*
I’M KEPT WITHIN TWO feet of the Watcher for the next several hours. During that time, my hair is flatironed, greased, and pinned up into an elaborate twist on the back of my head. My scars are all covered with thick concealing powder, and they give me back my Unpromised earrings.
I am ushered into the prep room and seated on a leather stool before a trifold mirror with bright lights. A Pip applies enough makeup to make me look like a Skinmonger. Then I’m shoved into a ball gown the color of salmon meat. It’s so tight I can barely walk, and it leaves my shoulders bare and all exposed.
The theme of this auction is Elegance. I don’t feel elegant. I feel like a prostitute. Like I’m already on my way to work for sleazy Mercer.
They’ve given me long white gloves that rise above my elbows. None of the other girls going wear gloves, and it’s obvious why. The thick fingers keep my nails from scratching at my face, from damaging my clothes, from anything that might disqualify me from the meat market.
The Governess has done an all right job limiting my chances to screw this up.
Reality sinks in very slowly. I’m going to have to go up on the stage. It’s only my second time since I’ve arrived here, due to the good timing of my injuries, and I can’t help but be afraid.
I begin to feel sickly by the time we’re brought outside into the light. There, we line up, one after another, to fill the horse-drawn carriages manned by men in white suits. Drivers wipe down their horses and comb their long glossy manes. I search for Kiran, but he’s not here. The Driver who returns the horses from the city to the rental barn at the end of the day is, though. The silver ferret. He’s picking at his scalp, and his nervous eyes are darting all over. They stop on me just for a second before shooting to the ground. I wonder if he recognizes me from my time behind his barn.
I wonder if he’s seen Kiran and me together.
Wobbling on my high heels, I’m assisted by a Pip into a decorative wrought-iron carriage holding three other girls. I don’t recognize any of them; they’re all new and eager. Their chatter grates on my nerves.
The double benches are designed to fit six girls, but I have the extreme fortune of sitting beside the Watcher.
“Must be pretty embarrassing to be carted across town with a bunch of shrieking girls,” I say.
“You tell me,” he says, not even looking my way. I cross my arms and slouch in my seat.
The Garden’s electric fence buzzes loudly, and my pulse goes haywire when the double gates slide open. Our carriage lurches forward. We are the third in line. I look back to the Garden, to its black, chic siding and the tranquil landscaping before it, and I wish I had a stone to throw at one of those perfectly square windows which line its face. I keep staring back; I can’t see behind the facility to the solitary yard. I can’t see the barn, where Kiran is wiping the sweat from his eyes with his too-clean handkerchief.
Something hurts inside of me, somewhere between my ribs and my stomach. A dull throb that every third or so time turns to a twist. Nerves, I tell myself. I wish I had some maypop tea to calm down.
Because the ache grows stronger when I think of Kiran, I focus on Brax. I remember him as a tiny puppy, his body no longer than the length of my forearm. I remember teaching him not to bite, and playing tug-of-war with sticks in the yard. His ice-blue eyes and his soft silver fur. I try to remember the way his breath sounds through his neck as I rest my head there to sleep. He’ll wonder where I am if I don’t come back.
I can’t be Promised. I have to find a way to ruin this, to throw the bids. If I’m chosen today, I’ll be brought to a home in the city’s interior, where they’ll have high gates and Watchers that patrol the streets. Pips watching my every move. Where I’ll be forced to lie with a man I don’t even know and bear his children. The fear is so thick I can taste it like blood in my mouth.
“Look,” says one of the girls across from me. “The Black Lanes.”
She says it like it’s some magical place, not the slums just a short walk from the Garden, and touches a ridiculous gold foil crown on her head, like the people here might actually be impressed.
Our caravan of carriages has rolled past the large warehouses and business offices that make up Glasscaster’s business district, and we’ve turned left onto Main Street. The road here is bricked, but there are potholes that show the black asphalt below from the days of car travel. The carriage wobbles over the divots. This area of town is not well maintained by the city.
My gaze follows the girl’s pointing finger. The other girls have all hushed.
There are two offshoots in all. They’re just called “One” and “Two.” We pass Two first, and all of us peer down the darkened way to the bars and brothels and the motel rooms that boast their hourly rental rates.
Trash clutters the street and makes a nice snack for the dozens of hungry rats that scurry from pile to pile. The occasional body is strewn out beside a metal garbage can that still smolders from the previous night—you can recognize the ones with the plague by the blood under their eyes. The city docs have a cure, but the Virulent can’t afford it. That’s why you see so many of them infected.
“So disgusting,” says another girl, scooting closer to the one with the crown. She’s got coloring in her eyes—they’re supposed to be gold, but they look yellow, like she’s gone way too long without peeing.
Disgusting doesn’t even begin to cover it. Just thinking of what might befall me if I am bought makes me shudder. I look around for Mercer, but of course he’s not here. The neon signs are brighter than anywhere in the city, but today they are dim, and the streets are nearly deserted, because the Virulent who are at least partially sober are going to market.
The girls all sigh as we pass and move through the scattered brick-and-metal factories of the industrial district. Alternating puffs of black and white smoke bloom into an already hazy sky from the high copper towers. This is where they make basic supplies: uniforms, computer pieces, Watcher weapons, meal supplements.
“It stinks,” says the third girl.
She’s not wrong. The air smells even fouler than in the Black Lanes. Daphne told me once it’s the smell of flesh from the facilities where they take pregnant girls to get rid of their unwanted girl babies—a fate decided by the census commissioners and the importance of the girl’s owner.
“Hold your breath,” whispers the one with the crown. “If you open your mouth, you’ll have bad breath all day.” They all cover their mouths with their little nail-painted fingers.
I think I’d prefer Daphne’s company to these three.
I picture her sitting alone in the solitary yard and can’t help but feel a little guilty. But it serves her right. She was nasty about Straw Hair. She can sit and rot for all I care.
We continue on, passing the residential district of the Merchant class. These inhabitants live in apartments, and we pass a few cars parked on the side of the street. The metal monsters growl and squeal and leak their black oil all over the road. I can see why the Magnates refuse to use them anymore.
“We’re here,” says Crown Girl.
The other two begin to squeal.
“Sure you don’t want to keep holding your breath?” I ask.
The Watcher’s hand slides over mine and, quick as a blink, he jerks back my first finger. I howl in pain until he releases the pressure.
“Quiet,” he says. I slump back in my seat but keep glaring across the carriage at the other girls. They were the noisy ones, not me.
We’ve entered the heart of Glasscaster, where the Merchants work in their towering glass buildings. The buildings are so tall they disappear into the haze.
The streets snake off on either side of Main Street, labeled with green street signs. A large, emerald-glass building on the right makes me cringe. The Watchers’ Headquarters. Several patrolmen in their black uniforms with their leather chest straps sit astride horses outside the building. Three cars are parked out front as well, but it doesn’t look like they’ve been used in years.
There are more people around now. Mostly men, but many children as well. Some of them are smiling. Some of the kids are waving. They wear terrible costume makeup—fake bloody X’s on their faces to simulate the fresh marks of the Virulent. Bian once told me it was like how we would dress up on New Moon nights to try to scare each other, but I don’t know why anyone would pretend to be marked, knowing the Watchers are really out there waiting for an excuse to cut up your face.
We pass a woman heavy with child, being dragged forward by an irritable man in a blue suit. She looks up at us and then wipes her brow on her sleeve.
The doctor’s offices. The credit lenders. The computer technicians. And, what always interests me, the fine-food stores. People sell actual food here. Eggs, rice, bacon from the pork factory, candy, bread. People pay an enormous amount for real food because it’s so rare. Meal supplements are cheap. But a fish filet—one like I could spear in a mountain stream in thirty seconds flat—that goes for fifty, sometimes eighty credits. Most can’t afford it. If they could, the mountains would be packed with men stripping the land clean.
The girls squeal again. There, high above the street on a wide, electric billboard, flash images of a pretty actress with long, silver-white hair. Her slender waist is wrapped in the arms of a chiseled man in some strange white suit. She’s the actress the girls are always swooning over in the rec yard—Solace. I remember the movie the Governess made us watch, about the girl who poisoned herself when she couldn’t please her master anymore. The glamour and lights draw me in, just like the first time I’d seen a movie. But just like that first time, I’m disappointed when the screen switches to a picture of her producer-owner, with Solace standing just behind him in the shadows.
We are entering the town square, and I begin to sweat. The noise is so thunderous I almost clap my hands over my ears. But I don’t, I can’t, because I need to hear everything. I need to know if there’s even the slightest chance I can escape. People are shouting. Horses and other livestock are whinnying, baying, shrieking. Music is being pumped in from an overhead speaker system. Even if I lived my entire life in this city, I would never get used to all these sounds.
Or the smell. Too many people close together. Beer and wine. Animal dung. Vomit. It’s enough to make me sick.
Some shouting up ahead draws my attention, and I look to see a small group of men and women holding signs crowding the street. Activists. The only ones brave enough to oppose the buying and selling of girls. They wear red-painted masks to hide their faces from the Watchers, because if they’re caught, they’ll end up facing a fate much worse than mine.
“Sell goats, not girls!” they chant.
I lean towards the side of the carriage to get a better look, but the Watcher places a heavy hand on my shoulder. It reminds me of my last auction, when I tried calling out to them and they never even heard me. The Governess did though. She had the Pips really work me over with their beaters after we got back.
“What is that supposed to mean?” asks Yellow Eyes.
“The Red Right,” answers Crown Girl. “My old house keeper told me they’re against the auction because they can’t afford it.”
The other girls all “ooh” knowingly. I don’t bother arguing with them. They won’t understand that some people see the ugliness of their world and want to make it better. I understand. But when I get out I’m not sticking around to save this mess. It’s too far gone and I’ve got more important things to do.
A team of Watchers is heading their way, and within moments, the Red Right disperses. A little of my hope goes with them as they melt into the crowd.
In the distance, I see the last part of the city. The worst part. The glass high-rises of the Magnates. The offices of the businessmen who own the Merchants’ livelihoods. Mine too, if I’m not lucky today. These are the richest people in all of Isor. Their guarded homes—our prisons—wait in the shadows of those green-blue spires.
There are Watchers up ahead. Some on horseback, some on foot. They’ve cleared our path with neon-orange pylons. Behind them, some of the Virulent are heckling us with their hideous words.
“She’d earn me double with a scar on her cheek,” shouts one woman in a low-cut velvet dress. She’s got the plague—her eyes are already bloodshot. Soon they’ll weep blood.
“Let’s see those legs before you get to the stage!” yells a man.
“Show us what you got,” says another, grabbing himself rudely.
I look through the crowd, my teeth now chattering. Be brave, I tell myself. Skinmongers, hired thugs, thieves, and other criminals. The scarred faces of the Virulent surround me. They don’t need makeup to fake an X on their cheeks, they’ve got the real thing. And any of the men can place a bid if they’ve got enough credit.
The carriages roll to a stop behind a wooden platform, and suddenly the journey seems far too short. I don’t want to get out. I need to stay within the safety of these iron stems.
I am almost pushed out by the Watcher. One step down, then I’m on the ground. I teeter, my heel stuck between the bricks, before I right myself. It’s quieter back here, behind the stage. They’ll hide us from the public eye before we’re walked out, one by one, and put on display.
The girls congregate into buzzing little groups, and I can hear their giggles cut through the roar of the crowd. Someone’s just been hung, out there on that stage where I’ll be standing in a few minutes. Someone who robbed a Merchant or defiled one of the Magnates’ girls. One of the men from the jail who wasn’t lucky enough to be picked to become a Watcher. Maybe that boy who visited Straw Hair is twitching at the end of his rope beyond this wooden barrier. There’s nothing like a good hanging to get people in the mood for girls.
Behind us are two or three dozen country people from the outlying towns. With them are cages of chickens and goats, sheep, even cattle. That’s where we fit on market day. Between the executions and the livestock sales.
Gradually, Watchers begin filtering down the left side of the stage towards us. They’re dragging the still-warm bodies of the deceased. All the girls look away. Even me. It is too much to stand.
“Over here, ladies!” calls the Governess. The Watcher shoves me with the group towards her. “That’s it, that’s it. Now you all look beautiful, I must say. Just elegant!” She sounds so pleased with herself. “Now remember, this day may dictate the rest of your life. Your will to succeed will win you those bids!”
At least the Governess has stolen some of my fear. Now I’m annoyed, too.
“I will be at the auctioneers table where we’ll be recording your scores and tallying your bids. Potential buyers will set up your private sessions there. Good luck, ladies! Good luck!” She finishes with a crazed smile. It doesn’t look like she’s slept in a week.
We are being lined up. I count those before me. Twenty-three. I am the twenty-fourth girl to go. Just like my twenty-four days in solitary.
I hear the announcer make the call for auction.
The first girl takes the stage.
I run through my possibilities. I can’t bolt. The Watcher still has one hand on my shoulder. I can’t rip my dress or mess up my hair because of these stupid silky gloves. I can’t even tear them off because they’re glued to my hand with a skin adhesive. I think of the Red Right standing in front of our path on our ride in, but they’d fled when the Watchers approached. They won’t do me any good now.
I take a step forward. Number one is finished. She’s gotten only mild applause.
The crow of a rooster catches my attention. I look over all the farm animals again and feel sorry for them. Even the goats aren’t safe.
Number two gets several boos. I wonder what she’s done. My heart beats faster. I wish I could have seen her so that I can do the same.
Number three gets resounding applause. Several encouraging shouts from the audience.
And then someone runs right into me, knocking me away from the Watcher. It’s a tall man, holding a horse. A Driver. He must be trying to sell his animal during the livestock sales. But the horse has gotten out of control and is whinnying and spinning in a small circle around his owner.
The man crashes into me again, and I catch myself just before falling. His chest bumps against mine, and the large, calloused hand not holding his animal’s lead rope grasps just below my rib cage for support.
Then I see his clean red handkerchief. And the dark eyes, flecked with copper.
Kiran.