“How would you know?” I ask. But it’s not the pain I’m worried about.
“Come on,” he says again, and he gives a little nod to the two in back. They both lay in at once, smacking my shoulders, the backs of my thighs. In this thin dress it feels like their blows slice the skin, and they leave traces of heat with every strike.
I move over the threshold and through the doors despite myself. A cool burst of air comes from above, though that’s not why I cross my arms over my chest. In the center of the room is a thin metal table and from it extend four angular silver arms. One holds a tray of instruments, one stretches above with a light, and the two at the bottom are capped by half circles that look like horseshoes.
The doctor rises from his desk against the wall and approaches. He’s a frail man with tired eyes and a thin black mustache. His long white jacket reaches almost all the way to the gleaming white floor.
“Did you bring the forms?” he asks a Pip, who replies with a nod.
“Disrobe,” the doctor tells me. “You can place your clothes on the back of that chair.”
I swallow, my heart beating in my ears.
“Take off your clothes,” he says slowly. He turns to a Pip. “I forgot she was the one they brought in from the wild.”
“I know what disrobe means,” I say, already feeling naked. “But I’m not doing it.”
Five Pips are watching me. Five Pips and a doctor, all of them barking mad if they think I’m about to strip down to my bare skin. Taking my dress off in front of Kiran now seems a thousand times easier.
I wrap my arms tighter around my waist and glance back at the sliding doors.
The doctor sighs. “A thorough exam is expected as part of every pending sale.”
“Well that’s too bad,” I say, heart pounding in my chest. I take a step back, then another. One of the Pips moves to a corner and presses a button on the wall. He’s talking to someone, but I can’t hear what he says.
The lead Pip glares at me. “Off with the dress, girl. Don’t make us ask again.”
“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about,” says the doctor, although I’m sure he doesn’t mean it. “Any disfigurements will be corrected before the sale is complete.”
My scars feel huge and foreign when he says this, like they’re great, ugly eyesores.
The sliding door opens and I spin to find the Watcher from the solitary yard standing in the outline of white. I back into the table. The metal tray clatters to the ground and the neatly laid-out pieces go rolling across the floor.
“Pip, pip, pip!” says the leader. “Now look what you’ve done!”
The Watcher closes in, one hand on his wire, and I dodge behind the table.
“Stay away from me,” I say. “All of you. I don’t need any medical exam, all right? I’m pure and my scars have already been lightened. Just ask the Governess.”
I keep my eyes on the Watcher—on his hand, still resting on his wire. On the key, strapped in the belt across his chest. If only I’d had that a few hours ago.
A Pip grabs me from behind, and I shake him off. But two more take his place and hold my arms. The doctor is approaching with a syringe, and out of the top of the needle a droplet of clear moisture beads and slides free. I stare at it in dread.
“Hold her still,” he says.
I struggle, furious tears burning my eyes. In one heave, I pull free of the Pips, tearing the sleeves of my dress, and charge the door. I try to get past the Watcher, but it’s no use. Inhumanly fast, he appears in front of me, and I run straight into his chest. He pins my arms at my sides as if I’m weak as a rabbit, and holds me still while the doctor sticks the needle in my neck.
It burns; flames lick my veins as the poison spreads through my blood. And then I go limp.
I can’t move. My arms and legs don’t work. I can’t even scream.
But I feel.
I feel the soft hands of the Pips peeling off my dress.
The rough material of the Watcher’s jacket beneath my knees and back as he puts me on the cold table.
The hard metal horseshoes jutting into my ankles as my legs are spread and placed in each arm.
I can’t cover myself from their judging eyes. Can’t cover my ears to drown out the Pips’ snide little jokes. Ripe for the picking, they say. Ripe as a cherry.
The doctor slides his stool between my knees, and puts his cold hands on my thighs and the places no one has ever touched. The bright light on the band around his head lowers. I watch him study and prod this body as if it’s not my own. It can’t possibly be my own. It lies there lifeless, stays where it’s placed, doesn’t fight.
It disgusts me.
“Fertile,” he says with a smile. “Very nice.”
I want to close my eyes, but can’t even do that. The only thing left to do is think of Kiran, and pretend it’s just him and me, like I’d planned it last night. But the tools aren’t gentle like Kiran’s hand on my calf, and I’m thankful more than ever that he can’t see me now.
Finally, the doctor wheels back in his chair, and removes the headpiece with the bright, round light.
“Untouched,” he says. He pats my knee. “Well done.”
CHAPTER 12
I AM CLEANED, RIGHT there on the table. Shaved and scrubbed down with perfumed water, oiled until I’m slippery like a fish, and then sat up and stuffed into a dress I’ve never worn before. A white gown, like the kind my people wear in mourning.
My head rolls to the side while the Pips prop me up in a chair on wheels and cart me from this room of nightmares. They take me to the front of the building, the courtyard entrance where the carriages line up to take us to auction. Girls stare at me as I’m wheeled past, pouty looks on their faces. Jealousy in their eyes. Lotus is there, the only one of Sweetpea’s friends left, and she wipes away her angry tears with her sleeve. I feel a scream, loud enough to make the whole world deaf, building in my chest.
My arm falls off the chair. I watch, unable to lift it, as it swings, slapping against the wheel for nine rotations before one of the Pips notices it and tosses it back on my lap.
Outside the sky is bruised and beaten, gray and purple and low with smog. The Governess and her Pip assistant stand beside a sleek black carriage drawn by two horses. The Driver at the helm is none other than the silver ferret from the barn. Even now, I’m grateful it’s not Kiran.
“Don’t you look lovely,” the Governess says with a smile. Long yellow ringlets trail down to her hips, where a dark blue bustle makes her backside look three times its normal size. She leans forward, and in a strange gesture, touches my cheek.
“I was a little like you once,” she says softly. “Always looking for a way to break the chain.” She withdraws her hand when the carriage door opens. “We always belong to someone.”
By the time Mr. Greer steps out, her fake smile has returned. He’s wearing the same sharp suit with the same scarf wrapped around his face, hiding all but his eyes and the bridge of his nose.
I blink. It’s the first movement I’ve been able to do in some time, and it spurs a new burst of determination in me. I try to lift a finger or wiggle my toes, but still nothing.
“Is she all right?” he asks after a moment. My neck is cramping from being at this angle, but I still don’t have the strength to fight it.
“She was so nervous,” says the Governess with a little frown. “We had to sedate her. You can understand. Going to an estate such as yours…”
“Is everything finished?” Mr. Greer interrupts. “I’ve signed the paperwork. The forms look to be in order.”
They are talking about my life. My life.
“There’s just the matter of payment, sir,” says the Governess. It’s as sweet as she’s ever sounded.
“Ah,” says Greer. He removes a small messagebox from his breast pocket and presses a few buttons. “The credits have been transferred.”
“Check it,” I hear the Governess whisper to her Pip assistant. She smiles broadly at
Mr. Greer, rubbing her hands together. The Pip looks down his electric, handheld board and gives her a small nod.
Mr. Greer is staring at me, an unimpressed look in his strange black eyes.
“Put her inside,” he says.
I blink. I blink, blink, blink. I will my arms to move, my teeth to bite, anything. But all I can do is blink. I am propped up inside on a cushioned sheet, and just as soon as Mr. Greer gets inside, the carriage shifts, and with the click of hooves, rolls forward.
I am sold.
I am sold.
I hope Tam and Nina are far away. I hope Salma defends their freedom with her life. I hope, if I don’t make it out, they think I died the day I was captured. It is better than them knowing I met this fate instead.
And Brax. There is a hard clench in my chest as I think of him. I should have said good-bye. I should have left him food. I should have tried to free him, too.
We hit a bump at the front gates and, jostled, my limp body falls to the floor of the compartment. My skirt flips up, and I can’t even pull it back down to cover my bare legs. I stare at Mr. Greer’s shiny black boots. He reaches down and for a moment I think he’s going to help me up. Instead, his fingertips skim up my bare thigh, stopping just before he would have to readjust his position to go farther. Then he sits back, and returns his focus to his messagebox.
I am sold.
* * *
I WAKE TO THE slam of a door. Draped overhead are sheer linens, hanging from the four posts that support the cushy bed I’ve been laid out on. I don’t remember being brought here, or where I am, and a sudden dose of panic shakes through me because if I don’t remember how I got in, I don’t know how to get out.
I concentrate, but only fragments of memories return: a house Pip dressed in gray lifting me from the car, holding his head back as he carries me as if I am a dead body.
He arranges me on a bed and turns out the lights. And with nothing else to do but blink, I close my eyes.
Someone else is in my room. I can hear the shuffling of feet on the hard floor and I turn my head towards the sound. My muscles are freed from their hold, but they hurt. The pain shoots straight down my spine through my legs as I roll onto my side, and I bite back against it. The bed is so plush it all but swallows me whole; I have to roll to get to the edge.
There is a face staring straight at mine when I get there.
“You sleep forever,” Amir Ryker says.
I cringe. He may be a child, but I can’t help hating him for what he’s done to me, and hating myself ten times more for giving him the candy in the first place and failing each escape attempt, and for even not being pretty enough to seduce Kiran.
“I’m up now,” I say, stretching my tight limbs for the first time in more than a day. The room is bigger than any bedroom I’ve seen. The floors are pressed wood, and the walls are covered with paintings that change views every time I look away. They unnerve me a little, like the room itself is alive.
“Let’s play,” he says.
“I’m tired.”
“You slept all day, you’re not tired.”
I see now that the eyes must run in the family—they’re beady and black, and they narrow into little slits when he’s angry. He reaches for my hand and pulls. I groan, the tight muscles in my arms stretching.
“Where’s your uncle?” I ask. I don’t remember where Mr. Greer went last night.
“Drunk,” he says in a way that makes me think this isn’t unusual.
“Fine, okay,” I say, standing up. I blink back the dizziness and roll my head in one slow circle on my neck.
Maybe being placed with a child isn’t such a bad thing after all. He may be spoiled, but I’ve got years of experience convincing the twins we all have the same goal. Today’s goal: Turn a blind eye on the new girl—me.
“Why don’t we play outside?” I suggest. Mr. Greer’s distraction is the perfect opportunity to escape.
“Ew,” he says. “We’ll play hunting.”
He drags me by the forearm down an empty hallway with more of the creepy pictures, to a simple room with white glass walls. There’s a chest in the corner and he releases me at last to open it. In it is a shiny black bow. My pulse quickens as he removes it.
“Load hunting game,” he says.
“You got arrows?” I ask.
He ignores me.
I jump as all four walls around me burst into color. Green and blue—bright, true color. My breath catches. It looks real. It looks like my mountains.
“What is this?” I whisper.
“Shut up,” he says.
I breathe in and out, knowing it’s a trick, but unable to stop the pang in my chest. The branches rustle in the breeze. I can even hear a nearby stream. Although the room smells sterile, I can almost convince myself I’m home.
Out from behind a tree steps a deer. The dry pine needles crackle beneath his tentative hooves. I hold my breath, watching. Just watching. The way the sun catches every piece of hair, and the fuzz on his new antlers. He is beautiful.
Beside me, the boy lifts his bow, and pretends to draw an arrow. When he releases it, there is a loud “ping!” that seems to come from all around, and the deer falls to the ground, knees first.
“Yes!” Amir cries.
I can’t look away. It’s lying there bleeding, struggling to stand. One front leg straightens, then collapses. It bleats, scrambling to rise.
I have shot animals with my bow before, but only to eat. Only because we needed the meat. Their suffering was always short.
“Kill it,” I tell him, a hitch in my voice. “Do something.”
He gives me a stupid look. “It’s not real, you know.”
I shift my weight. “I know, I just…” His disregard for the pain of that animal, real or not, gives me the chills. I don’t like this game where you pretend to kill for sport. I don’t know anyone who would maim a living thing, and take such satisfaction in its suffering. It’s sick.
“I’m the best at this,” he announces. “I’ve shot boars and panthers too. They’re faster, you know.”
I do know. I try to imagine this boy in the mountains, taking down a boar with a real bow. I wonder if he would treat taking a life as a game—if this was just practice to him—or if he would suffer and pray, as I do, feeling the life of another creature drain away.
“Let’s play a different game,” I say. “How about a hiding game?”
He shrugs and drops the bow on the ground.
“Load hiding game,” he says.
“Hiding game, unknown.” The man’s voice coming through the speakers surprises me. It must be programmed in.
“Load hiding game!” Amir yells.
“Hiding game, unknown.”
He kicks the bow, and it slams into the glass wall with a clatter.
“You don’t do it in this room,” I say quickly. “One person waits while the other hides. Then after a while, the waiter goes to look for the hider.”
He looks unconvinced. “What does he get when he finds the hider?”
I reach for an answer, but come up blank. “He gets to hide next time.”
“He doesn’t get a prize? Sounds stupid.” There’s another pouting session coming on. His cheeks are already growing red. If Tam ever talked to me this way I would have taken a paddle to him.
“You pick the prize then,” I say.
He thinks about this. “The winner gets a new game. All these are easy. I beat them all on the first day.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “Sounds fine.” Doesn’t matter to me as long as I can ditch this kid and find a way out of here.
“And the loser gets marked,” he says.
I was heading for the door, but stop and turn as he says this. “What do you mean?”
“I mean marked like the Virulent!” He pretends to slash an X across his cheek, and I’m reminded of the last person who made that move at me: Kiran.
“Pretend marked, you mean,” I say, a chill falling over my skin because
I’m pretty sure he isn’t joking.
His round face falls. “Fine. I guess.”
We walk to the door, back into the hallway with the changing pictures. There are flowers in a vase on a thin table, but as I get closer I see that they’re made of glass. I wouldn’t keep anything glass around this kid. He’d probably throw it into the wall.
“How’d your uncle get that mark?” I ask.
Amir stops. “We’re not supposed to talk about that.”
I continue on, making a mental map of the layout of the rooms, the curve in the hall. We come to a stairway, but there are still no windows for me to get my bearing. I start to descend, but he grabs my elbow and shoves me up to the next level.
“You can tell me,” I say. “It’s not like I have anyone to tell.”
“I’m going to hide first,” he says. He’s above me two steps, but has stopped and turned around.
“No,” I say. “I thought of the game, I’m hiding first.”
He glares at me. “You have to do what I say.”
“Make me.”
He winds back to slap me. I almost can’t believe he’s got the nerve. Before he connects, I block his arm and shove him back. He falls with a thunk on the step.
And then begins to cry.
“You’re kidding,” I say.
“You hurt me!”
I cringe: That’s a pitch I’ve only heard when Lily the songstress reaches the high notes. He’s faking though; no tears come from his eyes. Nina used to do the same for attention.
“I did not. Get up already,” I say, and pull him up. He crumbles, arms thrown overhead. The clattering of footsteps comes from down the hallway and as the boy wails louder, I start to get nervous.
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it. You can hide first.”
“You. Hurt. Me!”
I’m close to punching him. Or dumping him over the wooden stair railing. His body clunking level to level would probably make less noise than this.
The house Pip I met the previous night appears from the floor below.
“Amir!” he calls. “Oh Amir, what happened?”
“He fell,” I say.
“She pushed me!” His face is turning purple. I wonder if he might explode. That might be all right, actually.