The Glass Arrow(11)

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.”