“Ora, move,” said March, pulling at my hand, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t look away from the flower that tilted on its wire stem, as if studying me. “You look like a crier,” it decided, its voice female. “The pretty ones always are.”
“How do you?—”
“Don’t,” March warned. “Don’t talk to it.” And he was right, of course, but my curiosity weighed a mountain, and my fear had yet to let go of me.
Then the orchid said, “Rude.The red one’s rude. Tell the red one he’s rude.”
My mouth opened and closed.
A silver lily three cases down chimed in, its voice higher, more musical. “They never stay to chat anymore. Remember the last ones? The tall girl cried for an hour and the boy with the scar sang us a song.”
“Lovely song,” said a blue rose near it. “Terrible voice.”
“Terrible,” echoed three more flowers in unison.
“You guys…are you seeing this?” asked Erith, shaking her head, frozen in the middle of the room as she looked at the flowers.
The talking flowers in cases.
Time’s Teeth, how in the world did this place even exist?
“Move it! C’mon, let’s go! Through the door!” Seth shouted, and the sound of his voice finally snapped me out of it.
I let March drag me to the other side while the flowers complained,allof them speaking now:
No wait! Where are you going? Stay a while, we get bored! It’s been ages, decades, centuries. Stay a little longer—pretty please!
We didn’t stop.
A few called the boys handsome and the girlswitchy,whatever that meant, and some commented on our clothes, our hair, the movement of our limbs. Mimi had stopped by the door with tears glistening in her eyes, watching a mustard-colored rose say, “See? Told you they were criers!”
Then we went through, and March closed the door behind us, and the sound of the flowers cut off all at once.
Over. It’s over-over-over.
And the next room was quiet, but somehow that was even worse.
We were still breathing heavily, our hearts still racing, trying to get ourselves under control, but we all knew we weren’t safe. Not even close.
This room was square, with a low ceiling and a dirt floor—actual dirt, packed hard but still soft enough to leave footprints.
We saw our own—as well as a pair ahead toward the middle of the room—and a single hole near them on the right. Like a hole a cane would leave.
Silas.
Everything came to a halt. I blinked and looked around,and my mind kept calling my eyes liars, becausethisroom was filled with dolls.
Not flowers, not mannequins—dolls.Small ones, knee-high, made of porcelain and cloth, arranged in clusters on the dirt floor like they’d been set down just for a moment, then forgotten. They wore tiny versions of suits, some white and some black, some blue, yellow and pink. All decorated with patches of the courts’ colors in some way—pockets, threads, hems and collars.
In fact, a few of them had white suits on that looked terribly—terriblyclose to the ones we’d had on that day we woke up in the arena.
Twelvein each cluster.
“Are they…” I couldn’t even finish the question, but Russ could.
“Hands,” he whispered. “They’re Hands.”
They were Hands, indeed. Porcelain versions of the people who’d played in the Turning Trials.
