The Glass Arrow(43)

“You’re Virulent,” I say to him. I should have suspected as much when I saw the scarf.

His eyes smile. “Which doesn’t mean I’m not under the employ of the Mayor.”

“I didn’t think…” I don’t know what to say. I may not be an expert on city ways, but even I know it’s odd for a civilized man to meddle with the lower class. For gambling maybe. To hire someone to do his dirty work, sure. But to appoint a Virulent as a permanent employee, as a caretaker for your son … I’ve never heard of such a thing.

“Of course you didn’t,” he says, with a gleam in his eye. “A girl’s brain isn’t meant to take on the burdens of business.”

I bite my tongue and fight back the urge to lash out at him. He seems pleased that he’s gotten under my skin, so I tell myself to hide my emotions. To show him nothing that will give him an advantage over me.

“I guess you’re right,” I say flatly. “None of this makes sense.”

He chuckles. “You have a sharp tongue. I wouldn’t mind getting more acquainted with it.…”

“No,” I say firmly. I would rather die than become this man’s property.

“But not until after you pass your inspection,” he finishes. “And we can deliver you to your rightful owner.”

“And who might that be?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He turns his head just slightly to look at the boy playing on the floor.

My mouth drops open. “He’s a child!”

“Quiet, Clover,” he tells me. “I thought you girls were thrilled by such an opportunity. You’ll be brought to our home. You’ll wait out your days being pampered until he’s ready.”

“And when will that be?”

“Four, maybe five years. Unless he wants you before.”

“You would hold me prisoner,” I stammer.

His eyes are smiling again. “Does a prisoner have a bed softer than a cloud to sleep in at night, Clover? Does a prisoner have meat and eggs and wine at her table? Does she have fine clothes and keepers to wait on her? You tell me.”

For one measly moment—no, for half a measly moment—it doesn’t sound so bad. Better than here anyway. And then I’m so ashamed of myself, I turn bright red and stare at the horse toy the boy is now crushing into the floor.

“Don’t worry. If you need practice…” Mr. Greer’s voice is barely a whisper now. It sends a jolt of tremors through my entire body.

“I would never. Not with you,” I spit.

He chuckles. “Such spirit.”

I want to gag. Everything about this is wrong. I wish I could jump out of my skin. Disappear.

“I’m not doing this,” I tell him.

“That’s the wonderful thing about the auction,” says Mr. Greer. “You don’t have a say in the matter.”

He stands, motioning for Amir to follow.

“I want to take her home now,” whines the boy.

“Patience, dear nephew,” he says, motioning the child to the door. Just before he follows, he pauses to whisper in my ear, “Patience for him, but not for the Virulent. I’ll be seeing you soon, Clover.”

And then they are gone, leaving me in my corner of the room.

*

I DON’T REMEMBER LEAVING the parlor. I don’t remember the Watcher searing the metal bracelet on my wrist. I vaguely recall the Governess debating whether or not she should really place me back in solitary, now that I have such a high-profile buyer showing interest. She must have figured she ought to, because the next thing I know, I am shoved out of the glass office door into the solitary yard.

I am still wearing the tight pink dress that covers my arms and reaches down to my ankles. The evening air is crisp, but I hardly feel it. I hardly feel anything. My hair is tucked behind my ears, falling in neatly brushed curls down my back. There is only one beaded earring in my ear.

The sky is fading. It must be close to nighttime. The Watcher has already offered me my dinner allotment, but I didn’t take it. I’ve never been less hungry.

“No!” a girl screams as he’s attaching my bracelet to the chain. She’s been sitting just outside the sliding glass door on her bedroll, but now stands, red hair disheveled. Latched onto her right arm is her containment bracelet; it peeks out from the sleeve of her standard black uniform dress. There is still a flushed blemish on the side of her face, but the swelling is down.

Daphne.

I look at her, but can’t seem to track her eyes. My head is too muddy. I stare down to where both of our leashes connect to the same post.

“Someone chose you?” she says.

I don’t say anything. I can’t believe it either. After everything that I’ve tried. That Kiran’s tried.

Her cheeks pale, like she’s about to be sick. The thought of someone choosing me disgusts her. It shouldn’t get to me, but it does.

“I would have gone last month if stupid Iris didn’t meet with him after me,” she says, an edge in her tone. “If you were picked, I’d be Promised for certain right now!”

“I didn’t want this,” I say.

“Oh, you’d rather stay here, is that it?” Her green eyes look like they might pop out of their sockets.

“No. I want to go back—”