The Glass Arrow(9)

“Oh, shut up, you!” The Governess paces back and forth, twisting her high heel into the rug before she changes direction. “I’m never going to transfer your papers unless you go to auction!” She sighs, exasperated, because she’s tired of me and wants me gone just as much as I want me gone. I hide the cringe at her self-righteousness. As though she’s really the one who signs my paperwork. She’s illiterate, just like the rest of us. Her Pip assistant has to sign for her.

“Then led me go!” I beg.

“No. That’s it. Tomorrow is a big day for me, and I can’t have you ruin it like you try to ruin everything else. Sweetpea will go to auction. I almost had her sold last market day anyhow. And I don’t want to see your skinny, bruised face for a month! Do you hear that, Keepers? Put her in solitary! I’m calling a Watcher to come supervise. Someone smarter than the last one,” she rambles on.

My heart swells in my chest. In solitary, I’ll get to see Brax, and it’s been weeks since the last time we were together. I wonder if he’s changed at all. If he’ll still let me sleep on his shoulder. It’s not as good as getting out of the city, but at least I won’t be sold.

I fix my face to hide my relief.

“No!” I bellow. “Please led me go! Nod solidary!”

“You’ve left me no choice. You’re going just as soon as I get a Watcher. Which will have to wait a few minutes. We’ve got a new shipment today and I’ve got to make a presentation.”

I roll my eyes. Another stupid presentation. I wonder what it’ll be this time, ten ways to please a Magnate? The thought brings a flush to my cheeks.

“Should Clover wait here?” asks one of the Pips in a clear, pristine voice. His color is returning now that my nose is cleaned up.

“No, bring her. Clover needs a reminder of what deceit can cost her.” The Governess smiles, and her painted face looks as deadly as a rattler.

Whatever joy I have felt at my success crashes. Someone’s about to be punished. And her punishment is far, far worse than a month in solitary.





CHAPTER 3

I FOLLOW SWEETPEA BACK down the hallway of the East Wing, a Pip flanking me on either side. We’re heading towards the amphitheater, where the girls are gathered for announcements.

Passing the sliding doors that lead out to the rec yard, we continue through an open doorway and into the entertainment parlor. This room is even more dressed up than the Governess’s office. The walls are peach and draped with lace, and there are big leather couches and loungers atop the bearskin rugs. In the back is a huge stone fireplace—the kind that burns real wood, not the fake press-a-button flames I’ve seen in the city on market days. There’s no fire now, but soft, velvety light glows from lamps which are placed on each of the fancy wooden tables sprinkled around the room.

It still feels strange being here; once, places like this—and people like Pips—only lived in my ma and Bian’s stories. Finding them real makes me wonder what other nightmares exist.

“Come on,” says one of the Pips in a high voice. “Don’t dally.” He smacks my lower back with one of the beaters.

I growl at him and he holds the little stick out before him like a knife.

“The only time she ever comes through here is when she’s in trouble.” The other Pip has stopped, and motions to a couch with a twisty little smile. “Would you like to sit down, dear?”

I swallow. He’s got me pegged and he knows it.

It’s here that the girls will meet their prospective buyers for the first time; a very wealthy Magnate may even send an assistant to finish the sale. He might interview her on the couch, drink a cup of tea brought in by the Governess. We’re prepped on all the right things to say should this happen. City men like to hear they look young and powerful. They want to tell you about all the nice things they have, and you’re supposed to listen and smile down at your shoes and hope that you might be one of those nice things, too.

“Sure,” I say, forcing myself to relax. “I wouldn’t mind putting my feet up on one of those fancy chairs.” I wipe some of the blood drying on the back of my hand on the side of my dress.

“Pip,” says the first, making a gagging noise. “Get on already.” He smacks me again. I reach to snag the beater, but he pulls it away too fast.

We exit into a hallway where four smaller sitting rooms, two on each side, are left open to air. I clip Sweetpea’s heels, trying to make her hurry. This place makes my skin crawl. Should a buyer want a closer look at the property, the pair will be escorted into one of these private rooms. Here, he can request almost anything. Almost. A First Rounder must pass a medical exam verifying she’s not done it with anybody before any sale is complete. Nobody paying that much wants damaged goods.

I’ve never been brought into one of these rooms. Never the parlor either.

“Don’t worry, Clover,” says Sweetpea. “You’ll never make it this far.” She still thinks she’s better than me.

“Good,” I say with a snort, and she shoots a glare my way.

The curved outer walls of the amphitheater are broken by more sliding doors, and the last of the girls are going in. I’m held back until the end, and again I hesitate before I pass through. Just in case.

The first three descending rows of seats are filled, though the room can fit twice that. A Pip motions for me to sit in the fourth row, alone, and I find a seat behind the girl with red hair.