The Glass Arrow(7)

“Pip, pip, pip!”

I blink again and wait for the world to stop swaying. When it does, I smile.

A whip smacks down on my arm and I jerk back. Another comes down on my shoulder.

Stupid Pips and their stupid little beaters.

They use their whips to herd me away from the crowd. As I pass, the round, shocked mouths of the girls melt into snide little gossip holes.

As for Sweetpea, she’s now looking just as surprised as they are. Poor thing. She’s about as sharp as a brick.

I’ve really put the Pips in a buzz. Two of them stand on either side, slapping at the backs of my arms with their beaters to usher me forward. Sour looks scrunch both of their pretty faces, and even their flowing dress shirts seem to have deflated. I can tell from their greenish tint that the blood has made them sickly.

“Pip, pip, pip, pip, pip!” one sputters before he can even speak. He’s picked up my boots and is holding them away from his body as if they’re a dead animal.

I’m impressed. Five Pips is a new personal best.

“The Governess won’t be pleased, no she won’t! Pip!” he finishes. I wipe some of the blood on my dress sleeve and he can’t hide his “eww.”

The Governess runs the Garden, the facility where I’ve been held since my capture. She has the final word on our conditioning, how we’re readied for the suitors.

She’s a wretched peacock of a woman.

She calls herself an artist, claiming that her decorations up our auction price on market day. But she’s no artist. An artist creates because she has to, because if she doesn’t, she’ll explode. Bian was an artist. He was handy with sculptures, which is why he left our camp in the mountains to make a living in town. I can still see his skilled hands forming figures of horses and wolves and birds from shapeless blocks of wood. The Governess is his opposite. A false artist; she creates so others will pat her on the back, and that makes her more a slave than me.

I hear the cheering now. The small early crowd has come to gawk at us from the street and I’ve put on quite a show. I don’t worry about their attention; they’re mostly work staff, too poor to place a bid on the auction block. They just come to drool.

The Pips direct me down the stone walkway out of the recreation yard and its flat, mosquito-infested lily pond, and towards the automatic doors of the East Wing. I hesitate, as I always do before these sliding doors, and only proceed when they’re fully open and I’m sure they won’t change their minds and crush me.

A year ago I’d never seen such stuff. I’d heard about it secondhand from my ma’s and Bian’s stories, but that’s all they were: stories. I’d stayed my distance from the city because of the danger. Though I’ve since learned they’re not magic, things like automatic doors and messageboxes and weight shifters still make me nervous. I don’t trust machines. I trust what I know. That thunderheads bring rain. That cool stream water will quench my thirst. That a punch to the face will sting like a dog’s bite, but ultimately accomplish a greater purpose.

The hallway we pass through is painted bruise purple, and the windows are draped with pink velvet and white lace. No matter how much they dress them up, the windows still reveal the electrical fence surrounding the building. They can’t hide the fact that the Garden is nothing but a prison.

My nose continues to bleed, though now I make no attempt to stop it and instead lean forward, so that my blood rains down on the Governess’s perfectly clean floor.

“Pip, pip!” coughs one of the Pips disgustedly. If my face wasn’t frozen by swelling, I’d smirk.

One of the Pips knocks on a broad oak door, and it pleases me to see his soft hand trembling.

“Enter,” calls a singsong voice from within. I hope my swollen face isn’t hiding my disgust. I want the Governess to see how much she revolts me.

The Pip opens the door and reveals the bright room with the white, lavish couches that I know so well. I’ve been in to see the Governess at least once a week since I arrived here.

Her office is one of the nicest rooms in the facility. She does a lot of business here with buyers, and she can’t have them thinking that she leaves their potential purchases living in any less-than-desirable conditions. If they knew we slept on moldy mattresses in a packed hall that reeks of nail paint and girl stink, they might not be so quick to pay. They only see what she lets them see, which is what they want to see anyway. A girl who’s been groomed, shaved, slicked-up by the Pips for auction.

In my least delicate manner, I stomp across the bone white carpet, and take my usual place on the couch. I still can’t get used to the feel of sitting on something so plush. I sink into the cushions, and it feels as if I’m being swallowed whole.

“Oh!” cries the Governess, launching out from behind her large, glass-topped desk. Today her hair is done up in a long golden braid that twists around her forehead like a crown, and she’s wearing a dark blue suit with a neckline low enough that you can practically see her belly button. On her right breast pocket is the cardinal, the symbol of Glasscaster. Her face is covered with makeup that’s so dark over her cheekbones and so black around her eyes, it looks like she’s the one that’s taken a beating.

“She’s bleeding everywhere!” shrieks the Governess. “Do something, Keeper!”

One of the Pips scurries from the room, his black linen uniform wafting behind him. He’s only too happy to have been dismissed. The other one is gnawing on his lower lip now, and refusing to look me squarely in the face.