There are more girls gathering now. Ten or so more have made the trip down and have formed a half circle behind Sweetpea.
“With a face like that it’s no wonder no one wants to take you home,” I say, trying to sound as cold as she does. “Sour-faced Sweetpea. Has a nice ring to it.”
She twitches. “At least I get bids,” she says.
The girls around her agree.
I scoff. “You’ve been here a lot longer than me, that’s all I know.”
“Clover,” says Daphne again. She’s not crossing over to my side. I don’t expect her to anyway. She is only a half friend, after all.
A girl with straight black hair and slanted eyes comes up beside her. She’s been named Buttercup, of all things. Daphne immediately blushes.
“The Keepers are coming,” says Buttercup.
I glance over Sweetpea’s broad shoulder and see she’s right. Three Keepers—or Pips as I call them—are rushing out of the building, black caftans floating behind them. The Pips are assigned to take care of the youth in this city, whether at the Garden, in one of the children’s dormitories, or even in some wealthy Magnate’s house. They’re male—but you couldn’t tell by looking at them. Their faces are smooth and hairless. Too smooth, like their skulls are made of clay, and their features have all been softened. The rumor is that when they were children, their parents signed them over to the city in payment of their taxes or debts. In a Keeper facility in the medical district, their boy parts were removed, and they were given strange medical treatments to alter their hormones and stunt their growth. I guess they’re still sore about it, because they have nasty tempers and are snide even on their best days. I can’t blame them, but that doesn’t mean I like them.
I don’t have much time.
“Ooh,” I say. “Keepers. Scared, fat face?”
Sweetpea twitches.
“The Governess says I’ll be chosen by the end of the week,” she says.
“That’s what she tells you,” I say. “I heard her talking to a buyer the last time I was sent to her office. She tried to throw you in two for one with Rose, but he wouldn’t even take you for free.”
“Shut up,” she says, lunging forward, but stopping just before we collide.
Not good enough.
“I promise I’m out of here before you,” I say, closing the distance between us so that I have to look up at her. Quick as I can, I grab a fistful of her hair. I yank and a chunk rips away in my hand. Her upper half wobbles on her skinny waist. Her eyes go glassy with tears.
“Oops,” I say, looking at the long strands hanging limply from my grasp, and then back to her face. “That won’t look good on stage.”
Crack.
I cough and choke on the fountain of blood that gurgles down my throat. It’s thick and vile, and if I wasn’t so busy concentrating on standing upright, I would puke it up.
I’ve got to hand it to her. Sweetpea’s knuckles are like iron. My nose is definitely broken.
I blink and the girl before me wavers in my vision. Her hands stretch out to her sides as though she might want to embrace me. The Pips are closing in now—I can hear that strange noise they all make when they’re flustered. It must be a side effect of the treatments that make them into Keepers, because every Pip I’ve ever met does it.
“Pip, pip, pip!”
I blink again and wait for the world to stop swaying. When it does, I smile.
A whip smacks down on my arm and I jerk back. Another comes down on my shoulder.
Stupid Pips and their stupid little beaters.
They use their whips to herd me away from the crowd. As I pass, the round, shocked mouths of the girls melt into snide little gossip holes.
As for Sweetpea, she’s now looking just as surprised as they are. Poor thing. She’s about as sharp as a brick.
I’ve really put the Pips in a buzz. Two of them stand on either side, slapping at the backs of my arms with their beaters to usher me forward. Sour looks scrunch both of their pretty faces, and even their flowing dress shirts seem to have deflated. I can tell from their greenish tint that the blood has made them sickly.
“Pip, pip, pip, pip, pip!” one sputters before he can even speak. He’s picked up my boots and is holding them away from his body as if they’re a dead animal.
I’m impressed. Five Pips is a new personal best.
“The Governess won’t be pleased, no she won’t! Pip!” he finishes. I wipe some of the blood on my dress sleeve and he can’t hide his “eww.”
The Governess runs the Garden, the facility where I’ve been held since my capture. She has the final word on our conditioning, how we’re readied for the suitors.
She’s a wretched peacock of a woman.
She calls herself an artist, claiming that her decorations up our auction price on market day. But she’s no artist. An artist creates because she has to, because if she doesn’t, she’ll explode. Bian was an artist. He was handy with sculptures, which is why he left our camp in the mountains to make a living in town. I can still see his skilled hands forming figures of horses and wolves and birds from shapeless blocks of wood. The Governess is his opposite. A false artist; she creates so others will pat her on the back, and that makes her more a slave than me.
I hear the cheering now. The small early crowd has come to gawk at us from the street and I’ve put on quite a show. I don’t worry about their attention; they’re mostly work staff, too poor to place a bid on the auction block. They just come to drool.
The Pips direct me down the stone walkway out of the recreation yard and its flat, mosquito-infested lily pond, and towards the automatic doors of the East Wing. I hesitate, as I always do before these sliding doors, and only proceed when they’re fully open and I’m sure they won’t change their minds and crush me.
A year ago I’d never seen such stuff. I’d heard about it secondhand from my ma’s and Bian’s stories, but that’s all they were: stories. I’d stayed my distance from the city because of the danger. Though I’ve since learned they’re not magic, things like automatic doors and messageboxes and weight shifters still make me nervous. I don’t trust machines. I trust what I know. That thunderheads bring rain. That cool stream water will quench my thirst. That a punch to the face will sting like a dog’s bite, but ultimately accomplish a greater purpose.
The hallway we pass through is painted bruise purple, and the windows are draped with pink velvet and white lace. No matter how much they dress them up, the windows still reveal the electrical fence surrounding the building. They can’t hide the fact that the Garden is nothing but a prison.
My nose continues to bleed, though now I make no attempt to stop it and instead lean forward, so that my blood rains down on the Governess’s perfectly clean floor.
“Pip, pip!” coughs one of the Pips disgustedly. If my face wasn’t frozen by swelling, I’d smirk.
One of the Pips knocks on a broad oak door, and it pleases me to see his soft hand trembling.
“Enter,” calls a singsong voice from within. I hope my swollen face isn’t hiding my disgust. I want the Governess to see how much she revolts me.
The Pip opens the door and reveals the bright room with the white, lavish couches that I know so well. I’ve been in to see the Governess at least once a week since I arrived here.
Her office is one of the nicest rooms in the facility. She does a lot of business here with buyers, and she can’t have them thinking that she leaves their potential purchases living in any less-than-desirable conditions. If they knew we slept on moldy mattresses in a packed hall that reeks of nail paint and girl stink, they might not be so quick to pay. They only see what she lets them see, which is what they want to see anyway. A girl who’s been groomed, shaved, slicked-up by the Pips for auction.
In my least delicate manner, I stomp across the bone white carpet, and take my usual place on the couch. I still can’t get used to the feel of sitting on something so plush. I sink into the cushions, and it feels as if I’m being swallowed whole.
“Oh!” cries the Governess, launching out from behind her large, glass-topped desk. Today her hair is done up in a long golden braid that twists around her forehead like a crown, and she’s wearing a dark blue suit with a neckline low enough that you can practically see her belly button. On her right breast pocket is the cardinal, the symbol of Glasscaster. Her face is covered with makeup that’s so dark over her cheekbones and so black around her eyes, it looks like she’s the one that’s taken a beating.
“She’s bleeding everywhere!” shrieks the Governess. “Do something, Keeper!”
One of the Pips scurries from the room, his black linen uniform wafting behind him. He’s only too happy to have been dismissed. The other one is gnawing on his lower lip now, and refusing to look me squarely in the face.
On the coffee table in front of me is the leather-bound bodybook. I glare at it, knowing what will be within, but can’t help myself. I snatch it off the table as the Governess listens to the Pip recount what he knows of my fight.
I turn through the first few pages. There are color photos of each of the girls here, beginning with the First Rounders. Most of them have sparkling smiles, their faces glowing with glittery makeup and white powder. Beside some of their pictures are full body shots from market day, showcasing every inch of their costumed forms.
The Governess always themes our monthly appearances at market. Once the theme was “A Day in the Sun,” and we all had to wear skimpy swimsuits and bronze paint to make ourselves look like we’d spent the last week baking in an oven. Then we were waxed and plucked in the most disgusting places; just thinking about it is enough to make me shudder. They’d taken my body—my strong, healthy body—and turned me into a monster.
I turn to another page and see a girl I know as Violet dressed like a gardener to go along with the Garden theme. She’s wearing tight-fitting, see-through overalls, a floppy hat, and is holding a plastic spade. I’m feeling the urge to gag again, though not because of the blood.
I turn to the page I’m looking for. My page. There is only one picture here since I refuse to pose for the camera, and the sight of it burns me up. Still, I can’t help but stare, because it is the only photograph I know that exists of me.
It’s the picture of my capture, with the spear-wielding Magnate jerking my head back. Though my face is screwed up in pain in the picture, I look over my long-muscled form, my curly, long, raven-black hair, my deep brown eyes and thin lips drawn back in fury. I look menacing, even in that position, and this pleases me.
My finger traces absently over the penned scratches beneath my photograph that must say something about me. My previous scores on past market days. My stupid weed name. I wish I could read what has been written about me.
“CLOSE THAT!” wails the Governess, who seems to have only now noticed what I’m doing. “You’re bleeding all over it! I need that for the customers!” She makes a move to grab the book from me, but doesn’t want to get too close for fear that I’ll bleed on her. I snap the book shut, and toss it on the table, as though I was done anyway.
There is a scuffle outside, and I see that they’ve brought Sweetpea to the office too. My jaw tightens as I prepare for the next stage of my plan.
If the Governess knows I don’t want to go to market, she’ll do everything she can to get me there. I need to show her how upset I’d be to be left behind.
Only one Pip has ushered Sweetpea from the corner of the red yard. This doesn’t surprise me. At over a head above me and three times as thick, Sweetpea is easily the biggest girl here. But no one worries about her like they do about me.
“Is it true that you called Sweetpea hefty, Clover?” the Governess asks in her squeaky voice. My other Pip has returned, and he hastily shoves me a wad of tissue and a damp rag.