As we approach the gate, I pinch my eyes shut.
“Sir,” says one of the Watchers. “I thought you were staying in today.”
Kiran says nothing. My fists, filled with his shirt, are trembling. He stares at the Watcher, stares like he’s a Magnate. Like nothing in the world scares him. But I know better.
After a moment the gate makes a quick clicking sound, then slides open.
We ride straight into the heart of the business district, leaving those Watchers behind to pay the price of my escape.
*
THE MAYOR’S HOUSE SITS at the end of a street, between two buildings made of green glass and brick. People live in these monstrous homes. I wonder if they have their own staff too, and a roomful of girls to choose from.
I keep looking back. Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s my imagination, but I can still hear Amir’s voice calling, “Where are you?”
“Faster,” I say. I see the twins kneeling beside the brook, running across the meadow, leaping into my arms. I can feel them.
Kiran makes no move to hurry.
We ride out of the residential area onto the main street, where men on horseback or in carriages pass by. The tall glass buildings on either side stretch straight into the clouds, smooth and cold and breathtaking.
Kiran veers down a small road between the buildings. We’re the only ones around now. Finally, I exhale. I’m shaking a little, and all of a sudden feel a giggle swell inside of me.
“If I’d have known it was that easy to get out, I would have made sure I was sold months ago,” I say, feeling giddy enough to jump off the horse and dance right here in the street.
“Easy?” he says so quietly I have to cock my head to hear. “You’re funny.”
“Yoa,” I mimic.
“Keep it up and I’ll take you back.”
I freeze. He’s joking. At least I think he is.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
We come to a small alley where a plain, single-rider carriage waits. It’s made of cherrywood and flaking on the side. Obviously a rental. Kiran offers his arm, and I swing down. He doesn’t need to speak the words to tell me he’s planned this, too. I shimmy between the side of the building and the carriage and slide inside. Through the punched-out window I watch as Kiran shucks the scarf hiding his face and tosses it under the wheels. He takes off the coat, revealing the dirty button-down shirt beneath, and stuffs it in beside me. Then he kneels, dips his hands in a puddle, and smears his cheeks with filth water—yellow and shiny with greasy spots. It stinks like waste.
I hear footsteps nearby, and Kiran freezes. I bite my tongue, holding back the urge to tell him to hide. It’s too late.
Two men in suits approach. Kiran keeps his head lowered and wipes his hands on his pants. They don’t look at him; they look everywhere but at him, and they keep to the far end of the alley as they pass.
He stands suddenly, not fully upright, and one of them gives a scared little shout. Kiran tilts his head towards the mare, as if to offer his Driver services, but they hurry on without a backward glance.
I should be happy they’re gone, but instead I’m angry. They didn’t even look at him.
He stays low and slips beside the carriage, hooking it up to the mare.
“Kiran,” I say. He twitches, but continues to work, fastening leather straps, setting the long wooden carriage arms into the saddle’s hooks.
“Kiran,” I say again. “Thank you.”
He stops, just for a moment, and gives a small nod.
Then he mounts the horse, and we pull out of the alley. I sit back in the seat, as far back as I will fit, keeping clear of the window. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of Kiran, his head lowered, his back hunched. He looks like an old man.
I’m ready for the fresh air, the mountains, my family—so I’m surprised when we pull under a shaded overpass and back into a small space that smells like hay and manure.
I poke my head out of the window. We’re in another barn, this one rickety and packed with gear: walls of blankets, gleaming saddles on racks, barrels of water. Down the aisle, the dirt floor has been raked clean and the metal stall doors shine in the afternoon light coming through the entrance, but where I am is more like a scrap heap.
Kiran unhooks the mare and without removing her tack, ties her lead to the outside of a stall. He returns, bright eyes shining through his mask of muck, and nods upward.
I slip through the door, quiet as I can, and climb the ladder against the wall to the loft over the stalls. The ceiling is low here; I have to crouch to move away from the ledge. Near a small open window is a bedroll. Plain, canvas, with a red horse blanket folded at the bottom. At the head is a jug of water and a tin box.
Kiran crawls up behind me and opens the box. Inside is jerky—real jerky—and flatbread crackers. My mouth waters and my stomach grumbles.
It’s quiet but for the movement of the horses—no one else is here—but that doesn’t stop Kiran from moving so close, our knees touch on the blanket. He leans in, and I’m watching his lips as he says, “Stay here. We’ll leave after dark.”
“Dock,” I repeat with a nod.
He smirks and shakes his head, but before he turns away I grab his arm.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
His jaw is working under the skin as if he’s chewing the words to a pulp before he says them.
“It keeps them safe,” he says finally. “Our girls.” Only when he says girls, it sounds more like gells.
Then he disappears down the ladder.
I’ve never seen a Driver woman, but I know they must be out there. As far as I know, no one in the city wants them because they assume the women are just as strange as the men who come to rent the horses. I guess they’ve done a good job making themselves unauctionable. I wish I’d thought of that a long time ago. I’d have rolled my whole family through the mud every morning at dawn.
I’m anxious to go now, but Kiran knows the city better than I do. If he says we need to wait, I’ll do it. He’s been right so far. Tam and Nina will be safe.
Please let them be safe.
I rip off a piece of jerky and stick it in my mouth. It’s boar. I can tell from the rough texture and the smoky taste. Soon I’ll be having a lot more of this, I tell myself. I crawl closer to the window, careful not to let myself be seen, and look out.
Below, just beyond the stables, is the poisoned stream, and just past that, the solitary yard.
I almost choke.
I should have figured Kiran had brought us back here, but I was too busy preparing for the outside. It makes the meat a little less tasty, looking at the facility that kept me prisoner all this time.
I glance down at Kiran’s bedroll, and then across the space. He could see me the whole time. He might have laid right here and watched me sleep. The thought makes my throat dry, and I reach for the water jug below the window.
The night is hazier than usual on account of the thick smoke in the air from last night’s celebrations in the Black Lanes. Someone moves against the back wall of the office—my place during my time there. My heart leaps—I hope for a moment it’s Brax, but Brax doesn’t have orange hair.
Daphne.
She’s sitting in my spot, and as I shift to get a better view I can see that she’s digging. She’s pulling up my bottle of supplies. I know I don’t need them anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want her to have them.
Her hair is swishing; she keeps looking up and checking the corner, waiting for the Watcher. It’s like viewing myself in a way—how many times did I do the same thing? A piece of silver glints in the failing light, and I know she’s found Kiran’s broken knife handle. She has no idea what to do with it, and even if she did, she’s not crazy enough to attack a Watcher. She’s helpless, and as I stare down at her something begins to boil inside of me. Soon my hands are gripping the window ledge so hard they’re turning white. I feel the panic she must feel now. I feel it as if I’m the one trapped down there behind that invisible wall. I feel her helplessness and it disgusts me.
The Garden trapped me like an animal. The Governess sold me like livestock at an auction. And the mayor and his family would have made me their whore.
I am shaking with rage.
Daphne’s all hunched over herself, and I squint to see what she’s doing. It doesn’t take long to figure it out: She’s trying to break the chain off her solitary restraint.
It doesn’t make sense. Daphne wants to get back in the Garden, she wants to be sold. Surely she knows a stunt like that is going to earn her more time out here. But that doesn’t stop her; her moves become more frantic, and soon I see the reason for her rush.
The Watcher rounds the corner of the building.