The Glass Arrow(34)

The Watcher. He’s holding me solidly from behind, and he’s squeezing so tightly that I’m forced to abandon my attempts to attack and focus instead on loosening his grasp from my waist.

“Let go!” I shout at him. The pressure is pumping in my head, making black spots appear in my vision.

“What … is … this?” a high voice shrieks from behind. The Governess erupts into the room in a burst of bright yellow-and-red cloth. Her dress is tiny around the midsection, rising at angles over her chest and sticking almost straight out at her hips. The skirt resembles some sort of upside-down wire basket, and her blonde hair is curled into a mountain above her forehead.

“She started it,” cries Daphne.

“Shut up!” I say. The Watcher squeezes again and I wince.

“Put her down,” the Governess orders. When he doesn’t respond, she flails her hands for her Pip assistant. “Tell him to put Clover down!”

The Pip approaches the Watcher timidly. He’s flustered; his face is slightly flushed.

“Sir,” he says, clearing his throat with a stream of pips. “Sir?”

Finally the Watcher puts me down, but he keeps his hands clamped firmly on my shoulders.

The Governess marches towards me and leans as close as she can without allowing her overly stuffed skirt to touch my skintight black uniform. Her made-up face is so severe she’s scary.

“This past month has been the best of my career. Why is that? Ha!” All the silent girls surrounding us jump. “Because you were out of my hair.”

“Hard to imagine, with hair so big,” I say, staring back. “I could probably stand out in the rec yard and still be in it.”

“Silence!” she screeches. She pulls back, adjusting her dress. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your time here, Clover, because it’s about to come to an end. I don’t care if another girl gets one bid today as long as you’re sold.”

I feel my face drain of color. She smirks, knowing that she’s gotten to me.

“After market, I’ll be either meeting with your buyer or transferring your ownership papers over to that Pimp, Mercer. Either ways, you’ll wait out your time in solitary,” she continues. “You and your little friend. I don’t want you two near the other girls.”

She wouldn’t sell me to the Virulent like she’s threatening, would she? Mercer the Pimp hardly pays anything for the girls he takes back to the Black Lanes. But I can tell from that crazy look in her eyes that she means it.

Daphne’s on her feet now, though still hunched over. Her cheek is swelling from where she collided with the tile floor.

“Sort of beats the idea of solitary if there’s two of us there, doesn’t it?” I say, unable to hide the tremble in my voice.

“I can’t … not with…” Daphne’s stammering.

“Maybe you’ll kill each other, and then problem solved,” says the Governess. “Daphne’s out for today,” she says in a flat voice to her assistant. I hear a stream of pips from him in the background.

“I’m … what? Out?” cries Daphne disbelievingly.

“Look at your face in the mirror, dear,” says the Governess. “We can’t skim that before the show. There’s not nearly enough time, what with everything else that needs to be done.”

“But I was nearly Promised last time!” shouts Daphne. Her gaze switches to Buttercup, whose mouth has dropped open.

“And you weren’t,” the Governess responds in a flat tone.

“The Watcher grabbed me,” I spout quickly. “There will be huge bruises.”

“Any of which can be covered with concealing powder. Don’t,” she points a long, fake nail directly in my face, “even try it. You’re going. And your paperwork will be signed by the end of the week.”

With that, the Governess stalks away, leaving both Daphne and I speechless, encircled by the wide, shocked eyes of the other girls.

*

I’M KEPT WITHIN TWO feet of the Watcher for the next several hours. During that time, my hair is flatironed, greased, and pinned up into an elaborate twist on the back of my head. My scars are all covered with thick concealing powder, and they give me back my Unpromised earrings.

I am ushered into the prep room and seated on a leather stool before a trifold mirror with bright lights. A Pip applies enough makeup to make me look like a Skinmonger. Then I’m shoved into a ball gown the color of salmon meat. It’s so tight I can barely walk, and it leaves my shoulders bare and all exposed.

The theme of this auction is Elegance. I don’t feel elegant. I feel like a prostitute. Like I’m already on my way to work for sleazy Mercer.

They’ve given me long white gloves that rise above my elbows. None of the other girls going wear gloves, and it’s obvious why. The thick fingers keep my nails from scratching at my face, from damaging my clothes, from anything that might disqualify me from the meat market.

The Governess has done an all right job limiting my chances to screw this up.

Reality sinks in very slowly. I’m going to have to go up on the stage. It’s only my second time since I’ve arrived here, due to the good timing of my injuries, and I can’t help but be afraid.

I begin to feel sickly by the time we’re brought outside into the light. There, we line up, one after another, to fill the horse-drawn carriages manned by men in white suits. Drivers wipe down their horses and comb their long glossy manes. I search for Kiran, but he’s not here. The Driver who returns the horses from the city to the rental barn at the end of the day is, though. The silver ferret. He’s picking at his scalp, and his nervous eyes are darting all over. They stop on me just for a second before shooting to the ground. I wonder if he recognizes me from my time behind his barn.