The Glass Arrow Page 3
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.
On the coffee table in front of me is the leather-bound bodybook. I glare at it, knowing what will be within, but can’t help myself. I snatch it off the table as the Governess listens to the Pip recount what he knows of my fight.
I turn through the first few pages. There are color photos of each of the girls here, beginning with the First Rounders. Most of them have sparkling smiles, their faces glowing with glittery makeup and white powder. Beside some of their pictures are full body shots from market day, showcasing every inch of their costumed forms.
The Governess always themes our monthly appearances at market. Once the theme was “A Day in the Sun,” and we all had to wear skimpy swimsuits and bronze paint to make ourselves look like we’d spent the last week baking in an oven. Then we were waxed and plucked in the most disgusting places; just thinking about it is enough to make me shudder. They’d taken my body—my strong, healthy body—and turned me into a monster.
I turn to another page and see a girl I know as Violet dressed like a gardener to go along with the Garden theme. She’s wearing tight-fitting, see-through overalls, a floppy hat, and is holding a plastic spade. I’m feeling the urge to gag again, though not because of the blood.
I turn to the page I’m looking for. My page. There is only one picture here since I refuse to pose for the camera, and the sight of it burns me up. Still, I can’t help but stare, because it is the only photograph I know that exists of me.
It’s the picture of my capture, with the spear-wielding Magnate jerking my head back. Though my face is screwed up in pain in the picture, I look over my long-muscled form, my curly, long, raven-black hair, my deep brown eyes and thin lips drawn back in fury. I look menacing, even in that position, and this pleases me.
My finger traces absently over the penned scratches beneath my photograph that must say something about me. My previous scores on past market days. My stupid weed name. I wish I could read what has been written about me.
“CLOSE THAT!” wails the Governess, who seems to have only now noticed what I’m doing. “You’re bleeding all over it! I need that for the customers!” She makes a move to grab the book from me, but doesn’t want to get too close for fear that I’ll bleed on her. I snap the book shut, and toss it on the table, as though I was done anyway.
There is a scuffle outside, and I see that they’ve brought Sweetpea to the office too. My jaw tightens as I prepare for the next stage of my plan.
If the Governess knows I don’t want to go to market, she’ll do everything she can to get me there. I need to show her how upset I’d be to be left behind.
Only one Pip has ushered Sweetpea from the corner of the red yard. This doesn’t surprise me. At over a head above me and three times as thick, Sweetpea is easily the biggest girl here. But no one worries about her like they do about me.
“Is it true that you called Sweetpea hefty, Clover?” the Governess asks in her squeaky voice. My other Pip has returned, and he hastily shoves me a wad of tissue and a damp rag.
It also doesn’t surprise me that the Governess has immediately blamed me for the fight, even though I’m the one bleeding. She blames me for most of the trouble around here. She’s probably right to.
“I tink I called der thour-fathed Thweetpea.” I can barely get the words out because the blood is now jelly in my nostrils.
“Sweetpea is not sour-faced, she is … beautiful. In her own way. She will fetch a lofty price to any of our customers who are looking for a … a…” the Governess stammers, hands on her hips.
“A thour fathe?” I offer.
The Governess narrows her eyes at me. “We can fix Sweetpea’s hair with a wig, but there’s nothing we can do for your fat nose before market. You’ve done this on purpose, haven’t you?” She’s wagging her finger at me. “You’re just trying to avoid the auction tomorrow, and the theme is Body Paint, and it was going to be my best show ever!” She is on the brink of tears.
Body Paint? The Governess has reached a new all-time low.
I try to look hurt. “I can still do id!” I whine.
“No, you can’t!” she snaps. “Don’t play your games with me, Clover! This is just like that time when you mutilated your ear so I couldn’t put you on the stage!”
I touch the thin scar left from where I ripped my dangling beaded earring straight out of my flesh two auctions ago. I’d told her it got caught on my collar. It was painful, but I was able to avoid the meat market.
“I didn’d do dat on burbose!” I object. “And dis eeder! Sweedpea starded id!”
“I did not!” counters Sweetpea.
“She did! She dold me thad I was neber going to ged chosen, and thad I’d be Unpromised foreber!” I open my eyes wide, trying to make them water.
I know that the Governess’s desire to punish me will prevent her from giving me what I want. So I pretend that what I want, more than anything, is to still go to market. Which we both know is impossible now that I look like I’ve just been kicked in the face by a horse.
“She’s the one that said that!” Sweetpea has begun to cry.
“Please!” I beg. “I hade it here! You know thad, Governess! Getting chosen is my only way oud!”
“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.
“Hi Daphne,” I whisper. The Pip doesn’t hear me. Before us is a stage the shape of a half-moon. The heavy maroon curtains are drawn.
She turns, her narrow nose scrunched as though she’s smelling something foul, and glares at me with her green eyes. I can see that she’s had her eyebrows waxed in preparation for tomorrow, and the skin treatments to remove her freckles are almost complete.
“Don’t speak to me,” she says. Buttercup, the skinny girl beside her with the slanted eyes, tries to hide the fact that she’s looking at me by pulling her long, smooth, black hair over her shoulder.
I lean back, only mildly stung. I didn’t expect Daphne to talk to me anyway.
“Your face looks terrible,” she whispers after a moment. “I’m glad Sweetpea hit you. You deserved it.” She smirks when Buttercup giggles.
I shrug. I’m glad Sweetpea hit me too. Now I don’t have to go to the meat market tomorrow. I, of course, don’t say this to Daphne. She’s only a half friend after all. Really, she’s not even that. More like a nonenemy.
“I got a month in solitary,” I say.
“A month!” she nearly shouts. Several girls nearby have heard her, and are now staring at me and whispering feverishly to one another. “A month alone out there? With that Driver stink? I can’t imagine it.” Buttercup isn’t hiding her stare now. Her mouth is open in shock, but pulls quickly into a smile.
The Driver stink Daphne refers to is the horse rental station the solitary yard butts up against. It’s the last facility in the business district before the city walls. But when she says stink, she’s not just referring to the animal smell, she’s referring to the people that own the horses.
The Drivers are horsemen who breed and tame their ani
mals in the wild, then bring them into town for sale and rental. They’re a wild people, considered only a step above dirt—even lower than the Virulent who have broken city laws and are marked so that everyone knows it—because they are strange and unclean, skittish as rabbits, and too stupid to speak even the common language.
I’m not biased. Anyone within the walls of this city is an equal threat.
Buttercup’s distracted in conversation with another girl when Daphne turns back again.
“Why do you do that, anyway? Sing like that? If that’s even what it is.”
I lean back in my seat. The girls from the city don’t believe the same stuff I do. They don’t believe anything, really, unless the Magnates tell them they can, and the Magnates only worship themselves.
“It’s praying,” I say.
“Praying is for heathens,” she says. “The Magnate council outlawed it before any of us were born.”
Of course they did. Believing in anything other than the Magnate would mean that there’s something more powerful than them out there.
“You can’t outlaw praying,” I say.
“You can,” she argues. “Praying promotes false courage and a lack of personal responsibility. Besides that, it’s childish to believe in things that aren’t real. They did tests after the Red Years. Scientific tests. And they proved that gods don’t exist.”
I guess someone pays attention in the Governess’s lectures after all.
“You can’t prove that,” I say.
“Of course you can,” she says. “Have you ever seen your bird … woman—whatever you call her?”
“Mother Hawk.” I fidget. “No.” There are others too, but I don’t bring them up.
“Exactly.”
I pull the stretchy sleeves of my dress over my hands. I know Mother Hawk exists because she does. Because my ma told me she did. Because a long time ago, before scientific tests and Magnates, Mother Hawk gave the first people their reincarnated souls, and the only reason any of us walk and talk and live today is because of that gift.