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 my 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.