The rest of the night is miserable. Gabriel succumbs to an unreachable sleep, and I fight to stay awake so I can keep watch against the dangers that lurk beyond our green tent.
When I sleep, I dream of smoke. Curling, twisting, weaving paths that lead nowhere.
"—up!" someone is saying. "Rise and shine, little lovebird! Réveille-toi!"
An arm tightens around me. I snap to attention. Madame is speaking in that phony accent again, her consonants flourishing like the smoke from her lips.
Daylight is a blinding force behind her, filling the silk outline of her scarves like rainbow lizard crests, making her face a shadow. And the whole tent is full of green, reflecting on my skin.
Sometime in the night Gabriel pulled me back into the blanket with him, and his arm is encircling my ribs. He buries his face in my hair, and I can feel the clamminess of his forehead. When I sit up, the movement doesn't rouse him. He doesn't regain consciousness at all.
The syringe. The syringe is no longer where Lilac left it.
Madame takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. She cups my face in her papery hands and smiles. "Even lovelier in the daylight, my Goldenrod."
I'm not her Goldenrod. I'm not her anything. But she seems to have claimed me as one of her possessions, her antiques, her plastic gems.
I will Gabriel not to mutter my name again. I don't want Madame to have it, rolling it off her tongue the way she fondled the flowers of my wedding band.
She pouts. "You do not want to wear the beautiful dress I laid out for you?" It hangs over her arm now like a deflated corpse, like the bloodless body of the girl who wore it last.
"Your sweater is so beautiful. How can you stand to wear it while it's filthy?" she says sadly. I think her frown could melt right off her face. "One of the little ones will wash it for you." Her accent has morphed to something else now. All of her THs come out like Zs, and her Ws like Vs. One of ze little ones vill vash it for you.
She thrusts the dress at me, and unwinds a fur stole from her shoulders and drapes it around my neck. "Change. I'll wait for you outside. It's a beautiful day!"
I'll vait for you.
When she's gone, I change quickly, figuring it's my only way out of this tent. And I admit that the silk feels nice against my skin, and the stole, despite the choking must, is so warm I could get lost in it. Wearing these things may be the only way Madame lets me out of the tent, but what about Gabriel? Gabriel, who is still trapped in a haze. I kneel beside him and touch his forehead. I'm expecting it to be feverish, but it's cold.
"I'll get us out of here," I say again. No matter that he can't hear me; the words aren't entirely for him.
Madame peels back the tent flap and tsk-tsks, snagging my wrist and tugging so hard, I think of the time my arm was dislocated and my brother had to snap it back into place. "Don't worry about him," she says. My bare feet are dragging, and I realize I'm not really trying to keep pace with her.
As we leave the tent, two small girls sweep past us and gather my rumpled clothes. Their heads are down, mouths tight. I only get a glimpse of them, but I think they're twins. I'm pulled out into the cold sunshine, and the sky is a light candied blue, like I'm looking up through a sheet of ice. Madame fusses with my hair, which smells like a combination of salt water and a scarlet district. It feels heavy and tangled; her expression is distant, maybe disapproving, and I'm sure she's going to criticize it, but she only says, "Don't you worry about the boy." She grins, and I swear I can see my outline repeated in each of her too-white teeth. "He'll wake up when he can learn to be reasonable about sharing you."
In the daylight, without the commotion or the light of the Ferris wheel, I can see what a wasteland this place is. Long stretches of just dirt, or a rusty piece of machinery erupting from the ground like it's growing from a seed. There's another ride off in the distance, and at first I think it's a smaller Ferris wheel turned onto its side, but as we get closer, I can see metal horses inside of it, impaled by poles, their legs poised as though they were trying to escape before they were immobilized. Madame catches me staring and tells me it's called a merry-go-round.
The black eyes of the horses fill me with pain. I want to break the spell on them, to animate the muscles in their legs and set them running free.
Madame brings me to the rainbow tent, the biggest and tallest of them all. Four of her boys are guarding it, their guns crossed at their chests like half an X. They don't bother to look at me as Madame ushers me past, ruffling one of their heads.
She opens the tent flap, and a gust of cool air rolls in, unsettling the girls inside like wind chimes. They mutter and stir. Most of them are sleeping, piled against and atop one another.
The girls are all the same, like I'm looking into a house of mirrors. Long, bony limbs hunched against each other, and lipstick-smeared mouths full of rotted teeth. And for some girls it's not lipstick—it's blood. Unlit lanterns hang over their heads. The sun through the tent lights them up in oranges and greens and reds.
And farther down is the entryway to another tent that is veiled off by silk scarves trailing sickly sweet perfume, and something else. Decay and sweat. When Rose was dying, she concealed herself in powders and blush, but Jenna didn't, and as I cared for Jenna during those final days, I could see her sallow skin beginning to bruise, and then the bruises would sink down to the bones and fester. It was a smell that haunted my dreams. My sister wife rotting from the inside out.
"I call this my greenhouse," Madame says. "The girls sleep all day, so they can be fresh as daisies in the evening. Lazy girls."
A few of the girls bother to look at me, blinking lazily and then returning to sleep.
She says she names the girls after colors, so she can keep track of them. Lilac is the only girl named for a color that is also a plant, because Jared, one of Madame's best bodyguards, first found her lying unconscious in the lilac shrubs that border the vegetable gardens. "Belly about to burst," Madame jokes, laughing maniacally. Lilac gave birth under a swinging lantern in the circus tent, surrounded by curious Reds and Blues. And the Greens, Jade and Celadon, who have since died of the virus.
"Nasty, useless little girl," Madame Soleski says, indicating the little girl from last night with the strange eyes, who has crept out from a shadow. "One look at that shriveled leg and I knew on the day she was born that I'd never be able to get a decent price for her when she was the right age. But she can't even be put to work! She scares the customers away. She bites them!"
Lilac, who is burrowed among the others, draws her daughter into her arms without opening her eyes. "Her name is Maddie," she mutters, her voice slurred.
"Mad is right," Madame Soleski says, nudging the child with her shoe. Maddie cants her head up at her with a violent stare. She snaps her little teeth at the old woman, venomous and defiant. "And she doesn't speak!" Madame goes on. "Malformed. Horrible, horrible girl. She should be put down. Did you know that a hundred years ago when an animal was useless, they used to have a chemical that would put it to sleep forever?"
The smell of so many girls in such a small space is making me dizzy, and so are Madame's words. One of the girls is twirling her hair, and it's falling out in her hands.
A guard stands in the entryway. When nobody else is looking, I watch him reach into his pocket and then hold out a strawberry for Maddie. She pops it into her mouth, stem and all, a delicious secret she devours whole.
I hear a noise from the tent that's veiled off. I think it's a cough, or a groan. Either way, I don't want to know. Madame is unfazed, and tightens her arm around my shoulders. I fight to keep my breathing even, but I want to cry out. I'm furious—maybe as furious as I was when I climbed out of the Gatherers' van. I stood very still in a line with the other girls. I said nothing when I heard the first gunshot—the unwanted girls being murdered one at a time. There are so many of us, so many girls. The world wants us for our wombs or our bodies, or it doesn't want us at all. It steals us, destroys us, piles us like dying cattle in circus tents and leaves us lying in filth and perfume until we're wanted again.
I ran from that mansion because I wanted to be free. But there's no such thing as free. There are only different and more horrible ways to be enslaved.
And I feel something I've never felt before. Anger at my parents for bringing my brother and me into this world. For leaving us to fend for ourselves.
Maddie stares at me, her eyes glassy and bizarre. This is the first time I've really looked at her. She's obviously malformed—not just the strange, almost colorless blue of her eyes. In addition to her shriveled leg, one of her arms, the left, is shorter and much thinner than the other; her toes are almost nonexistent, as though something kept them from growing all the way out of her feet. But her face is angular and sharp, her expression all fearlessness and ire. It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.
Maybe that's why she doesn't speak. Why should she? What could she possibly have to say? She watches me, and then her eyes become distant, inaccessible, like she's diving into waters too deep for me to follow her into.
Madame mutters something unkind and kicks the child in the shoulder, then she steers me outside.
There are plenty of other children, with stronger bodies and normal features. They work, polishing Madame's fake jewels, doing laundry in metal basins and hanging it on wire that's strung between dilapidated fences.
"My girls produce like jackrabbits." Madame says the last word with malice. "Then they die and leave me to care for the mess they leave behind. But what can be done? The children make good workers at least." Ze children.
Long ago President Guiltree did away with birth control. He's of the pro-science mentality and thinks geneticists will fix the glitch in our DNA. In the meantime he feels it's our responsibility to keep the human race alive. There are doctors who know how to terminate pregnancies, though they charge more than most can afford.
I wonder if my parents ever did it. For all the time they spent monitoring pregnancies, I'm sure they knew how to terminate one.
Abortions are supposed to be banned, but I've never heard of the president actually punishing anyone for disobeying one of his laws. I'm not entirely sure what the president even does. My brother says the presidency is a useless tradition that might have once served a purpose but has become nothing but formality—something to give us hope that order will be restored one day.
I hate President Guiltree, who has been in charge of this country longer than I've been alive. With his nine wives and fifteen children—all sons—he does not believe the end of humankind is near. He makes no move to stop the Gatherers from kidnapping brides, and encourages madmen like Vaughn to breed infants who will live their lives as experiments. Sometimes he's on television, promoting new buildings or attending parties, flashing smiles, toasting his champagne glass at the TV like he expects us all to be celebrating with him. Or maybe he's mocking us.
