Page 36 of Sparktopia
And I’m in a bad mood now. Which sucks. Because these three minutes are supposed to be my reprieve for the night. This tiny window of time where I could just be with the woman I love before I have to send her best friend into the God’s Tower as a sacrifice.
Instead, I feel hot with anger and filled with resentment. Over everything. All of it. And my place in it. The death of my father, my missing mother—who isn’t here. And now that I think about it, that whole situation is so fucked up, I can’t even process it yet. In the span of two days I’ve lost both my parents and all my hope. Because this whole place is hopeless. I will nevermarry Clara. We will never have our own home together, or any children.
After an entire decade of patiently waiting, we will never get the reward we earned.
And I’m mad about it.
But by the time all these thoughts have run through my head, my three minutes with Clara are long gone, I’ve already missed my scheduled one minute dancing with Gemna, the gala is over, the clocktower has already chimed the half-past mark, and it’s time to head outside to the God’s Tower stage.
Clara pulls back, tipping her chin up in a small act of bravery, and meets my gaze. “Are you OK?”
“AmIOK?” I point to myself. “AreyouOK?” I realize I should’ve asked this the moment she came to me for my dance, and I didn’t. I was lost in my own pathetic self-pity.
Clara wants to say she is OK, but she’s not. And so all that comes out of her mouth is a sigh.
I offer her my hand. “Walk with me?”
She pouts, but agrees.
Everyone is leaving the ballroom now, so it takes a good several minutes before we are outside again, breathing in the frigid night air.
Usually I like the chill of night. It’s a dependable comfort that comes every twelve hours or so after a long, hot, stifling day.
But tonight, it’s too much and Clara is shaking badly, her teeth chattering as we make our way over to the stage we will share as we send her best friend off to the god of Tau City.
A stranger god.
An unknown god.
Something foreign and irrelevant.
I hate him, I realize. I hate this god, and this job, and this city.
And I hate these feelings too. Because just a few days ago I was in love with all of it.
As we take our places, I notice that Mitch is taking care of Haryet. She, like Clara, is shaking uncontrollably, her teeth chattering so loud, I’m pretty sure even the people gathered at the far reaches of the tower stage can hear them.
I watch as Mitch holds her. Comforts her. Whispering things in her ear.
Clara snuggles up to me, unashamed at the public display of affection even though it’s kind of forbidden for Spark Maidens.
Fuck it, though, right?
This whole thing is a charade, anyway.
We’re sacrificing a woman to a god tonight and not a single person in this whole city will stand up and object.
Not even me.
There will be no discussion of Haryet tomorrow morning when people are lining up at the Magic Teacup or grabbing that morning pastry at the Laughing Loaf. They will forget about her immediately. For a year or two, at least. And then, when they are good and sure that the guilt of their silence that night has worn off, they will start praising her. They did that with Brooke Bayford, otherwise known as Maiden number seven. Just a few weeks ago I was walking across the canal bridge that leads to the Tower District and overheard a group of women discussing how beautiful Brooke looked on the night of her Extraction.
“Her hair was styled to look like a crown,” a woman sighed as I walked past.
It irritated me at the time for reasons unknown. Reasons I didn’t have time to think about. But I understand it now. It’s guilt. For the silence that is happening right in this very moment.
What is that old saying? All it takes for evil to prevail is for good men to remain silent.
But here’s the thing: if the good men are silent, were they ever good in the first place?
