The Glass Arrow(63)

“Yes,” says Kiran.

“We could go for it on our own,” I offer.

“You can’t ride,” he says. “You’ll fall off.”

I remember the story I told him about trying to ride Silent Lorcan’s horse while he was out with my ma. I ended up on my back with a broken arm. It’s strange hearing him mention it as though we hadn’t been having a one-sided conversation at the time.

“I can ride,” says Daphne. “My father rented horses sometimes.”

“That’s all nice,” says Kiran. “But Dell’s my girl, and she’s not going anywhere without me.” He places a flat hand beneath the mare’s forelock, and she dips her large head and nibbles on his shirt.

“Up you two go.” Kiran backs to the side of the horse.

Daphne pushes herself in front of me. She grabs the saddle horn in one hand and bends her knee. Kiran pauses, then with a small snort bends, and lifts her up over the mare’s back with a wince.

“I’m not that heavy,” she says, injured. “My body scores always come in above an eight on Auction Day.”

“He’s hurt, you idiot,” I snap.

I grab the back of the saddle and try to hike my foot high enough to reach into the stirrup, but the dress starts to rip at the seams, and I fall backwards into Kiran. He catches me with another grunt, and I feel a pang of regret for having accidently elbowed him right in the ribs.

I’m just about to reach for a bucket when he grabs me around the waist and hikes me up onto the back of the animal. If it weren’t for the sharp twinge in his eye, I would never know he’s in pain. He’s used to keeping his lips sealed.

The dress slides up my thighs, stretching across my skin. I tug the lace down as far as it will go, which isn’t far.

I hold onto the back of the saddle, remembering how much more secure I felt with my arms wrapped around Kiran’s waist.

He pulls the side rein and leads us out of the barn.

*

THE NIGHT IS THICK with smog and cold enough that the breath clouds in front of my face and my bare legs and arms get bumpy. I wish I had a coat or, even better, pants to cover my skin. I hate being so exposed, especially now, when I already feel like everyone’s eyes are on me.

I’m sitting behind the saddle, directly on a thick wool pad separating me from the horse’s rump. I grasp the back lip of the leather until my fingers hurt, but I’m so unaccustomed to the strange cadence of Dell’s gait that I nearly slide off at every step. I make a conscious effort not to squeeze my legs too tightly; Kiran says that can make her go faster, and if we get away from him, it’s just me and Daphne.

I’ve never seen the front of the barn before; it’s out of view from the solitary yard. The face is made of plain, weather-stained white boards, and it has two triangular rooftops. There’s a swinging sign outside, held onto its outstretched arm by rusty chains. It shows a picture of a horse. Nothing showy. No words.

The stone path is narrow enough for only one car or carriage and reaches out into the main bricked street, where an alley cutting between two business offices connects us to the city gates. We’re not far from the high stone wall surrounding the capitol. I can see it looming in the foreground, gray and ominous. The last barrier to my freedom.

“The wall was meant to exile women from Glasscaster,” says Daphne quietly. “Now it separates the men from the beasts.”

“One of those beasts is going to be you, you know,” I say.

She fidgets, her posture perfect. “They built it during the Red Years. After they rounded up all the women and sent them away. They fought back, did you know that? That’s when the Magistrate started making Watchers. No one could stand against the Watchers.”

I didn’t know that. “You sure got a lot to say.”

“I’m nervous,” she says.

“Well keep it down.”

She leans back. “How come that Driver can talk?”

I look down at Kiran. He’s walking stiffly, leading Dell as if she’s always so calm and trusting, not wild like he made her act behind the auction block.

“He’s a man, Daphne. That’s how come.”

“How do you know you can trust him?”

“Because I know.”

Something rustles behind us. The sound sticks out from the thump of the Black Lanes in the distance, Dell’s shod feet on the bricks, and Daphne’s chatter.

Kiran’s heard it too, and he slips his hand into his Driver coat around his back. I catch the glimpse of something metallic. Something he’s added since we left the Garden.

His eyes meet mine for a moment, then he glances over to the saddle.

“What’s wrong?” says Daphne, her voice hitching.

I hush her and slide my hand beneath the back lip of the saddle, where Kiran directed me. It’s a tight press, but there, right between the wool blanket and the leather seat, is a firm, narrow strip of rawhide. I pry it loose, careful not to throw my weight too much and slide to the ground.

My hand emerges with a narrow sheath, and within it, a thin, iron dagger, no longer than my hand. I hide it beneath the bunching yellow lace around my waist.

The noise continues. Rustle, then pause. Rustle, pause.

Acting like I’m straightening my skirt, I glance back, and sure enough there’s something lurking in the shadows—crouched low, following us. My pulse races, and I strain my eyes. The figure steps into the light. And he doesn’t stand, because he can’t.