fat man who owns a club. Somehow she loses her voice, and poisons herself. Daphne said it was because she was so sad to disappoint her owner, but I thought she was just stupid. Either way, he carried her to the doctor, who gave her medicine so she could sing again. Probably because she was bringing in a lot of credits. The Governess told us we should learn from Solace’s dedication.

I guess the Governess isn’t always wrong.

I lie on the grass behind the office and curl into a ball. Then I begin to whimper as loudly as I can, just like Solace did in the movie. If the Watcher thinks I’m sick enough, he’ll have to take me to the medical wing.

It’s not long after I’ve started that the Watcher’s boots approach and halt beside me.

My eyes flutter open, and with a groan, I grasp my stomach. The white dot of sun is directly behind his hairless head, leaving his face shadowed.

“I’m sick,” I groan quietly. “The pill…” I begin to writhe.

He doesn’t move.

“Please!” I beg him. “I’m sick!”

The Watcher tries to haul me up, but I collapse again into the grass. There is a scuffle outside, and both of us turn to see the Driver. He’s just outside the back entrance of the barn, holding two large plastic buckets. He’s pretending not to look at us, but I can tell he is.

I push him from my mind and pull the broken tip of the beater to the edge of the bracelet with my middle finger. I’m close now, almost close enough to grab the key and put the little metal piece in its place.

The Watcher lifts me again, trying to make me stand. I stumble forward, one hand on his chest, the beater pin in my palm. I lift my other hand to snatch the key.

More commotion from the barn makes the Watcher jerk, and his chest strap is too far now to grasp. I’m going to miss my opportunity because of all the noise made by a mute boy.

Once again the Watcher attempts to haul me up, but I refuse to use my legs, and this time he hauls back and slaps me. The metal pin in my hand, which I was going to use to replace the key, goes flying. We both watch it skid across the dirt.

My knees lock as I catch myself. My face feels like fire, and there are bright patches in the left side of my vision. My eyeball is about to explode. When I can, I suck in a breath.

The Watcher says nothing, but his eyes have narrowed. I glance down and see the messagebox on his strap and think of the Governess and the Pip who gave him his orders. They must have told the Watcher to be ready for this kind of thing. And now that I’m standing and glaring at him, I hardly look sick anymore.

Fury surges through me. I grab at the only thing I can: the messagebox. Without a thought of the consequences, my fingers snatch it off his chest. There is a word typed in block letters on the screen and I recognize it from the bodybook in the Governess’s office. It’s my name. Or the name they call me here anyway: Clover. The weed.

The Watcher reaches for the messagebox, but I scramble away and with all my might, hurl the box into the electric brook. There is a loud hiss and a crackle, and the messagebox is carried away into the sewer.

I turn back to the Watcher, who looks mildly bothered, but won’t get angry on account of his treatments. He’s lifted his hand again and reaching for my shoulder, to hold me in place while he beats me.

I kick him in the shins as hard as I can and try to wriggle away, but it’s too late, he’s got the back of my dress. All I can do now is curl into a ball, arms up to protect the delicate bones of my face.

Bang!

The Watcher pauses, one hand still gripping my shoulder, the other stretched up above my head.

Bang!

I turn to see the Driver slapping together the two large plastic buckets with great force. He’s not looking directly at us. Several horses are startled by the noise, and race out to their paddocks, bucking and whinnying.

The Watcher, distracted, releases me, and I retreat towards the back wall to hide.

But the Watcher seems to have lost interest. He turns, picks up the piece of broken beater, and stalks around the office. I hear the automatic doors open, then shut, and through the wall comes the loud suctioned release of the internal office door that connects with the hallway. The Watcher is going to get another messagebox. He’s gone.