The Commander thinks he’s broken Rachel so badly he’s already won. I can’t wait to prove him wrong.
The streets bustle today, full of people heading to the Square for the ceremony. Most of Baalboden’s citizens will attend. Some because of the ceremony itself. Some because the Commander provides a banquet and dancing afterward.
The deserted shops work to our advantage. I pull Rachel into a side street a block from Center Square, and we hide our bags behind the bushes at the back of the mercantile. It’s closed for the day, and if we duck out of the festivities early enough, we should have no problem reclaiming our belongings.
“That’s good,” I say as she pulls at the branches of a bush until it covers any sign of the bag hidden behind it. We slide back into the crowds heading toward the ceremony. The closer we come to the stage, the more color Rachel loses. We’re nearly to Center Square when I stop and squeeze her hand gently.
“Look at me when you’re on the stage,” I say. “Look at me, no matter what he says. I won’t let him hurt you.”
She nods, but she’s trembling. I don’t know if it’s from anger, trauma, or nerves. Most likely a combination of the three.
By the time we arrive, citizens have filled Center Square. Girls in brilliant jewel-toned dresses cluster together, whispering and giggling as they eye the group of eligible townsmen lined up near the platform, each looking tremendously uncomfortable. The wooden stage, the same one used to carry out Commander-sanctioned executions, is scrubbed clean and draped with red ribbon.
Sylph is here, glowing in her emerald and black dress, her hair somehow tamed into the intricate updo favored by most girls on Claiming day. A quick glance at those assembled shows Rachel is the only one who left her hair unbound. She’s also the only one with a dress cut low enough to attract the notice of every male mingling at the edge of the stage. I see the moment they realize she’s going to be part of the ceremony, and have to stop myself from reaching for my sword just to give them something else to think about.
I wonder which of them will have the nerve to stand up and Claim her. Mitch Patterson? I can’t agree to that. I once saw his left eye twitch for an entire hour. That has to be a sign of mental instability. Wendall Freeman? He can’t hold his liquor. And he tells terrible jokes. Peter Carmine? He’s … I search for the fault I know is there and finally decide he’s too short for her. Too short and too stupid.
I don’t actually have proof that Peter Carmine is stupid, but he looks like he could be, and that’s enough in my book.
Which just goes to show I’m the one who should be worried about mental instability and rampant stupidity. It doesn’t matter who steps forward to Claim her. She isn’t going to be here long enough for them to make good on their offer.
We stick to our plan. Foil the Commander on his own stage. And leave.
I have backup travel bags stashed where the Commander would never think to look, just in case the bags hidden behind the mercantile are inaccessible when we need them. I know where to hide in South Edge and how to block our wristmarks so the guards can’t find us as we figure out a new way across the Wall.
And I have an alternate plan of my own ready for anything the Commander might pull.
We’re as ready as we can be. I step in front of Rachel to block the ogling idiots at the stage, and a bell, sonorous and deep, echoes across the Square. The crowd stirs and whispers as the girls line up to the side of the stage, a bewildering display of color, jewels, and anxious smiles. Sylph sees us, eyes widening at the sight of Rachel in a Claiming dress, and gives a tiny, hesitant wave.
Rachel doesn’t wave back. I’m not sure she even realizes Sylph is there. I don’t think she sees anything but the stage, and the fact that she’ll have to stand next to the Commander while she gives the performance of her life.
The girls begin mounting the stairs, taking dainty steps to avoid tripping over their long skirts. Their Protectors file up the stairs after them. The eligible townsmen yank at their collars as if they’re in danger of choking, and the bell peals three long notes.
The Commander is here.
It’s time.
I pull Rachel to me, inhale the midnight citrus scent of her, and then I let go, and we move to take our place on the stage.
CHAPTER THIRTY
RACHEL
Armed guards enter the Square and fan out, stationing themselves at three-yard intervals along the edges. Behind them, the twelve members of the Brute Squad march through the Square, two by two. The lead pair reaches the stage, halts, and pivots to face each other. Each subsequent pair also stops and faces each other until they’ve formed a tight, citizen-free aisle between them.
Another three long peals from the bell and every guard in the Square snaps his right forearm up to his forehead in a rigid salute. Silence, dense and absolute, falls across the Square as the Commander strides down the aisle toward the stage.
My mouth goes dry, my pulse pounds against my skin, and my vision narrows until all I see is him. I press my arm against my side and feel the outline of my knife sheath beneath my skirt as he approaches the steps.
I’m the last in the line of girls across the stage. As he walks up the steps, he meets my gaze and smiles as if only the two of us exist.
My skin crawls, and something hot and sharp seeps out of my grief and begs for his blood.
I reach for the slit in the side of my skirt, but he’s already past me, greeting the Protectors who stand behind their daughters, and turning to face the assembled crowd.
The streets bustle today, full of people heading to the Square for the ceremony. Most of Baalboden’s citizens will attend. Some because of the ceremony itself. Some because the Commander provides a banquet and dancing afterward.
The deserted shops work to our advantage. I pull Rachel into a side street a block from Center Square, and we hide our bags behind the bushes at the back of the mercantile. It’s closed for the day, and if we duck out of the festivities early enough, we should have no problem reclaiming our belongings.
“That’s good,” I say as she pulls at the branches of a bush until it covers any sign of the bag hidden behind it. We slide back into the crowds heading toward the ceremony. The closer we come to the stage, the more color Rachel loses. We’re nearly to Center Square when I stop and squeeze her hand gently.
“Look at me when you’re on the stage,” I say. “Look at me, no matter what he says. I won’t let him hurt you.”
She nods, but she’s trembling. I don’t know if it’s from anger, trauma, or nerves. Most likely a combination of the three.
By the time we arrive, citizens have filled Center Square. Girls in brilliant jewel-toned dresses cluster together, whispering and giggling as they eye the group of eligible townsmen lined up near the platform, each looking tremendously uncomfortable. The wooden stage, the same one used to carry out Commander-sanctioned executions, is scrubbed clean and draped with red ribbon.
Sylph is here, glowing in her emerald and black dress, her hair somehow tamed into the intricate updo favored by most girls on Claiming day. A quick glance at those assembled shows Rachel is the only one who left her hair unbound. She’s also the only one with a dress cut low enough to attract the notice of every male mingling at the edge of the stage. I see the moment they realize she’s going to be part of the ceremony, and have to stop myself from reaching for my sword just to give them something else to think about.
I wonder which of them will have the nerve to stand up and Claim her. Mitch Patterson? I can’t agree to that. I once saw his left eye twitch for an entire hour. That has to be a sign of mental instability. Wendall Freeman? He can’t hold his liquor. And he tells terrible jokes. Peter Carmine? He’s … I search for the fault I know is there and finally decide he’s too short for her. Too short and too stupid.
I don’t actually have proof that Peter Carmine is stupid, but he looks like he could be, and that’s enough in my book.
Which just goes to show I’m the one who should be worried about mental instability and rampant stupidity. It doesn’t matter who steps forward to Claim her. She isn’t going to be here long enough for them to make good on their offer.
We stick to our plan. Foil the Commander on his own stage. And leave.
I have backup travel bags stashed where the Commander would never think to look, just in case the bags hidden behind the mercantile are inaccessible when we need them. I know where to hide in South Edge and how to block our wristmarks so the guards can’t find us as we figure out a new way across the Wall.
And I have an alternate plan of my own ready for anything the Commander might pull.
We’re as ready as we can be. I step in front of Rachel to block the ogling idiots at the stage, and a bell, sonorous and deep, echoes across the Square. The crowd stirs and whispers as the girls line up to the side of the stage, a bewildering display of color, jewels, and anxious smiles. Sylph sees us, eyes widening at the sight of Rachel in a Claiming dress, and gives a tiny, hesitant wave.
Rachel doesn’t wave back. I’m not sure she even realizes Sylph is there. I don’t think she sees anything but the stage, and the fact that she’ll have to stand next to the Commander while she gives the performance of her life.
The girls begin mounting the stairs, taking dainty steps to avoid tripping over their long skirts. Their Protectors file up the stairs after them. The eligible townsmen yank at their collars as if they’re in danger of choking, and the bell peals three long notes.
The Commander is here.
It’s time.
I pull Rachel to me, inhale the midnight citrus scent of her, and then I let go, and we move to take our place on the stage.
CHAPTER THIRTY
RACHEL
Armed guards enter the Square and fan out, stationing themselves at three-yard intervals along the edges. Behind them, the twelve members of the Brute Squad march through the Square, two by two. The lead pair reaches the stage, halts, and pivots to face each other. Each subsequent pair also stops and faces each other until they’ve formed a tight, citizen-free aisle between them.
Another three long peals from the bell and every guard in the Square snaps his right forearm up to his forehead in a rigid salute. Silence, dense and absolute, falls across the Square as the Commander strides down the aisle toward the stage.
My mouth goes dry, my pulse pounds against my skin, and my vision narrows until all I see is him. I press my arm against my side and feel the outline of my knife sheath beneath my skirt as he approaches the steps.
I’m the last in the line of girls across the stage. As he walks up the steps, he meets my gaze and smiles as if only the two of us exist.
My skin crawls, and something hot and sharp seeps out of my grief and begs for his blood.
I reach for the slit in the side of my skirt, but he’s already past me, greeting the Protectors who stand behind their daughters, and turning to face the assembled crowd.
