The Better to See

Chapter 15: Vermeille

There was Vermeille, and there was her rage. The room and the others in it, the Clubs that came in every night to dump raw meat on the floor, the raw meat, even the Cloaks that occasionally came with the Clubs to stand with their hands in their sleeves and hem at everyone, all were irrelevant specks. She was angry. She was not depressed. Her core, the place that kept her heart beating and her eyes opening every day, and told her what to feel, had burned out and been replaced by something different. It also burned, but it was not the burn of shame or despair. It burned blue and was as organized as the struts below a bridge.

The others were all ... things. If Vermeille had met them in the streets of New Laon, she'd have said they were colonists, albeit colonists with odd ancestry. They weren't French, most of them. Most were European, at least, although there were a few who might have been from somewhere in northern Asia once. They weren't from anywhere now. Everyone had the same look: cheekbones jutted, shoulders slumped, eyes lost focus and slid away from other eyes. Their skin was pale. Most of them were bruised. Many had limbs at crooked angles. Most had crooked noses. All of them had thick eyebrows and yellow nails.

So did she.

She ate the meat, tearing it with her teeth and holding it with her hands, glaring at anyone who came near her. No one did. Everyone knew about the little doctor. She had still had his blood on her mouth when the Clubs had dragged her into the room.

The room was not very big. There were nine of them, and when they slept they overlapped on the floor. There was no furniture. In one corner, opposite the door, there was a dark glass bubble. When she stood directly beneath it she could see the optic gearling inside shifting this way and that, sending images of the room somewhere else. It was too high for her to reach. It didn't occur to her to ask anyone else to help her.

The Clubs came to feed them, locking the door behind them. Everyone pressed as close as they could to the meat without risking the drugged needles the Clubs always carried, and the Clubs left. Vermeille watched the same thing happen every day for a week before she acted.

When the Clubs arrived that evening, she walked like a healthy person. She hid her blazing grid of fury and thought hard of Jane Marston's deportment classes. She thought of her mother. She smiled pleasantly, and demurely approached the Club on guard.

"Hello," she said. She stood next to him, watching the others quarrel over the bleeding scraps. "Quite a sight, isn't it?"

She felt him start.

"I don't believe I know who you are," she said, turning to him. "My name is Vermeille. I'm from New Laon." She held out a hand, wrist carefully limp, fingers dangling with all the delicacy she could manage.

He stared, but no one else had noticed.

"Your name?" she said, smiling a little more. Light flirtation.

"Charles," he said, and then pinched his lips together again.

"Charles," she said, letting her hand fall when he didn't touch it. "Lovely to meet you." She backed up a step and her heel ran into the door with a clang. The other Club spun.

"Step away from the door!" He had his needle in his hand. Vermeille shrank against the door, and got a little closer to Charles.

"I did nothing," she said. "Tell him I did nothing, Charles!"

"She was just talking," said Charles, uncertainly.

"They are not here to talk," said his partner, advancing a little further.

She took a breath and flung herself to her knees in front of the advancing one, diving beneath the needle inside his reach and clutching at his belt. "Please, sir, I was just talking, do not hurt me!"