An hour later Celia has gone and I’m sitting inside with the others. Celia told Gabriel that Arran is working in London, training to be a doctor. He will join the rebels—that’s where his sympathies lie—but he’s in danger and is always being watched. Everyone knows he hates the Council. Deborah is working for the Council, in the archives. It’s a junior position but she has access to all the old records and she’s managing to get ahold of recent ones too. She has an unusual Gift for that apparently. She’s risking her life every day to send information to Celia, but Celia hopes Deborah will soon flee as she’s always under suspicion.
I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything. Celia wasn’t on my hate list, and I don’t think that I do hate her, but I’m angry. Gabriel, it seems, was right about that—I’m angry at most people, most of the time, and I’m angrier now than I was when I was a prisoner because now I can look back and see the injustice and brutality and I can do nothing about it.
And as much as I’m shocked at my feelings about Celia, I’m also surprised at my feelings for Gabriel. He trusted me. He drew his gun to protect me and then gave it to me without question, without hesitation, when he must have wondered if I’d go too far. He can’t have known what I’d do because I certainly didn’t.
I look over at Gabriel. He’s sitting on a low cushion, as I am. His hair is tucked behind his ears. He is handsome and brave and gentle and intelligent and funny: the most perfect friend. I’ve had few friends: Annalise, Ellen, and Gabriel. And I know he’s the one who knows me best, believes in me most. Even Arran didn’t trust me like Gabriel does. And when Gabriel kissed me, he did it so I didn’t feel bad. He did it to show me I’m not a monster. He must have known he was risking me pushing him away. And it would be so much easier if I didn’t care for Annalise like I do. If I felt for Gabriel what I feel for her. He says he can’t bear to be away from me and I’m like that with her. I can’t imagine living happily unless I’m with her. That’s the only place I want to be: at her side.
Gabriel turns to me, meets my gaze, and then his expression changes. “What?” he asks.
I shake my head and I mouth, Nothing. Then I force myself to turn from him and pay attention to what’s going on around me.
We’re sitting on large cushions that form a circle in the room. The floor is covered with rugs, Persian I guess, not one rug but many; they must be two or three deep and they’re soft and silky. The room is dim but rich—all reds and golds.
I’m sitting opposite Isch, a large woman dressed in layers of color—purple, gold, red—from her turban to her silk slippers. She has plump hands that flit around as she talks. Her nails are long and painted gold and her fingers are almost hidden under numerous jewel-encrusted rings. We’ve been introduced and offered tea. Now two young girls enter the room, carrying large, round wooden trays. The tea is poured in small glasses. There is what looks like Turkish delight on a plate, nuts and fat black grapes.
Isch watches the girls leave and when the door is closed she asks Van, “What do you think of them?”
“The girls? Who knows? Until an apprentice works with you, it’s impossible to say how things will turn out.”
“Perhaps I should ask what you think, Nesbitt?”
He swigs his tea in one gulp, then says, “I’m sure you’ll get good prices for them.”
“I’m not so certain. Troubled times bring shortages of certain commodities. Demand for herbs and flowers for protective potions is sky-high already but that doesn’t mean it’s the time to take on a new apprentice. Prices for them are plummeting.”
I’ve been sitting quietly up till now but I can’t resist saying, “You sell the girls?”
Isch turns to me. Her eyes are brown, like Gabriel’s, but smaller, lost in the plump beige skin of her face. Her nose is small too but her lips are full and painted a bright red. She says, “Of course the girls are sold. Boys too but few want boys.”
“Sold like slaves?”
“Not at all like slaves. They’re valued apprentices. Think of their prices as transfer fees. They’re more like professional footballers than slaves.”
“Do they get paid those sorts of salaries? Football salaries?”
Isch laughs. “They get the best training for free. They get the thrill of learning from another top player if they’re good enough. It’s how I learned. And Van.”
“And what if they’re not good enough?”
“Some owners put up with poor results; most don’t. Hence the market in new apprentices.”
“I was told Mercury ate little boys—would those be her failed apprentices?”
“I’m not sure she eats them but she does find uses for them—ingredients mostly, bottled for later use.”
“And my father? Does he have apprentices?”
Isch hesitates. “He’s never bought from me. But perhaps you’ll soon be looking for an apprentice? And then I will ensure you get the best.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t want a slave.”
She picks up her glass of tea, sips it, and says, “Well, if you should ever change your mind.”
“Are you intending to sell any of those girls to Mercury?” asks Van.