Page 20

I sigh, moving to fasten my seatbelt.

CHAPTER 7

• Alessia •

“MR. CRAWLY REALLY fucked us over this time.” Arlo curses as we reach the center of town by the docks. Trucks line the road as servants are hauled from their cages, and Sable and Angie cling to each other as a man rips them from the back of one, making them stumble.

“You went to the markets with Mr. Crawly to sell those tomatoes. What happened?” I ask, wondering if that has something to do with the King’s Guard swooping in.

“It was a disaster. We had to bail because people were stealing the crates. Some attacked us, saying Mr. Crawly stole them. Some accused him of witchcraft. It was a shitshow. When Crawly gave the King’s Guard their portion of the tomatoes to meet the levy, they said they’d be by to grab the rest of what he owes. I think the king saw those tomatoes and thought Crawly had been holding out on him. I think repossessing the debt contracts was a distraction. There were a lot of guards there to pick up a few servants, don’t you think?” He looks sideways at me. “More trucks than I have ever seen. They were turning the barn and the storage areas upside down before you got there.”

Fuck, just what I thought would happen.

Arlo slows, and through the open truck window, the stink of brine, rot, and the crush of too many bodies assaults me. The docks groan under the weight of battered trucks and wagons, and stacks of cages filled with chickens and pigs line the piers.

People swarm the maze of vendor stalls, gaunt and gray-eyed, clutching ragged coin bags or bartering with whatever scraps they’ve managed to spare. Voices rise, pleading, cursing, woven through with the wails of infants and the moans of the caged.

Flesh traders in stained leather prowl among the crowds, silver badges flashing on their chests. Servants shiver behind iron bars, their collars clinking as handlers prod them for display. The debt they owe the Crown is fastened around tags hanging from raw wrists or their necks, as if what they owe is all they are worth in this world.

Two men in tattered shirts brawl over a crate of shriveled apples, splinters flying as it hits the cobbles and bursts open. Hunger has made animals of us all.

Before Arlo has come to a complete stop, I am out of the truck.

“Alessia,” Arlo screeches, but I run toward my sister, only stopping when I hit the chest of a flesh trader.

“Her, that one there! That’s my sister!” I point, and the flesh trader glances over his shoulder.

“Early buyouts haven’t started yet. You’ll have to wait,” the man says, and panic fills me.

Before I can argue, Arlo grips my cloak to yank me back. “Are you nuts? You can’t just run in there,” he hisses before waving a bag of coins in front of me.

“Where did you get that?” I demand.

“My mother’s been working nights. Crawly hasn’t been able to afford Angie’s medication in some time—”

“Working nights? Where?”

Arlo looks away. “I didn’t ask.”

“And Mr. Crawly lets her go?”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He doesn’t know, or if he does, he hasn’t said anything. All I know is I have thirty-two silver coins to try to buy them back.”

Thirty-two silver coins is a lot. We would only need to pay the warden’s commission today. The rest of their debt can be made in payments like Crawly had agreed to. We will have time to come up with the regular payments.

I nod slowly, and Arlo leads me toward the stadiums while the trucks are sorted. Early individual buyouts are at five then by seven, the real auction begins.

So Arlo and I wait.

Once the iron gates to the stockyard grind open, the crowd surges in. It’s a greedy tide of buyers in stained cloaks and battered boots. Voices tangle in the air, some hard and haggling, others low and trembling.

Cages line the narrow paths, each packed with trembling figures, children and adults alike, their necks ringed with iron collars. The unlucky are displayed in front, price tags dangling from bruised wrists, while the rest huddle behind, eyes darting as traders prowl past.

Shouts ring out, leering laughter over prettier merchandise eyed for the brothels. Those who draw no bids are destined for the ships waiting at the end of the pier, cold, faceless hulks that swallow the unwanted and spirit them away to a fate in distant kingdoms.

We waste forty-five minutes pushing through the crowd. My eyes sting with salt and panic until at last I spot Sable and Angie. Both girls are collared, herded among strangers and the other seven taken from Crawly’s farm.

“Angie!” Arlo lunges toward the cage, and his sister’s tiny hands reach through the bars for him, her whole body shaking. Sable’s head snaps up when she hears Arlo, and she shoves past the other captives, almost collapsing into my arms through the cage’s iron lattice. She clings to me, the metal cold between us as I pull her close.