by Anna Day
I remember Rose feeling anxious at this point in the story, sneaking across the border, her counterfeit tattoo fresh and stinging just like ours. But words on a page, a scene in a film, can’t do this awful feeling justice. It’s like my body has solidified, but my thoughts have turned to popping corn, firing again and again inside my skull. What if we get caught? Will they kill us? Can we really die in a story? Is it just a story? It seems so real. Like my brain is this screaming, writhing, red-hot mess, and yet my body is heavy with fear and powerless to act.
I glance at Nate and notice the tendons on his neck standing proud.
“You remember what happened to Rose in the decontamination block?” I whisper to him.
He nods. “Yeah, ’course. The guard with eyes the color of cornflowers.”
“The unicorn,” I reply, hoping to lend him some strength.
He nods, but his neck remains stiff. Saskia demands my silence with a firm glare.
I want to remind him that not all Gems are bad. Within the block exists at least one Symp—a Gem who’s secretly an Imp sympathizer. A guard with the most amazing, bright-blue eyes searched Rose and noticed her tattoo looked fresh, but instead of arresting her for trying to enter the Pastures illegally, he simply warned her to avoid the guard with the mustache and the steel-gray eyes. Rose thanked him, and told him that she always thought Symps were a thing of magic and myth—like unicorns.
It’s always been one of my favorite lines, and I’m secretly hoping I may get to say it.
I watch the Imps traipse toward the building like they’re part of a funeral procession. There’s just so many of them. I remember this from canon. Imps carry out most of their manual labor under the cover of darkness so as not to offend the Gems with their normal, imperfect, human bodies. This means there exist far more Night-Imps than Day-Imps. And even though the Night-Imps miss the warmth and the colors of the day, they enjoy more freedom, able to roam the Pastures in peace. And I’m starting to understand that freedom is its own form of sunshine.
We join the back of the line. I practice slouching and lowering my head, trying desperately to blend in, but my tattoo burns, a constant reminder of the wet ink and that wobbly five. We approach the iron doors and I focus on the dirt underfoot, avoiding the glint of the guards’ pistols. Finally, we enter the block, plunging into the dense, congealed air, stiff with the odor of bleach.
We shuffle in a line down a windowless corridor, strip lights flickering overhead, throwing into relief the stippled gray of the cinder-block walls. I watch the nape of Nate’s neck oscillate between white and black, his tattoo just hidden by the collar of his overalls. I feel this crushing pain in my chest, this feeling of helplessness.
A whirring noise builds and builds, and soon I can just make out a cloud of steam swelling, then diffusing, every thirty seconds or so. As we shuffle nearer, I begin to pick out a contraption—it looks like a car wash, only smaller, Imp-sized. I remember it from the film, only now it looks dangerous—hungry. As the line passes through, a burst of steam engulfs each Imp before they move on, sterile and Pasture-ready. Nate glances nervously over his shoulder, and I wish I could go first, but swapping places now would only draw attention from the guards. The steam engulfs Matthew, then Saskia. Next, it’s Nate.
He steps into the contraption and I watch him vanish in the haze. Up close, it looks slightly green and stinks of bleach and something acrid I can’t quite place. I hear a strangled cough and my heart leaps in my chest, but I don’t dare move, a guard’s pistol gleaming in my peripheral vision. The fog thins and Nate’s silhouette reappears. He steps away, grinning over his shoulder like he’s enjoying himself.
I take a deep breath and follow suit. Inside the metal cylinder there are nozzles and pipes and other strange mechanical equipment. I hear the steady fizz as the green gas squirts around me, and I get an overwhelming urge to flee. The gas assaults my nostrils and seeps beneath my overalls, stinging my skin and igniting my tattoo so I feel like I’ve been branded. I try desperately not to gasp or gag or both. The fizzing stops, the air clears, and I walk forward, trying to swallow down the sourness.
We pick up the pace and march down a long corridor. A large sterile room awaits, with thirty or so Imps lined up inside. We join the end of the row and the door slams shut. I lower my head, linking my hands together, afraid their shaking may betray me.
Several guards begin running their hands up and down the Imps, feeling for lumps that don’t belong, any weapons that may be smuggled into the Pastures. They move farther down the line toward me and Nate—every inch of my body freezes as though blinking or breathing might somehow attract attention. I stare at my boots until my eyes itch, listening as the steady clunk of their step intensifies.
The footsteps pause.
“You,” a guard says. “Come with me.”
I lift my head and see his finger pointing straight at me. He has steel-gray eyes and a mustache.
EVERYTHING GOES MUFFLED and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. The guard from canon stands before me, the one the Symp warned Rose about. He leads me to a separate chamber—an inspection booth with unpainted walls and an acrylic screen—and pushes me forward so my palms push into the plaster. Then, he grasps my ankles from behind and winds his hands quickly up my calves. I fight the instinct to kick out and run. His hands move to my front and he pushes his palms over my thighs, around the back and up the insides. I’ve never been touched so intimately by a man. And it doesn’t feel loving or tender. It feels brutal and quick. I think I might cry, so I bite down on my lip, so hard I can taste blood beneath the caustic tang of the chemical spray. Briskly, he stands and slips his hands up the sides of my chest and over my breasts. A scream catches in my throat.
“Arms up,” he says.
I raise my arms and begin to shake. At any moment he could notice my tattoo, still raw and fresh and irritated by the spray. But he spins me around so I face him, snaking his palms across my back.
Only now do I meet his eyes. The hatred there makes me gasp.
He grips my shoulders and pins me against the wall. “We’ve got ten minutes.” His breath tastes of stale coffee.
I feel like a moth in a display case, pinned beneath a sheet of glass, totally exposed and unable to move. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t act all innocent, Imp.” He pushes my hair from my face. “There’s some Gem coin in it for you. Extra if you smile.”
Every one of his muscles pushes against me. I feel sick.
“Come on, this can’t be the first time, a pretty Imp like you. Now step out of the overalls.”
“But—but, you’ve already searched me.” Tears well in my eyes.
In one sudden movement, he throws me into the acrylic panel—the breath rushing from my lungs. Beyond my ghostly reflection lies a vast dimness strewn with movement, shapeless figures forming a line. I squint into the gloom and realize the shapes are people, a line of naked bodies, clutching at each other’s hands so they look like one of those paper doll chains we used to make when we were kids.
“Do as I say or I’ll put you in there,” he whispers in my ear. “With the rebels and the wannabe slaves with fake tattoos.”
I hear the disjointed beat of gunfire, the sound of muffled groans. The chain crumples and bodies slump to the ground. I think I say Oh God, my breath clouding the pane.
“OK,” I whisper—the word stings my lips.
I begin to unzip my overalls with numb, trembling fingers. It feels like I’m removing my skin.
The door opens and a foot soldier with eyes the color of cornflowers appears. The Symp. I could cry with joy.
He examines me for a moment and scowls. “We’re about to load them onto the bus.”
Coffee-breath freezes. “Go ahead.”
“We need all the Imps.”
They glare at each other for a moment.
“Now,” the Symp says.
Coffee-breath responds by taking a step back and lowering hi
s head.
I follow the Symp down the corridor, my fingers scrabbling with my zip, tears leaking down my face.
“Are you OK?” he asks, his voice quiet and soft.
“Yeah,” I manage to say. I want to tell him he’s magical and mythical and brave and wonderful. I want to throw my arms around his neck and tell him thank you over and over. But all I manage is a weedy, “Thanks.”
By the time I reenter the waiting room, I’m all zipped up and I’ve wiped my cheeks dry. Nate risks glancing at me, a terrified look hanging on his face. I offer a little nod—I’m OK, it says.
The guards march us outside onto an expanse of concrete, segmented by yellow markings and encircled with stone barricades crowned with loops of barbed wire. The sky may look drab, but it’s vast and limitless and the same as back home. The fresh air of the Pastures fills my lungs, carrying scents of roses and bark and pulling me back to vacations in the Lake District. I suddenly feel this huge sense of relief.
A line of parked Imp-buses vanishes into the distance, their uneven windows shimmering in the ever-decreasing sunlight. We follow Saskia to a bay marked 753 and approach a rusting bus. The scent of bleach sends my heart into overdrive.
“This bus will take us straight to the manor,” she whispers as we climb the steps.
The driver is clearly an Imp, but two Gem guards sit on the front seat, pistols docked in their holsters. Panic takes hold again; each of my muscles tightly coils like a snake before it strikes. But the guards simply ignore me. I move down the bus and slump into an empty seat next to Nate. The seat feels hard and the stink brings tears to my eyes, but just knowing we’re about to leave the decontamination block and the guard with the steel-gray eyes makes my bottom lip quiver like a toddler’s.
Nate examines my face. “Jesus, sis. What did they do to you?”
“Nothing,” I reply, my breath tart in my mouth. “That guard, you know, the one with cornflower eyes, he kind of saved me.”
Nate gasps. “It’s like Baba said—the story’s dragging us along.”
“It’s so much more than just a story now, though, isn’t it?” I whisper. “The poor Imps, I know we’ve read about it, watched it on the telly, but now that it’s real”—I get this mass in my throat that makes talking hurt—“I think it may be worse.”
We wait for about half an hour until the bus is full with Imps. The engine starts and we roll through huge metal gates into the Pastures. The world of the Gems.
It’s like entering Disneyland—that sudden injection of color. I swear the sun shines brighter and the birds sing louder on the Gem side of the wall. The green stretches around us in all directions—trees, grass, hedgerows dotted with yarrow and clover and the deep purple of brambles. I was raised in the suburbs and I’m used to green—I’ve missed it, even after two days.
The Imp-bus trundles along the roads, far noisier than any vehicle I’ve ever traveled in. The Imps nap, including Nate, his head resting on my shoulder. I study his face. Normally, he looks like Dad, so animated and full of life, his face all pointed and excited, his sandy hair sticking up like he’s stuffed his finger in a power socket. But now he’s completely relaxed, he looks more like Mum—the same softness around his mouth. My stomach twists and that mass in my throat grows. I miss my parents, really miss them. The safety, the belonging, the way they always make everything OK.
The rhythm of the bus and the warmth of the sleeping bodies lull me into sleep. I know this because I dream—the seat has been replaced by something soft, a mattress perhaps, and my eyelids flicker, the walls of a darkened room throbbing in and out of focus. I see the outline of a man, feel the warmth of a hand wrap around mine. I smell this tinny hospital smell that reminds me of the dentist and, weaving beneath, coffee and stale tobacco—the smell Dad gets when he’s stressed. He squeezes my hand. Wake up, Violet. Please, darling. Just open your eyes and wake up. But the silhouette loses form, blurring around the edges and growing dimmer by the second.
And suddenly, I see Rose, standing on the wooden stage, rope around her neck. A voice soars above the crowd. I love you. Her hair falls from her face, and I see that it isn’t Rose anymore. It’s me. The hangman pulls the lever and I hear the crack of the trapdoor flying open, see the sudden jerk of my body as it pulls against the rope, watch my feet pirouette as they frantically search for solid ground. I hear Baba’s voice: A story is like a life cycle, Violet. You will be released only when the story concludes. Birth to death.
But it doesn’t release me. I feel the air choking from my lungs, the lines of the Coliseum dissolving, the sounds of the crowd fading. And yet still, it doesn’t release me.
“Violet! Wake up,” Nate says.
I wake gasping for air, like someone is squatting on my chest, crushing my lungs to the size of pockets. My skin feels raw—so raw I can’t place the sensation. I could be on fire, or trapped beneath a frozen lake, or covered in hundreds of tiny contusions. I know that I’m crying because I can hear my sobs, feel the tears dampening my cheeks.
“It’s OK,” Nate says. “Look, we’ve reached the Harper estate.”
“What’s going on back there?” a guard shouts.
I fall silent, biting my tongue with the effort of keeping quiet.
We enter the Harper estate the back way. We see no sweeping vistas of the manor, proud and watchful, nestled in acres of meadows. There’s just a load of privet hedges and the outline of an orchard against the evening sky. I can’t help feeling a little disappointed. The bus pulls to a halt and we file off.
Saskia leads us down a path. “We’re heading to the Imp-hut.”
Nate’s whisper is barely audible over the crunch of gravel. “Don’t worry, we’re only here for a few days.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“What? Returning to the city?”
I sigh, insecurities eating away at my insides. “No—getting Willow to fall for me in a few days.”
“Rose managed.”
“Katie’s right, nobody falls in love that fast.”
Nate stops in his tracks. My gaze follows his and we stare at the Imp-hut.
“Grim,” he whispers.
I remember it so fondly from canon. A haven where Rose, Saskia, and Matthew sat in their bunks, playing cards and plotting. It looked a little like a gingerbread house, nestled in greenery and sheltered by oaks. But the reality is a wonky shack, built from corrugated iron and rotting beams. And things only deteriorate inside. It smells of wet dog and human excrement, and the fine layer of hay dusting the floor barely hides the mud beneath. The quirky furniture and bohemian curtains from the film have been replaced by a few upturned crates and a rotting pine table.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask in a small voice.
Saskia laughs. “There’s a couple of lean-tos out back with toilets and a communal shower.”
“The shower’s bloody freezing,” Matthew says. “It’s better just to smell.”
“Grab a bunk,” Saskia says.
The bunks look more like shelves covered in straw. They line the back of the hut, divided by plain, threadbare sheets hung like curtains, offering little in the way of privacy. I take Nate’s hand and we wander toward the bunks, slightly shell-shocked.
The other slaves mill around us, making cups of tea, gathering up tools, and heading out into the evening. They seem to take it in turns to scowl at us, and I figure there’ll be no card games. I find myself searching for Ash, for the palest blue eyes in existence. But he’s nowhere to be seen. He must be arriving on the next bus. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.
Saskia plunks herself on one of the shelf-bunks. “We’ll sleep here instead of returning to the city in the day. It’s safer to stay put for a while, avoid the searches at the border.”
Nate yawns. “I’m so ready for a sleep.”
“You’ll be lucky,” Saskia says. “You’re Night-Imps now. You don’t get to sleep until morning.” She turns to me, a malicious smile crossing her fa
ce. “And you’ll be taking that freezing-cold shower tonight, girlie—I don’t want you stinking of the decontamination block.”
“Why not?” I ask, my brain still numb from it all.
She gawks at me like I’m an idiot. “Because when that sun sets, you’ll be meeting Willow Harper for the first time.”
THE SHOWER IS beyond cold. I feel it in my bones, the skin on my chest mottled and blue. But at least it momentarily distracts me from my nerves. I’m about to meet Willow for the first time. I wait for that lovely feeling of anticipation, but instead I just feel like I’m competing with Rose’s ghost—and coming up short.
Rose and Willow. An epic love story. Their first meeting was just fizzing with electricity. They had this instant attraction, a connection. She waited for him in the orchard beneath a plum tree, knowing he would take this path on his midnight walk. She then attracted his attention by cutting her own hand and yelping—and I don’t mean high-pitched dog yelp, I mean stunning-damsel-in-distress yelp. Willow ran to see what was wrong, took one look into those big, brown eyes, and everything he knew about the world began to unravel. He had fallen for an Imp.
He’ll take one look at me and run screaming in the opposite direction.
Saskia teases my hair into curls and pinches my cheeks, murmuring something about Rose having more of a natural glow. I couldn’t feel more deficient if I tried. Once she’s finished prodding my face and my ego, she leads Nate and me toward the orchard, navigating the estate in the dark like a bat.
The Harper estate is large, even by Gem standards. Hundreds of acres of woodland and meadows and landscaped gardens. I imagine I could easily get lost, so I stay close to Saskia, even though her constant frown unsettles me.
