The Glass Arrow(62)

He nods.

“What am I supposed to wear?” Daphne asks.

Before Daphne can steal it from me, I strip off what’s left of the white Promised dress and shove the yellow one over my head. It’s dirty and wearing thin in places, and so short it barely covers my hips. Strips of lace cover my shoulders, which are otherwise bare. There’s no mistaking me for a Garden girl now; I look like one of Mercer’s girls who work in the Black Lanes. Kiran glances at me, then quickly looks down. His fingers fumble as he pulls a flat black square the size of his fist from the saddle bag.

“Costume makeup,” he says.

“Hurry,” I say, remembering the way the city folks dress up like Virulent on auction days.

Daphne’s still going on and on behind us.

“If you leave me, I’ll tell everyone what you did,” she says. “You ran away from the mayor, didn’t you? I’m sure they’ll be looking.”

I’ve had enough of Daphne’s sniveling and scheming. I lunge at her, ready to strike, but before I can bring my arm forward, something catches my hand.

“Easy,” says Kiran, releasing me when I turn to glower at him. “How are we going to get your friend through?”

“We’re not friends,” I tell him.

“We are too,” says Daphne quickly. “Clover, don’t lie.” She’s just saying it so I won’t leave her.

“I really am going to hang tonight,” Kiran mutters dryly. He pulls me close to his face. “Accept it. Plans have changed. Move on.”

I feel my fists bunch at my sides. He’s right. We have to take Daphne because if I believe nothing else she says, I know she’s truthful about turning us in. I need to keep a close eye on her wagging jaw. I look down at the ground to pull myself together, and groan when I see nearly to my navel through my four-star cleavage.

“Let me wear your dress,” Daphne tries.

“It won’t fit you,” I tell her. She’s bigger than me—taller, and curvier. As it is, I can barely twist without popping the seams.

With a short whine, she runs to the supply room, giving Kiran and the mare a lot of room as she passes. When she comes out, she’s got a horse blanket over her shoulders. I’m not sure what she plans on doing with that.

Kiran twists the makeup box, and it opens with a pop. He pulls a red marker the size of my pinky from it and gives it a squeeze. Thick ooze drips out to the ground. With one hand firmly on my chin, he begins to trace an X shape across my right cheek. The thick clumping of the makeup covers my skin. It’s meant to look like flesh. It certainly feels heavy enough.

I close my eyes and summon every amount of strength I have within me. It comes from the ground, right up through my feet, my legs, my body. I breathe deep and think of my ma. How strong she was to leave this city. How she went right through the gates, and the keepers let her go because she was marked. I was already in her belly then, so really, it’s my second time through.

Kiran finishes the X on my cheek and nods grimly.

“I guess that will have to do,” he says, and I wish for the first time that I had a mirror to see how I look. I hope the gatekeeper doesn’t examine me too closely.

“Me next?” Daphne asks, dropping the blanket.

There’s no way around it, she’s coming with us.

“If they ask, we’ll tell them you’re plagued,” I say. I nod to Kiran. “Quick. Mark her. Just like you did me.”

He moves towards her, but she shies away.

“Clover, you do it,” she whispers.

“Shh,” he hushes gently. As though she’s a spooked horse and not a leech. Slowly, he moves towards her, hands raised. When he’s close enough, he reaches to hold her chin in his hand, and my blood turns fire hot.

“I can do it,” I tell him, reaching for the marker.

He doesn’t give it to me. Daphne’s fallen under a spell—she’s perfectly still. Not even her tears fall. But she doesn’t look at him. She stares at me until he’s finished the job and backed away. Then her hand rises to feel her cheek, just below the makeup, where Kiran touched. She’s probably trying to see if his skin burned her or something.

“All done.” Kiran adjusts the bandage around his waist; the blood has already begun to soak through. I gently press my fingers into the wet fabric and smear a little red below Daphne’s eyes.

“Disgusting,” she whispers.

“Because it’s blood or because it’s mine?” Kiran asks without looking up. I feel myself smirk. Daphne’s cheeks blossom pink.

“Let’s go.” No one has followed yet. No more Watchers. No Pips either. Through the nearest stall I can make out the Watcher, still lying motionless, halfway in the stream, and a shudder rakes through me.

Kiran glances down the breezeway, chewing the corner of his lower lip.

“What is it?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Aran will come tomorrow morning to get his horses for the village. He’ll see I’m gone then and tend to the others.” I get the distinct impression from the guilt in his voice that he’s reassuring himself, not me.

“Will you be in much trouble?” I whisper, picturing Ferret Face with his greasy hair.

Kiran places the silver bit of a dark-leather bridle into the mare’s chomping mouth and clicks softly to urge her forward. She begins sniffing my hands and my hair, shoving her giant nose into my chest, and I coo despite myself.