It's the first time I've heard her speak.
Margaret's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Everyone bids, dear. The question is only how much."
A man in a headset appears in the doorway.
Young, early twenties, wearing all black like a stagehand.
Which I suppose he is.
"We're ready," he says.
Margaret nods, smooths her already-smooth hair, and adjusts her already-perfect suit jacket.
The doors open.
Music swells—louder now, clearer.
A string quartet, definitely.
Playing something I don't recognize but that sounds expensive.
And the auction begins.
Number eight goes first.
I watch through the glass as she walks onto that stage with her head held high, defiant even in her fear.
Her dress is red.
Fitted.
Shows her curves.
She's beautiful in the way that makes men stupid.
The auctioneer—a woman in a severe black suit, hair pulled back in a bun so tight it must hurt—reads from a tablet.
"Lot eight. Twenty-one years old. Trained in classical dance. Fluent in three languages. Starting bid: fifty thousand dollars."
Paddles raise immediately.
Numbers are shouted.
The auctioneer's voice remains perfectly level as she calls out the bids, each one higher than the last.
"Sixty thousand."
"Seventy-five."
"One hundred thousand."
Within two minutes, she's sold for three hundred and twenty thousand dollars to a silver-haired man in the front row who looks like someone's kindly grandfather.
He smiles when he wins.
Actually smiles, like he's just bought a nice car instead of a human being.
Number eight is led off stage by another handler.
