The Glass Arrow(35)

I wonder if he’s seen Kiran and me together.

Wobbling on my high heels, I’m assisted by a Pip into a decorative wrought-iron carriage holding three other girls. I don’t recognize any of them; they’re all new and eager. Their chatter grates on my nerves.

The double benches are designed to fit six girls, but I have the extreme fortune of sitting beside the Watcher.

“Must be pretty embarrassing to be carted across town with a bunch of shrieking girls,” I say.

“You tell me,” he says, not even looking my way. I cross my arms and slouch in my seat.

The Garden’s electric fence buzzes loudly, and my pulse goes haywire when the double gates slide open. Our carriage lurches forward. We are the third in line. I look back to the Garden, to its black, chic siding and the tranquil landscaping before it, and I wish I had a stone to throw at one of those perfectly square windows which line its face. I keep staring back; I can’t see behind the facility to the solitary yard. I can’t see the barn, where Kiran is wiping the sweat from his eyes with his too-clean handkerchief.

Something hurts inside of me, somewhere between my ribs and my stomach. A dull throb that every third or so time turns to a twist. Nerves, I tell myself. I wish I had some maypop tea to calm down.

Because the ache grows stronger when I think of Kiran, I focus on Brax. I remember him as a tiny puppy, his body no longer than the length of my forearm. I remember teaching him not to bite, and playing tug-of-war with sticks in the yard. His ice-blue eyes and his soft silver fur. I try to remember the way his breath sounds through his neck as I rest my head there to sleep. He’ll wonder where I am if I don’t come back.

I can’t be Promised. I have to find a way to ruin this, to throw the bids. If I’m chosen today, I’ll be brought to a home in the city’s interior, where they’ll have high gates and Watchers that patrol the streets. Pips watching my every move. Where I’ll be forced to lie with a man I don’t even know and bear his children. The fear is so thick I can taste it like blood in my mouth.

“Look,” says one of the girls across from me. “The Black Lanes.”

She says it like it’s some magical place, not the slums just a short walk from the Garden, and touches a ridiculous gold foil crown on her head, like the people here might actually be impressed.

Our caravan of carriages has rolled past the large warehouses and business offices that make up Glasscaster’s business district, and we’ve turned left onto Main Street. The road here is bricked, but there are potholes that show the black asphalt below from the days of car travel. The carriage wobbles over the divots. This area of town is not well maintained by the city.

My gaze follows the girl’s pointing finger. The other girls have all hushed.

There are two offshoots in all. They’re just called “One” and “Two.” We pass Two first, and all of us peer down the darkened way to the bars and brothels and the motel rooms that boast their hourly rental rates.

Trash clutters the street and makes a nice snack for the dozens of hungry rats that scurry from pile to pile. The occasional body is strewn out beside a metal garbage can that still smolders from the previous night—you can recognize the ones with the plague by the blood under their eyes. The city docs have a cure, but the Virulent can’t afford it. That’s why you see so many of them infected.

“So disgusting,” says another girl, scooting closer to the one with the crown. She’s got coloring in her eyes—they’re supposed to be gold, but they look yellow, like she’s gone way too long without peeing.

Disgusting doesn’t even begin to cover it. Just thinking of what might befall me if I am bought makes me shudder. I look around for Mercer, but of course he’s not here. The neon signs are brighter than anywhere in the city, but today they are dim, and the streets are nearly deserted, because the Virulent who are at least partially sober are going to market.

The girls all sigh as we pass and move through the scattered brick-and-metal factories of the industrial district. Alternating puffs of black and white smoke bloom into an already hazy sky from the high copper towers. This is where they make basic supplies: uniforms, computer pieces, Watcher weapons, meal supplements.

“It stinks,” says the third girl.

She’s not wrong. The air smells even fouler than in the Black Lanes. Daphne told me once it’s the smell of flesh from the facilities where they take pregnant girls to get rid of their unwanted girl babies—a fate decided by the census commissioners and the importance of the girl’s owner.

“Hold your breath,” whispers the one with the crown. “If you open your mouth, you’ll have bad breath all day.” They all cover their mouths with their little nail-painted fingers.

I think I’d prefer Daphne’s company to these three.

I picture her sitting alone in the solitary yard and can’t help but feel a little guilty. But it serves her right. She was nasty about Straw Hair. She can sit and rot for all I care.

We continue on, passing the residential district of the Merchant class. These inhabitants live in apartments, and we pass a few cars parked on the side of the street. The metal monsters growl and squeal and leak their black oil all over the road. I can see why the Magnates refuse to use them anymore.

“We’re here,” says Crown Girl.

The other two begin to squeal.

“Sure you don’t want to keep holding your breath?” I ask.