Everything Under The Sun

I paced the room slowly, taking everything in. It was filthy: dust had settled on every stick of furniture, every book on the two shelves lining the walls, every map and useless trinket that lay atop the desk by the window; candle wax hung over the sides of the desk like frozen icicles from a roof. Clothes were strewn about: socks that may have once been white hung in random places; shirts and pants and underwear had been tossed with abandon. It reminded me of my father’s bedroom; I’d cleaned it nearly every day for him because my mother was no longer there to do it. But I’d be damned if I lifted one finger to clean this man’s room.

I went to the window and peered out at the city. A crowd was gathered in a familiar place in front of a large stone building with a dome-shaped roof. It was the building I’d stood in front of when I last saw Sosie, when Atticus ripped us from one another.

He stood there now, in the same place as before, at the top of the concrete stairs. Soldiers packed the crowd; there were women—and men this time—bound by ropes. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t help but watch. No one screamed or begged to be set free; these prisoners were either happy to be here, or already too broken to care.

I watched Atticus the most, the way he ordered this and that person into this or that “profession”. I watched how his expression never seemed to shift, how he remained indifferent, and confident, and maybe, deep down behind those stark blue eyes, a little conflicted, too. But then I snapped back into reality, realizing that I was eight floors up and could barely hear his voice much less see the true definition of his face, and that some of what I had been seeing was just my memory of the day I stood before him.

I would never forget it; it would forever be etched in my memory.

I left the window and went to the desk, ran my fingers over the map that lay atop it, unfolded and marked upon by red and blue ink. It was a map of the United States of America, with rectangular creases equally distributed throughout the paper as if it had been folded compactly and sat on a rack in a gas station at one time. With the tip of my finger I traced a line of red ink from Kentucky to Ohio and then over to Virginia and downward to the panhandle of Florida. There were many hand-drawn lines along the map, but nothing that made any sense. Several circles had been marked with red ink in a strange pattern, most confined to the eastern and northeastern states. I couldn’t even guess what they meant.

A knock at the door startled me, and I jerked my hand away from the map as if I’d been doing something I wasn’t supposed to. The sound of knuckles rapped three more times on the wood, but I couldn’t move except to look out the window again and see that the Overseer was still there, so I knew it wasn’t him on the other side of the door.

Thank God I locked the door.

“Miss Thais,” I heard a familiar voice say. “I’ve brought your breakfast.”

It was one of Rafe’s wives, the pregnant brunette; her accent was southern, but mixed with something else—Cajun, perhaps.

I went across the room and placed my hand on the doorknob, unsure if I should open it.

“Thais, please open de door.”

After a moment, I slid the lock away and let the woman inside.

“Breakfast is a little late dis mornin’.” She set a tray of food down on a small table. “We had a’mishap in de kitchen—one stupid girl damn near burned de place down.”

She stood with her hands beneath her rounded belly, her slender fingers linked; long, dark hair tumbled like a wave of silk over one shoulder and down her back, stopping at her waistline. She had dark, fierce eyes set in a round, ivory face with just a dash of pink in her cheeks that could’ve been makeup or a natural blush.

I looked at the food on the plate; a puff of steam rose from the scrambled eggs.

“Thank you.”

I thought it would be better to wait until the woman left before digging in; it seemed she was here for more than delivering the meal.

The woman walked into the room, taking small, unhurried steps as her eyes scanned Atticus’ belongings. I watched her curiously, wondering why she was here, why she felt it necessary to take her time. I was used to Naomi’s company—this woman, for reasons I couldn’t place, made me uncomfortable.

“Can I ask ya a question?” the woman said, not looking at me.

“Of course.”

She pretended to be studying the ottoman at the foot of a giant chair, her hands still locked underneath her pregnant belly; she looked about seven months along.

“What do ya think ya can offer my husband as his wife?”

A nervous lump wedged in the center of my throat, and I couldn’t swallow it down.

“I mean no disrespect,” I spoke carefully, “not to you, not even to your husband, but I can’t offer anything; and I don’t want to be his wife or anyone else’s, and I don’t—”

“Den ya need to listen to me,” the woman cut in, and my lips snapped shut.

She stepped closer. “Dey’re not going to put ya anywhere else udder’dan wit a husband—whether it’s wit mine or some udder man in this city—or make ya a whore.” She cocked her head to one side, studying me with a scrutinizing gaze. “Dey’d never put ya wit de soldiers—don’t look like ya could beat a dog off ya leg.” She paused. “What are ya good at?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is ‘dere a trade you’re ‘specially good at dat might be useful? Maybe ya could be a worker—but to be honest, ya probably wouldn’t want to go through what’d have to happen for dem to put ya in someplace like dat.”

“What would have to happen?” That nervous lump in my throat swelled.

The woman paused as if contemplating the best way to say it. “Well dat pretty face would have to go, for starters.”

The lump suddenly grew so big, so fast, that it was choking me.

I dropped my hands to my sides and took a small step backward, my eyes wide, my stomach as hard and heavy as an iron weight.

“Look,” the woman said with a sigh, “de least painful way out of dis is to start spreading ya legs, sweetheart. My husband, and Overlord Wolf, not even de most repulsive man in Wolf’s army wants a whore as a wife.” She glanced at the open door and then looked back at me, lowered her voice and said, “Ya could start wit Atticus Hunt. Here ya are”—she waved a hand about the room—“wit de perfect opportunity, sleeping in his room and spending ya days ‘ere. Even if ya don’t do it, people’ll talk, so ya might as well make de rumors true and buy a ticket out of a marriage while ya can.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of her advice, unsure even if it was advice, or something else.

“That’s not me,” I finally said, crossing my arms and shaking my head. “I can’t just do that. I can’t flip a switch like Petra did and become someone I’m not.”

“What else do ya plan to do den?”

“I don’t know.”

The woman tilted her head, looking at me with a strange sort of concern I felt was misplaced—it didn’t feel like concern, just looked like it.

“I’ll help ya,” she said. “If ya really want out of dis city, I’ll help ya if ya swear to tell no one.”

My eyes shot up to meet hers. Could it be true? Hope filled me again. All the time I had been trying to find a way out with my sister, I thought I would be forced to do it alone because no man here would ever help us. But I never thought to ask the women for help. They were probably just like me when they first came here: forced into a life not of their choosing; they would have more reason to help me than anyone else would.

I stepped forward, eager and hopeful.

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