It also doesn’t surprise me that the Governess has immediately blamed me for the fight, even though I’m the one bleeding. She blames me for most of the trouble around here. She’s probably right to.
“I tink I called der thour-fathed Thweetpea.” I can barely get the words out because the blood is now jelly in my nostrils.
“Sweetpea is not sour-faced, she is … beautiful. In her own way. She will fetch a lofty price to any of our customers who are looking for a … a…” the Governess stammers, hands on her hips.
“A thour fathe?” I offer.
The Governess narrows her eyes at me. “We can fix Sweetpea’s hair with a wig, but there’s nothing we can do for your fat nose before market. You’ve done this on purpose, haven’t you?” She’s wagging her finger at me. “You’re just trying to avoid the auction tomorrow, and the theme is Body Paint, and it was going to be my best show ever!” She is on the brink of tears.
Body Paint? The Governess has reached a new all-time low.
I try to look hurt. “I can still do id!” I whine.
“No, you can’t!” she snaps. “Don’t play your games with me, Clover! This is just like that time when you mutilated your ear so I couldn’t put you on the stage!”
I touch the thin scar left from where I ripped my dangling beaded earring straight out of my flesh two auctions ago. I’d told her it got caught on my collar. It was painful, but I was able to avoid the meat market.
I feel my face flush against my will. It’s okay, I tell myself, let her see that I’m upset. I know it’s time to push a little harder.
“I didn’d do dat on burbose!” I object. “And dis eeder! Sweedpea starded id!”
“I did not!” counters Sweetpea.
“She did! She dold me thad I was neber going to ged chosen, and thad I’d be Unpromised foreber!” I open my eyes wide, trying to make them water.
I know that the Governess’s desire to punish me will prevent her from giving me what I want. So I pretend that what I want, more than anything, is to still go to market. Which we both know is impossible now that I look like I’ve just been kicked in the face by a horse.
“She’s the one that said that!” Sweetpea has begun to cry.
“Please!” I beg. “I hade it here! You know thad, Governess! Getting chosen is my only way oud!”
“Oh, shut up, you!” The Governess paces back and forth, twisting her high heel into the rug before she changes direction. “I’m never going to transfer your papers unless you go to auction!” She sighs, exasperated, because she’s tired of me and wants me gone just as much as I want me gone. I hide the cringe at her self-righteousness. As though she’s really the one who signs my paperwork. She’s illiterate, just like the rest of us. Her Pip assistant has to sign for her.
“Then led me go!” I beg.
“No. That’s it. Tomorrow is a big day for me, and I can’t have you ruin it like you try to ruin everything else. Sweetpea will go to auction. I almost had her sold last market day anyhow. And I don’t want to see your skinny, bruised face for a month! Do you hear that, Keepers? Put her in solitary! I’m calling a Watcher to come supervise. Someone smarter than the last one,” she rambles on.
My heart swells in my chest. In solitary, I’ll get to see Brax, and it’s been weeks since the last time we were together. I wonder if he’s changed at all. If he’ll still let me sleep on his shoulder. It’s not as good as getting out of the city, but at least I won’t be sold.
I fix my face to hide my relief.
“No!” I bellow. “Please led me go! Nod solidary!”
“You’ve left me no choice. You’re going just as soon as I get a Watcher. Which will have to wait a few minutes. We’ve got a new shipment today and I’ve got to make a presentation.”
I roll my eyes. Another stupid presentation. I wonder what it’ll be this time, ten ways to please a Magnate? The thought brings a flush to my cheeks.
“Should Clover wait here?” asks one of the Pips in a clear, pristine voice. His color is returning now that my nose is cleaned up.
“No, bring her. Clover needs a reminder of what deceit can cost her.” The Governess smiles, and her painted face looks as deadly as a rattler.
Whatever joy I have felt at my success crashes. Someone’s about to be punished. And her punishment is far, far worse than a month in solitary.