But it's too late now.
"Number fourteen."
My number.
Margaret touches my elbow.
Her fingers are cold through the thin fabric of my sleeve. "You're up."
I don't remember deciding to move, but suddenly I'm walking toward those double doors.
They open.
Blinding light hits me.
Stage lights, bright and hot and overwhelming.
I can't see past the stage, can't see the audience.
Can only see the podium and the auctioneer waiting.
One foot in front of the other.
The way I walked down the aisle at Sanctuary for Sunday services.
The way I walked to the kitchen every morning to help prepare breakfast for a hundred and fifty people.
The way I walked toward the woods the night I ran, not knowing what was ahead but knowing I couldn't stay.
My heart is pounding.
I can feel it in my throat, my wrists, my temples.
I can hear it in my ears, louder than the music, louder than the murmur of voices from the audience I still can't see.
The stage is bigger than it looked from backstage.
The walk to the center feels endless.
I reach the podium and stop where I'm supposed to stop.
The lights are hot on my skin.
I can feel sweat beginning to form at my temples, at the small of my back.
The white dress suddenly feels too tight, too heavy, too much.
"Lot fourteen," the auctioneer says, her voice amplified through speakers I can't see. "Twenty-three years old. Gold tier acquisition. Extensive domestic training. Virgin. No living family ties. Compliant temperament. Starting bid: one hundred thousand dollars."
Extensive domestic training.
That's one way to describe twenty-three years of cooking and cleaning and farming at the Sanctuary.
No living family ties.
My mother is dead.
My father might as well be.
