I know she exists, because without her, I’m all alone.
I shake off the cold feeling that I am alone.
“Lots of people pray,” I tell Daphne. “My ma’s people were from a village on the other side of the mountains. They all prayed. My ma taught me how.”
“A lot of good it did her,” Daphne says. “She died, didn’t she?”
I wish I’d never told Daphne that. “Her soul lives, even if her body dies.”
Daphne doesn’t turn around, just whispers over her shoulder. “Grow up. There’s no such thing as a soul. There’s just us, Clover. Just bones and blood and body.”
Daphne doesn’t know. If the scientists here are so great, how come they can’t do what we can do? How come they can’t make a boy? The Governess once told us they’ve tried, but the results were deformed, or sickly, or not right in the head. That’s why we’re so important.
That’s what they get for messing with nature.
The curtains pull aside then and reveal three new girls standing on the stage beside the Governess, who is preening behind her lectern. She likes to welcome the new acquisitions this way, showing them off to the rest of us like livestock. I’ve heard her say it’s the first hint at what the auction stage will be like. A screen has already been lowered behind them, and as the pictures of wildflowers begin to rotate through, I feel my throat go tight. I miss home. The mountains. My family.
Daphne’s wrong. There is a soul. Something inside of me is pulling me away from here. Aching for my old life.
The Governess begins the way she always does, by asking us to observe a short period of silence in reverence for the Magnates and the Merchants, and all the men we serve. I keep quiet because I cannot risk her taking back my punishment, but I offer no such thanks.
It seems not all prayer has been outlawed.
The Governess has launched into her speech about how our great country Isor was nearly destroyed by the vicious workings of our ancestors. How simple things used to be, when free women could be trusted to know the value of their place in the shadows. Before greed infected their minds and their hearts and they used their bodies to seduce the very men who cared for them. She talks about how our grandmothers’ grandmothers tore down the barriers between men and women with their trickery, and destroyed cities with their petulance. How they began to poison their wombs so that they could not bear children, and murdered men with their wicked powers.
“These were not women,” the Governess preaches. “They were witches. And so we thank the Magistrate for their abolishment and give ourselves openly to the service of their sons, so that we never again lose our path.”
It was during the Red Years—so called for the evil that poisoned the nation—that the Magistrate Brotherhood was charged with returning the rightful balance. They were the original witch hunters, killing women by the thousands. Cutting down anyone who stood in their way. I imagine them with swords and spears, like the Magnate that caught me, chasing down demon women who have three heads and layers of triangular, pointed teeth.
My ma used to tell this story differently. In her version, women walked free and proud. No one owned them. No one hunted them. Their bodies and minds were their own. That was until two Magistrates fell in love with the same woman. Competing for her affection, they turned against each other, forcing other men of power to take sides with them. The Brotherhood began to crumble. A council was called to rectify the issue, and when they learned that she had willingly given herself to both, had her killed. The rules changed then. My ma said it was because the men were scared by their own weakness and how easy it was to succumb to temptation. Women in power—merchants and healers—were accused of using dark magic to gain their status. Girls became the property of their fathers and husbands. And the Magistrate became monsters, making slaves of innocent girls and slaughtering those who stood against them.
One woman had infected two men. Two men, the Brotherhood. And the Brotherhood, the whole of Isor. The Red Years were called that because they were stained with the blood of our sisters who fought and died in the struggle.
The Governess finishes with the raise of her hands. “And so the Magistrate purged the country of witchcraft, honoring and celebrating those who were loyal by bringing them into their home.”
“And their bed,” whispers Buttercup. Daphne hides a laugh in her shoulder.
She’s all giggles when she’s talking to anyone but me.
Ten generations later, the world isn’t much changed. The Magistrate has become the Magnate, and our numbers are still monitored by the Watchers—the genetically enhanced soldiers that police the city. We’re hunted and sold for breeding. And if there gets to be too many of us, they control the population and destroy our girl babies so that the same problems don’t resurface.
My eyes switch to the new girls on the stage. Two have braided hair and eager smiles. Judging by their makeup, they’ve been prepped by house Pips for today. The third has a clump of yellow straw hair on her head and pale skin. She is crying softly, her hands knotted in the sides of the same uniform dress I wear. It is short and slinky, and stretches over her flat chest and stomach. All three of the girls wear the beaded earrings of the Unpromised and are about my age. Fifteen years. Sixteen, maybe.
“It’s my sincere hope you make something of yourselves,” the Governess says. “Some of our girls have gone on to be forever wives. Some movie stars, even.”
“Like Solace,” whispers Buttercup. “I’d just die if a big-shot movie man picked me.”
The other girls all fawn over mention of the skinny actress who’s always half naked in all her posters and billboards. Rumor is her name was Marigold when she lived here, but that her owner changed it when he bought her. Somehow they’ve convinced themselves that the rich men she ends up with in her movies are real, and that we’ll all be so spoiled.
The reality is that most will be returned to a facility like this one, but for those who’ve already been through the system. Daphne’s told me only one in a hundred girls gets made a forever wife. Even that big-time actress will probably get dumped back into rotation at some point.
The Governess is patting down a stray hair. “I once sat where you did and look at me now. Governess of the Garden. My own apartment in the city.”
“And sterile as a steel glove,” whispers one of the girls. The Governess stiffens.
She can’t make babies. Everyone knows it. Few women live to be her age. Most, after they’ve been all used up by their buyers, are freed to work for Merchants, but they’re so bone tired and burned up from all the birthing treatments, they don’t make it long. Most of them end up scrounging around the Black Lanes until they succumb to the plague.
“Have your fun,” she says quietly. “But remember: I control who takes you home.” She takes a deep breath and beams, as if she remembers she’s in charge here. There’s a gleam in her eye as she rests a hand on her waist. “Take care of your men, and they will take care of you.”
I don’t know who she belonged to, but she must have done a thorough job keeping him satisfied to land this position. Especially after being such a disappointment in the childbearing arena.
The Governess clicks off the main projector and her mouth forms a grim line.
“The rules of the Garden are outlined by the original Magistrate,” she says. “The Unpromised must not be compromised prior to their first sale. It has always been this way. It must always remain this way. This is how we assure the quality of our product.”
My stomach is hurting now. I know what will come next. Someone’s broken the Purity Rule. Someone hasn’t passed their medical inspection during a pending sale.
It’s a girl with dark skin named Jasmine. She’s brought out onto the stage by a Watcher, wearing the pressed black jacket of his station. He’s enormous, nearly twice her height and thickly muscled. He’s got a messagebox on a belt cutting across his chest, right beside the metallic handle of his wire. I shiver, and immediately the old scars on m
y right leg begin to ache.
In one of his hands is a sickle-shaped, silver knife.
Even the new girl that was crying on stage is quiet now, watching him with wide eyes. I try to look away, but I can’t. Jasmine is the only one making a sound. She can barely support her weight and bobbles about as though her head is too heavy for her neck.
“As you all know, Jasmine was Promised to a Magnate last month after auction. She fetched a high price, and was in the midst of her ownership transfer when she was discovered impure.”
“I had to,” Jasmine whimpers, so quietly we all strain to hear her.
“Silence,” says the Governess softly.
Jasmine doesn’t have to say any more. We all know what happened. During the interview process she was brought into one of the private rooms for an inspection, and within, the Magnate made her lay down with him. Now he’s discarding her, saying that she’s impure. It happens more often than anyone would like to admit.
The Watcher’s face is blank and uncaring. He has a dimple in his chin, and all of his hair has been removed by treatments. He looks as if he hasn’t even registered what the Governess has said.
I shiver. If anyone’s truly soulless, it’s a Watcher. After they’re plucked from the pool of criminals at the jail they’re biologically altered, not unlike the Pips. But instead of becoming obedient, the Watchers are made more aggressive. Their emotions are turned off somehow and their bones are fused with supports, making them bigger, stronger, and more powerful.
They’re the walking dead. They don’t feel. They don’t speak. They’re lethal.
The Watcher is stiff as a board, waiting for the Governess’s go-ahead to proceed.
My hands begin to tremble. This is one of the worst parts of being here. It hits far too close to home.
I close my eyes and see my ma. She has curly hair, just like mine, though hers is much longer, down almost to her waist. Her skin is sun kissed from years of living in the mountains, and her mouth is fuller, more shapely, than my thin lips. She smiles easily, but when she’s serious, when she drills me on our escape plan, I stand at attention.
Her cheek bears the puckered scar of the Virulent, which she tells me she earned at a facility just like the Garden. Though she never shares the details, I know I was conceived in the same manner that has led to Jasmine’s punishment. I am the spawn of some nameless, impatient buyer who took what he wanted before he signed her papers.
When I open my eyes again, the Watcher is holding Jasmine tightly against his chest with one arm, almost like they are lovers, but for the knife he holds over her face. She pinches her eyes shut and grips his muscled forearm to steady herself. Her arms are so thin and fragile. Like little Nina’s arms.
In a quick, practiced motion, he slices a large X across her right cheek. A short scream bursts from her throat, and then she sags against him, passed out.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER I am sitting on the floor outside the Governess’s office, still thinking about Jasmine. She’ll be out on the streets now. I wonder if her wound will become infected and kill her, or if she’ll be forced to live in the Black Lanes, selling herself as a Skinmonger. She’s pretty; she’ll find that kind of work easily.
If I was her, I’d break out of the walls; the gatekeepers won’t hold one of the Virulent back. Better she die in the wilderness than die in here, they’d say. That’s what they told my ma when she left anyway.
The Governess’s raised voice begins to leak through the doorway as she relays her instructions to the Watcher who cut Jasmine.
“Clover is a sneaky girl. She has tried almost everything to escape. You must be on guard at all times.”
A moment later, the Watcher, the Pip, and the Governess all emerge through the heavy door of her office. She is smiling smugly. Pleased, I’m sure, with the prospect of a month away from me.
The Watcher types a message on the small black screen that is his messagebox and tucks it back into the pouch in his utility belt. He’s holding a wide silver bracelet in his right hand. The sight of it makes my fists tighten.
The Governess instructs me to hold out my right hand, and I do as she says. She smiles, showcasing her gleaming white teeth. I try to relax, knowing what’s coming.
The Watcher clicks the bracelet around my wrist in one smooth movement. It reaches from my wrist to my elbow and is so heavy my arm automatically falls before I jerk it back up. The Watcher then pulls a narrow silver cylinder from a pocket on his chest strap and presses it into the middle seam of the metal, where it makes a sharp hiss. The sheath becomes so hot I have to bite my tongue to keep from wincing, but soon it is cool again. The bracelet has now been welded to my arm, and only the Watcher’s device can remove it.
“Finally. Get her out of here. I’ve got so much to do before tomorrow,” says the Governess, and she turns and slams the door behind her. The Pip scurries away like a field mouse.
The Watcher grabs my arm stiffly and leads me again down the bruised hallway, past the parlor and the dangerous private screening rooms, and through the main foyer. We pass the amphitheater and make a sharp right. He pauses while a Pip presses the button that releases the magnetic hold on the door.
We travel down a long hall, this one rimmed with dust and cobwebs, and overhead lights flicker, on the verge of death. There are no windows here, but I know if there were, they would show the metal-and-glass high-rises of the city on one side, and the rec yard on the other. But the passage extends past the edge of the pond and its high containment fence, and finally we reach an office.
The Watcher types a code into the lockbox outside the door and it pops open. I memorize the pattern his finger makes, but know the code is useless without his thick leather gloves. If I touch the keys they will melt my skin to the metal with a clear acid, pinning me there until someone else can release me.
I know this, of course, because I’ve tried. The attempt cost me three skin-grafting surgeries and two weeks in the infirmary.
The Watcher’s office for the solitary paddock sticks out like a leg from the Garden. The walls are glass on all sides except for one, which is plaster. He seals us inside with another lockbox code, and then crosses the small room to a glass door. It slips open just as soon as he approaches it.
One more step and we’re outside. Here the weed-infested yard wraps like a horseshoe around the office. On one side, fifty or so paces away, I can see the outer edge of the rec yard; its buzzing fence sounds like a honeybee is somewhere close. On another side is the crumbling gray stone wall of the facility’s trash incinerator. And on the third side, completely hidden from the rec yard, behind the office wall, is the yellow Driver rental barn. Only a runoff stream separates this back lot from the back fence of the horses’ paddocks. The Pips don’t maintain this area of the Garden; no potential buyer will ever come back this far into the facility.
There are a dozen places I could sneak out. Over the stone wall, cut through the barn, follow the stream down to where it disappears into the sewer. But the Watcher’s hand is heavy on my shoulder, and as I twist, his tightening grasp becomes painful.
A stake sticks out of the ground, and attached to it is a long tarnished chain that curls like a snake. The Watcher lifts the end of it, and holding my arm steady, attaches it to my bracelet with his key. It makes a hiss, welding into place so there’s nothing I can do to remove it.
When he’s released me, I round the corner to the plaster wall, the chain dragging after me through the dirt. Here, I’m hidden from view from the office, but the Watcher follows me, seeing if I’ll try to cross the stream. Once, there was a metal roof shelter out here, but that has since rusted away. All that’s left is the orange line where the plate attached to the wall.
Before I reach the water the chain stops me. I’ve gone as far as it will let me.
I look up and the sun is only a pinprick of white through the grayish-green haze. I breathe in the soot-filled city air.
At least I’m not going to auction.
* * *
I HAVE BEEN IN solitary nine times in my one hundred and seven days at the Garden. The first few times for three days. The next few for a week. Then two weeks. This is the longest I will have been here.
Sometimes I wonder why the Governess puts up with me at all. My body may be healthier from growing up outside the city walls, but I wonder if that makes me worth her trouble. As hard as I push to stay away from the auction, I sometimes worry that she’ll try to dump me early—give me to some pimp from the Black Lanes, like the others who don’t make the cut.
At least while I’m here I’ll get to see Brax. If he’s stuck around, that is.
The Watcher goes inside and sits in his rigid metal chair before the window. If I’m going to get out of here I have to get that key on the belt across his chest. I can’t be too quick about it though; I need to sit back, bide my time. Wait until he stops expecting me to bolt. That’s when I’ll strike.
I just need to get close enough to slip it off without him noticing. Not an easy feat, but there’s no way around it. The bracelet can’t be cut off—I’ve tried with every sharp piece of metal and rock I’ve managed to smuggle back here. I have to get the key, and for that I’ve got a plan.
Once this bracelet’s off, I’ll wait until dark and then follow the runoff stream through the weeds into the sewer. It’s big enough for Brax to fit through, so it’s big enough for me.
Then, freedom. I’m getting my family, and going so deep in the mountains the Trackers will never find us.
I unlace my slender black boots and set them aside. My toes curl around the grass and weeds, and I cringe at a bite of pain from the gravel beneath. My feet have been spoiled by these city-wearer’s shoes. They’ve lost their calluses from my life in the mountains. I add this to my checklist of things I must remedy before my escape. If I’m going to run, my body’s got to be ready to move.