*
THE NEXT MORNING I see that the Watcher is no longer wearing the key to my bracelet. I stop looking at his chest strap because it’s such a disappointment. I don’t know where he keeps it—somewhere inside, but unless he opens the door with his hand scan, there’s no way to get in.
The days grow shorter, not just because winter is coming, but because Kiran begins visiting every night. With the motions of his arms and his pointing fingers, he tells me he’s got some kind of plan in the works to get me out. I don’t know what it is exactly, but he seems confident. At first I’m skeptical, but every day brings new hope, and every night he shows up empty-handed, more disappointment.
But it’s not all disappointing. We talk a lot.
At least, I talk a lot.
A Pip comes by on my eighth day and gives me a few changes of clothes and two wool blankets—my only shelter against the rain that pelts me half that afternoon. I find myself reluctant to change out in the open, because on one side of my yard the Watcher can surely see, and on the other, Kiran might.
Not that he’d be looking.
During the daytime I can’t help but glance over towards the barn. Sometimes I see Kiran outside doing his normal working routine. He wears his riding pants, his boots, sometimes a button-down shirt. His clothes are always filthy, but his handkerchief, rolled and tied in a loose knot around his neck, always seems clean. I remind myself to tell him to mess it up later so that no one will catch on to his disguise, but I always forget once he arrives.
Occasionally our eyes will meet and we’ll both look away quickly, to check if anyone else has seen us. No one ever does.
On the tenth day the yard is unusually quiet during rec time. Drawn by the Governess’s voice, I stretch my chain to its limit and squint at the back of the building, where she’s called the girls into a line. From here I can see Daphne’s red hair in the middle of the pack. It puts me at ease that she’s around, for some reason.
A man steps out from the building and says something to the Governess. He wears a suit the color of eggplants and a floppy-brimmed hat, which he takes off as he makes his way down the line.
I cringe and fall back a step.
It’s Mercer the Pimp. He comes sometimes after all the paperwork is done from the auction to pick up the stragglers for the Black Lanes. Most of his girls are Virulent, but every once in a while he’ll buy a few First Rounders to sell them to his own clients in the Black Lanes. It’s everyone’s biggest fear.
Two girls are chosen—two who have been here longer than me. Neither of them put up a fight as they’re ushered into the building by Pips.
Before Mercer leaves, he lifts his hand and waves. It’s not until the other girls turn their heads that I realize he’s waving at me. Even at this distance I can hear his laughter as I scram around the backside of the office.
I bite my nails to nothing waiting for him to come get me, too, but he doesn’t show up. Someone else does, though. Another Driver, to work at the barn with Kiran. I recognize his silver hair and skinny, warped stature. He used to run the rental barn before Kiran came. He mostly stays out of view, but in the early evening, I catch a glimpse of his ferrety face as he leads a string of sweaty horses back to the barn. I think he must be delivering the animals to the rich city people. He leaves at sundown that night, and in the nights following as well. I don’t tell Kiran this relieves me, because now he can keep sneaking over.
I do tell Kiran all sorts of things, though.
I tell him about my capture and Bian’s sculptures. About Straw Hair and my anger at Daphne for standing by. About my family. I tell Kiran things I would never admit to anyone else because Kiran is safe to me. A trap for my feelings and words.
I stop being afraid of him sometime after our first week of night talks. I gradually stop thinking about where my weapons are or how fast I need to run to escape. Sometimes we play ball, sometimes we just sit together. Sometimes while I talk he stretches out on the grass and looks up at where the stars should be if the sky weren’t so muddied by haze. Sometimes I lie beside him.
But not too close.
I begin to learn each expression of his face, even the slightest ones, and what his gestures say. A raised brow means he’s interested. A tightening around the corner of his mouth means something’s bothered him. His shoulders hunch more when he’s tired. His eyes never lose their gleam.
Sometimes I swear he knows what I’ve said. He’ll nod at just the right time, or open his mouth and then close it again. Or almost smile. But then other times he does these same behaviors for no reason at all. I think they just must be a part of how he listens.
Sometimes I think he’s frustrated that he can’t understand me, and to be honest, I am too. I want so much to hear the sound of his voice; not just the deep flat tone that I’ve created in my head, but his real voice, if he has one. One night I tried to teach him to speak. We must have looked like fools—me showing him how to stick his tongue out and say “ahhh,” him mirroring me in silence. We both ended up in fits of laughter.
His stayed silent, of course.
It’ll be hard not having him to talk to when I get out of here, but the twins and I won’t be able to risk any communication with the outside. Not even the people in the outliers. If we’re going to stay alive, we don’t need to give anyone any reason to come looking for us.
Sort of like the Drivers, now that I think about it.