There’s no way around it, she’s coming with us.
“If they ask, we’ll tell them you’re plagued,” I say. I nod to Kiran. “Quick. Mark her. Just like you did me.”
He moves towards her, but she shies away.
“Clover, you do it,” she whispers.
“Shh,” he hushes gently. As though she’s a spooked horse and not a leech. Slowly, he moves towards her, hands raised. When he’s close enough, he reaches to hold her chin in his hand, and my blood turns fire hot.
“I can do it,” I tell him, reaching for the marker.
He doesn’t give it to me. Daphne’s fallen under a spell—she’s perfectly still. Not even her tears fall. But she doesn’t look at him. She stares at me until he’s finished the job and backed away. Then her hand rises to feel her cheek, just below the makeup, where Kiran touched. She’s probably trying to see if his skin burned her or something.
“All done.” Kiran adjusts the bandage around his waist; the blood has already begun to soak through. I gently press my fingers into the wet fabric and smear a little red below Daphne’s eyes.
“Disgusting,” she whispers.
“Because it’s blood or because it’s mine?” Kiran asks without looking up. I feel myself smirk. Daphne’s cheeks blossom pink.
“Let’s go.” No one has followed yet. No more Watchers. No Pips either. Through the nearest stall I can make out the Watcher, still lying motionless, halfway in the stream, and a shudder rakes through me.
Kiran glances down the breezeway, chewing the corner of his lower lip.
“What is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Aran will come tomorrow morning to get his horses for the village. He’ll see I’m gone then and tend to the others.” I get the distinct impression from the guilt in his voice that he’s reassuring himself, not me.
“Will you be in much trouble?” I whisper, picturing Ferret Face with his greasy hair.
Kiran places the silver bit of a dark-leather bridle into the mare’s chomping mouth and clicks softly to urge her forward. She begins sniffing my hands and my hair, shoving her giant nose into my chest, and I coo despite myself.
“Yes,” says Kiran.
“We could go for it on our own,” I offer.
“You can’t ride,” he says. “You’ll fall off.”
I remember the story I told him about trying to ride Silent Lorcan’s horse while he was out with my ma. I ended up on my back with a broken arm. It’s strange hearing him mention it as though we hadn’t been having a one-sided conversation at the time.
“I can ride,” says Daphne. “My father rented horses sometimes.”
“That’s all nice,” says Kiran. “But Dell’s my girl, and she’s not going anywhere without me.” He places a flat hand beneath the mare’s forelock, and she dips her large head and nibbles on his shirt.
“Up you two go.” Kiran backs to the side of the horse.
Daphne pushes herself in front of me. She grabs the saddle horn in one hand and bends her knee. Kiran pauses, then with a small snort bends, and lifts her up over the mare’s back with a wince.
“I’m not that heavy,” she says, injured. “My body scores always come in above an eight on Auction Day.”
“He’s hurt, you idiot,” I snap.
I grab the back of the saddle and try to hike my foot high enough to reach into the stirrup, but the dress starts to rip at the seams, and I fall backwards into Kiran. He catches me with another grunt, and I feel a pang of regret for having accidently elbowed him right in the ribs.
I’m just about to reach for a bucket when he grabs me around the waist and hikes me up onto the back of the animal. If it weren’t for the sharp twinge in his eye, I would never know he’s in pain. He’s used to keeping his lips sealed.
The dress slides up my thighs, stretching across my skin. I tug the lace down as far as it will go, which isn’t far.
I hold onto the back of the saddle, remembering how much more secure I felt with my arms wrapped around Kiran’s waist.
He pulls the side rein and leads us out of the barn.
*
THE NIGHT IS THICK with smog and cold enough that the breath clouds in front of my face and my bare legs and arms get bumpy. I wish I had a coat or, even better, pants to cover my skin. I hate being so exposed, especially now, when I already feel like everyone’s eyes are on me.
I’m sitting behind the saddle, directly on a thick wool pad separating me from the horse’s rump. I grasp the back lip of the leather until my fingers hurt, but I’m so unaccustomed to the strange cadence of Dell’s gait that I nearly slide off at every step. I make a conscious effort not to squeeze my legs too tightly; Kiran says that can make her go faster, and if we get away from him, it’s just me and Daphne.
I’ve never seen the front of the barn before; it’s out of view from the solitary yard. The face is made of plain, weather-stained white boards, and it has two triangular rooftops. There’s a swinging sign outside, held onto its outstretched arm by rusty chains. It shows a picture of a horse. Nothing showy. No words.
The stone path is narrow enough for only one car or carriage and reaches out into the main bricked street, where an alley cutting between two business offices connects us to the city gates. We’re not far from the high stone wall surrounding the capitol. I can see it looming in the foreground, gray and ominous. The last barrier to my freedom.
“The wall was meant to exile women from Glasscaster,” says Daphne quietly. “Now it separates the men from the beasts.”
“One of those beasts is going to be you, you know,” I say.
She fidgets, her posture perfect. “They built it during the Red Years. After they rounded up all the women and sent them away. They fought back, did you know that? That’s when the Magistrate started making Watchers. No one could stand against the Watchers.”
I didn’t know that. “You sure got a lot to say.”
“I’m nervous,” she says.
“Well keep it down.”
She leans back. “How come that Driver can talk?”
I look down at Kiran. He’s walking stiffly, leading Dell as if she’s always so calm and trusting, not wild like he made her act behind the auction block.
“He’s a man, Daphne. That’s how come.”
“How do you know you can trust him?”
“Because I know.”
Something rustles behind us. The sound sticks out from the thump of the Black Lanes in the distance, Dell’s shod feet on the bricks, and Daphne’s chatter.
Kiran’s heard it too, and he slips his hand into his Driver coat around his back. I catch the glimpse of something metallic. Something he’s added since we left the Garden.
His eyes meet mine for a moment, then he glances over to the saddle.
“What’s wrong?” says Daphne, her voice hitching.
I hush her and slide my hand beneath the back lip of the saddle, where Kiran directed me. It’s a tight press, but there, right between the wool blanket and the leather seat, is a firm, narrow strip of rawhide. I pry it loose, careful not to throw my weight too much and slide to the ground.
My hand emerges with a narrow sheath, and within it, a thin, iron dagger, no longer than my hand. I hide it beneath the bunching yellow lace around my waist.
The noise continues. Rustle, then pause. Rustle, pause.
Acting like I’m straightening my skirt, I glance back, and sure enough there’s something lurking in the shadows—crouched low, following us. My pulse races, and I strain my eyes. The figure steps into the light. And he doesn’t stand, because he can’t.
“Brax!” I cry, louder than I mean to. I push off the back of Dell, and hear another seam pop in the side of my dress.
Brax races towards me, whining high like I’ve never heard him do before. He must know I’m leaving for good this time.
I bury my face in his soft neck, and he paws closer into me, punishing me for leaving, begging me not to go.
“Thank you,” I tell him, an ache in my chest. “I won’t ever forget what you did.”
“Kill it!” I hear Daphne order Kiran. “It’s biting her!”
I stand up sharply. “Shut up!”
Kiran motions me towards the wall, but there’s pity in his eyes. We have to go.
I give my friend one more hug. One last hug.
“Brax, you have to go home,” I say.
Brax doesn’t move.