He points to a bench by the wall in a corridor, and we both comply, sitting down side by side.
Our skin isn’t touching, but I can feel the heat from his body from where I sit. He’s like a radiator. I’m not sure whether to say anything to him. I don’t even know what to say. He’s not the most approachable person I’ve ever met. Do I ask him about his case? It’s impossible to shoot the breeze in this situation. I sit, frozen, trying to think of something to say, trying to look at him when he’s not looking in my direction. I finally sense he’s about to say something when six people suddenly turn the corner into our corridor. The women are crying and huddling into the men, who are also red-eyed. They walk by us as though they’re in a funeral procession and enter through a door beside us. When it opens, I look in and see a small room with two rows of chairs. It’s facing a floor-to-ceiling pane of glass, which looks into another room. In the center of the other room sits what looks like an oversized dentist’s chair, and there is a wall of metal units. I see the guard, Bark, open one unit, and there is hot fire inside. Confused, I stare in, trying to figure it out.
Then a man, flanked by two guards, is brought down the corridor. He doesn’t look at us. He looks scared, terrified, in fact. He appears to be in his thirties and is wearing what I’d consider a hospital gown, but it’s bloodred, the color of the Flawed. The guards lead him through a separate door from the one the men and crying women entered, which I’m guessing leads to the room with the dentist’s chair. The Branding Chamber.
Carrick and I both peer in. The door slams in our face. I jump, startled. Carrick sits back, folds his arms, and stares ahead intently with a mean look on his face. His look does not invite conversation, so I don’t say anything at all, but I can’t stop fidgeting, wondering what is going on inside that room. After a moment, our silence is broken with the terrifying, bloodcurdling scream of the man inside as his skin is seared by the hot iron bearing the Flawed brand.
I’m stunned at first, but then my body begins to shake. I look across at Carrick, who swallows nervously, his enormous Adam’s apple moving in his thick neck.
Funar strolls up the corridor with a smug look on his face. “Found them,” he sings, jingling the keys in his hand. “They were in my pocket the entire time.” He smiles and unlocks the door, revealing a narrow stairway that leads outside.
Carrick stands up and storms out the door. Once outside, he looks back at me to join him.
Everything around me starts to move. The walls come closer, the floor rises up to meet me. Black spots blot my vision. I feel like I’m going to be sick. Carrick looks at me in concern. I pass out.
We never did speak.
SEVENTEEN
A HALF HOUR later, with quivering legs, I stand at the enormous wooden double doors, with their elaborately carved embellishments, that lead out to the infamous cobblestoned courtyard. I know it from the daily news, seeing people walk back and forth from the court to the Clock Tower, giving the public and the media an opportunity to see the accused and vent their feelings. Mom and Dad are on one side of me, Mom linking my arm, and Mr. Berry is on the other side. We are flanked by Tina and Bark.
Mr. Berry adjusts his tie. “Is this straight?” he asks Tina.
Tina nods and then throws Bark a look that is easily deciphered.
I take a deep breath as the doors open, and I am greeted with sights and sounds that I could never have prepared myself for. The first thing I see is a cabbage that flies directly at me and hits me square in the chest. Boos and hisses fill my ears and my head. Mr. Berry starts walking, taking me along with him. For a moment I can feel Mom’s hesitancy, but then, as though she’s on a catwalk, she gets into her stride and I follow her lead, lifting my chin, trying to avoid the flour, eggs, and spit that are flying from the public.
Mr. Berry is giving me orders through his big smile: Smile, don’t smile, chin up, don’t look worried or guilty, don’t react, ignore that man, watch out for that flying dog shit. All this he says through a perfect smile. Dimples and all.
I link Mom even tighter, moving my body closer to hers, and take a quick look at her. She is holding Dad’s hand, her head up, her face completely serene, and her hair in an elaborate chignon. I try to copy her, nothing out of place, composure, innocence, serenity, perfection.
The cameras are in my face; the flashes are blinding. I hear some questions, but others I can’t.
“Are you Flawed, Celestine?”
“Who are you wearing?”
“Do you believe the Guild will give you a fair and balanced trial?”
“Are you hoping for the same outcome as Jimmy Child?”
“Who’s your favorite music artist right now?”
“Is it true you got a nose job?”