Lillyanne Plume's Arc

Chapter 11 of 22

The brass key shook in Lillyanne's palm. She couldn't tell if the tremor came from her hand or the metal itself. Scott stood behind her in the broom closet, close enough that she could hear him breathe. He said nothing. He had handed her the key and stepped back, and now the choice sat with her. "If I turn it wrong," she said, "does it kill us." "It doesn't turn wrong," Scott said. "It turns or it doesn't." She pressed her thumb against the bit to steady it. The shaking slowed. She slid the key into the door. It fit like it had been cut for the lock that morning. She turned it. The bolt gave with a soft, clean click. The door swung inward on its own. Warm air rolled over her, sweet with sugar and smoke. She stepped through. She stood on a small balcony. Velvet lounges. A low table with candied fruit and a bottle sweating in ice. She gripped the rail and looked out, and her breath left her. A circus tent rose around her, taller than any building she had ever stood inside. The fabric was deep purple, lit from within by ribbons of soft blue light that drifted across the cloth like slow water. Gold lanterns hung from the seams. The center pole vanished up into a haze she couldn't see the top of. Dozens of balconies ringed the inside of the tent, stacked in tiers. Every one was full. On some, people in bright coats and long gowns laughed with drinks in their hands. On others, small groups leaned close and spoke low, heads almost touching. A woman in red threw back her head and laughed at something a man in a hood said to her. A heavyset girl in green glasses wrote in a notebook without looking up. A few balconies held people like her. Standing at the rail. Staring. Mouths a little open. One boy across the ring gripped his rail so hard his knuckles had gone white. Scott stepped up beside her. He didn't look at the tent. He looked at her, heart steady and watch green. "This is where it starts," he said. "Every year. They bring the players here first. They let you drink. They let you look. They let you see who else came." He nodded at the tiers. "Watchers up top. Victims on the low rings. Players in the middle. That's us." She counted balconies until she lost track. Her chest felt tight in a new way. Not fear. Something closer to hunger. "When does it begin," she said. "When the lights go down." Behind them, the door she had come through closed on its own. She heard the bolt slide. She turned the key in her hand. It had gone still. Cold. Ordinary. She put it in her pocket.