The Glass Arrow(32)

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 beating 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.