The Glass Arrow(6)

“I bet she laid down with a sheep,” says Sweetpea. “I bet the wild girl broke the purity rule with a sheep.” She laughs, and even her laugh sounds stupid. Huh huh huh. They all join her. They’re all laughing at me.

I crack my knuckles.

Before any sale is final, every girl is forced to have a medical test to determine if she’s pure or not. Magnates—the wealthiest men in the city—pay a lot of money for First Rounders; they want to be the first to own their brand-new toy. Then, when they tire of her, or when she gives them what they really want—a boy child—she’s returned to the Garden and resold as a Second or Third Rounder for childbearing, or pleasure, or anything else, to a man with less money. Her baby, if she has one, is handed over to the Keepers to be raised.

The First Rounders will call her a Sloppy Second. Sloppy Seconds don’t call the Third Rounders anything. Sloppy Seconds don’t talk much.

My ma used to tell Salma these stories to convince her to stay clear of the city. When she got to the bit about the medical exam, she always reached for my hand, as if to assure me she’d never let something like that happen to me.

I take a step towards Sweetpea and her full lips tilt up in a smirk.

“Clover,” warns Daphne.

I cringe at the name. Larkspur, Thistle, Lily, Daphne … There are fifty or so of us here at any given time, all named after flowers, myself included. Clover. Most of these plants are at least somewhat poisonous, which I’m sure the Governess doesn’t know because she’s never been outside the city walls.

And of course, Clover is a weed. Which she probably does know.

Lotus and Lily stand on either side of Sweetpea, glancing to her for their next move. Behind me, I hear the camera swivel, and know that I don’t have much time.

“You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you fat face?” I say to the biggest of the four. It’s a low cut, but I need to get her riled up, even if calling her names makes my insides feel ugly.

Sweetpea tilts her head to the side, her dull eyes narrowing. I take another step up. In order for this to work, she’s got to come at me. I was planning on doing this closer to breakfast, but now works too.

“I don’t have to think it,” she says. “I know it.”

There are more girls gathering now. Ten or so more have made the trip down and have formed a half circle behind Sweetpea.

“With a face like that it’s no wonder no one wants to take you home,” I say, trying to sound as cold as she does. “Sour-faced Sweetpea. Has a nice ring to it.”

She twitches. “At least I get bids,” she says.

The girls around her agree.

I scoff. “You’ve been here a lot longer than me, that’s all I know.”

“Clover,” says Daphne again. She’s not crossing over to my side. I don’t expect her to anyway. She is only a half friend, after all.

A girl with straight black hair and slanted eyes comes up beside her. She’s been named Buttercup, of all things. Daphne immediately blushes.

“The Keepers are coming,” says Buttercup.

I glance over Sweetpea’s broad shoulder and see she’s right. Three Keepers—or Pips as I call them—are rushing out of the building, black caftans floating behind them. The Pips are assigned to take care of the youth in this city, whether at the Garden, in one of the children’s dormitories, or even in some wealthy Magnate’s house. They’re male—but you couldn’t tell by looking at them. Their faces are smooth and hairless. Too smooth, like their skulls are made of clay, and their features have all been softened. The rumor is that when they were children, their parents signed them over to the city in payment of their taxes or debts. In a Keeper facility in the medical district, their boy parts were removed, and they were given strange medical treatments to alter their hormones and stunt their growth. I guess they’re still sore about it, because they have nasty tempers and are snide even on their best days. I can’t blame them, but that doesn’t mean I like them.

I don’t have much time.

“Ooh,” I say. “Keepers. Scared, fat face?”

Sweetpea twitches.

“The Governess says I’ll be chosen by the end of the week,” she says.

“That’s what she tells you,” I say. “I heard her talking to a buyer the last time I was sent to her office. She tried to throw you in two for one with Rose, but he wouldn’t even take you for free.”

“Shut up,” she says, lunging forward, but stopping just before we collide.

Not good enough.

“I promise I’m out of here before you,” I say, closing the distance between us so that I have to look up at her. Quick as I can, I grab a fistful of her hair. I yank and a chunk rips away in my hand. Her upper half wobbles on her skinny waist. Her eyes go glassy with tears.

“Oops,” I say, looking at the long strands hanging limply from my grasp, and then back to her face. “That won’t look good on stage.”

Crack.

I cough and choke on the fountain of blood that gurgles down my throat. It’s thick and vile, and if I wasn’t so busy concentrating on standing upright, I would puke it up.

I’ve got to hand it to her. Sweetpea’s knuckles are like iron. My nose is definitely broken.

I blink and the girl before me wavers in my vision. Her hands stretch out to her sides as though she might want to embrace me. The Pips are closing in now—I can hear that strange noise they all make when they’re flustered. It must be a side effect of the treatments that make them into Keepers, because every Pip I’ve ever met does it.