Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Dahlia
Too soon, I am walking past the House Girls again, cringing internally. At least this time, the door is closed, but the same obnoxious sounds beat through the walls. I can hear every thrust through his grunts and almost feel the fatigued agony in the ballad of moans.
“Apparently, it’s Tomar who fancies you, then?” Sweets says, leaning her hip on the wall and folding her arms over her exposed breasts.
“I doubt that.” I frown, heading straight for my room only to notice it is unlocked. My heart leaps into my throat as I swing the door open, finding Tomar sitting on the bed with Spero cradled in his arms. I exhale hard.
“He sleeps like the dead.” Tomar smiles, gaze lost as he looks at Spero. “Such a sweet boy.”
“I wasn’t gone long. I promise.” Scooping my wet hair to the side, it dangles and drips down my chest, wetting my black shirt. Oh. His black shirt. A blush of awkwardness spreads across my cheeks.
“I wasn’t judging you, Dahlia.”
“You don’t mind…” I pause, lifting the fabric of his shirt as my face flushes. “That I am wearing this, do you? I found it with the supplies.”
“It is for you to wear. Look what you found.” His blue gaze moves around the room, taking in the small mobile I fashioned from shells and rope, the bottle-rattle, and the mirror. “You didn’t do anything silly for these items, did you?”
My gaze widens. “No. I helped Tide.”
“That old geezer let you near his boat?” He lets out a single laugh, and if I weren’t so tired, it would make me smile. “Well, it seems you’ve managed something none of us have. I’ve been offering to help him for years, but he won’t allow it. Stubborn old bastard.”
“Why are you always helping people,” I ask, and I hate that kindness is so unbelievable.
“I told you,” he says with a chuckle, “it’s my Purpose.”
“And Lagos,” I ask, brow rising, “Why does he do it?”
“It’s his Purpose, too.”
I scoff helplessly. “Sorry, but he doesn’t seem the noble type at all. He is—” I see his leer. “Cruel to me, and rude. Unnecessarily.”
“It wasn’t the Purpose he was born for, sure, but it is the Purpose he chose. He chooses it every day when he protects me so I can help others.”
“Why does he dislike me?”
“I don’t think he does, Dahlia,” Tomar says. “Helping someone like you is not easy for him. Your innocence bothers him—discomforts him. So he’s just,” he pauses, “intolerant.”
Someone like me?
A Trade girl?
“Intolerant. Grumpy.” I lift an auburn brow at him. “Grumpy is a polite word for him.”
“Maybe. You don’t know him.” He nods to a basket on the floor filled with cans and two bottles of white powder. “More food and formula. That formula was not easy to get, Dahlia. It’s all Trade stock. It’ll be even harder when we hit the desert.”
“Milk?” I ask, even though finding milk is hard, surely not as hard as sourcing formula. Reproduction in The Cradle is controlled by The Trade, so anything that might aid a non-authorised pregnancy is scarce-to-impossible to find. The Trade will provide everything needed for a safe birth in exchange for the babe. All babies born in The Cradle are declared Trade property. While the Endigo and Common who live outside of Trade towers are free to do as they please, they are also disadvantaged—on their own to raise, educate, and deliver their young. The Trade will not offer any aid to citizens who refuse the regime. “Just plain milk might do for a while?”
I’m not convinced.
“Powdered milk. Sure.” Tomar nods dubiously. “For a day or so, but he’ll need more than that. We will be in the desert for a week before we get to the Common Community.”
“Can we find a new mother?”
“In the desert?” He shakes his head with a soft laugh, not condescending, more disappointed. “Better luck finding formula than a lactating woman who isn’t Trade-aligned.”
“There has to be something.”
He stands with Spero and lays him down in the nest I made at the bottom of the bed. “What I did find is in that basket.” He sits back down and clasps his fingers together. “Might help. If you’re willing to try it. I didn’t want to be the one to have this conversation with you, but I’m all you’ve got. I did ask Sweets to talk to you about this, but she’s been rather…” He clicks his tongue before settling on, “ Unhelpful when it comes to you. I wrongfully thought she’d mother you, but I believe she finds your presence uncomfortable.”
Annoyance rushes through me. Uncomfortable? How? What have I done? I try not to show my agitation, but it comes through a scoff. “How? I barely speak to?—"
“ Dahlia ,” he soothes, and I stop talking. “Relax. It’s not you. It’s her. Just like with Lagos, it’s not you, it’s him.”
“They are both so hostile,” I mumble, ignoring a pang of rejection. “I’m alone. Doesn’t she realise that? I’ve never been alone in my life. I always had my Collective, always had friends. Why can’t we be friends? I feel like a petulant child asking this, but I’m tired, and?—”
“I understand.” He smiles kindly, and I sigh, relieved he doesn’t think I’m stomping my foot because no one will play with me. “Friendship is a nice feeling, but you can’t force it. You and Sweets are very different creatures.” He leans forward onto his knees, resting his chin on his clasped hands. “Have you ever been beaten by a man?”
I blink at him. “What?”
“Impregnated and forced to abort it by bathing in boiling water or had your wrist bone broken by a man who was too damn rough?”
My throat thickens.
I shake my head, unable to answer. Not needing to. Tomar isn’t asking for a response, and I feel such gut-wrenching sadness for Sweets and the other House Girls.
“She kept working with that broken wrist,” he goes on, a sad memory sets in his blue gaze. “Don’t worry, that drifter paid with his life. I am not excusing her rudeness.” He lowers his hands to his lap. “Nor do I want to make you feel bad. I’m proud of you, of your courage to care for Spero. Just understand what you look like to people like Sweets. You’re shiny and new. Beautiful in a way that she can never be. It’s not just physical, it is the beauty of innocence.”
I shuffle. He offers praise and compliments with such ease that they are almost believable. Do I thank him? Does he want something for his kind words? No; I don’t think he does. He seems to say things as he sees them. Pretty but plain, is what I thought, but Tomar says I’m beautiful.
Turning my face, I try to hide my blush of pride. It’s embarrassing and obvious.
“You’re also hopeful . To survivors like Sweets, you have had it too easy. Unfairly easy. She can’t relate to you, and you can’t understand her. I’m not asking for you to put up with mistreatments by her, but simply understand.”
“Okay.” I chew on my lip.
“Okay.” He confirms with a smile. “So, have a look in the basket.”
I kneel on the ground and move a few food cans before finding a bottle filled with little white pills. I can’t read, but I can see the symbol of the Trade and the number 1000 printed on the label.
“Nutrients? For Spero?”
“No. They’re hormones. Getting my hands on that bottle was a miracle,” he says, his tone taking on a more serious edge. “Someone is looking out for you. Those pills could solve your problem.”
Shocked, I barely move. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but I’m not quite following. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Hormones,” he repeats. “The Trade often gives them to the Sired Mothers, the women who work in the Trade Nursery, to induce lactation.”
I can feel my frown, because the muscles strain. “You mean…” I have to pause to really sort this information in my mind. “If I take these pills, then I can breastfeed Spero?”
“With those new jars, you have enough formula for another two weeks, tops. It’s when we hit the desert that I’m concerned about. Use some of that innocent optimism, and it might just work. We can only try.” He stands and brushes his finger down Spero’s cheek. “Until next time, Spero. Lagos and I will keep searching for formula and powdered milk in the meantime.”
I am blinking slowly at the small pill in my hand, amazed that such a tiny thing can bring about a lifesaving resource, especially in the desert, when Tomar walks to the door. “Wait.” He stops. “How many do I take? How often?”
“Sorry, I forgot you can’t read. Take two daily. One in the first-light and one before bed. Nothing will happen for at least two weeks, or maybe not at all, but I’ve heard that just having a newborn close to a woman can induce lactation, so hold him a lot. He is yours now, Dahlia.” He reaches out and runs his knuckles down my cheek, the same way he did with Spero. “You look tired. Get some sleep while he does. That’s the golden rule.”
How does he know all this stuff? He drops his hand, and I wonder what it would be like to be held by him. I clear my throat to banish the thought. “But I need to help Tide and bathe while he sleeps. Or I am just…” I can’t find the words in my fatigue.
“A mother,” Tomar finishes.
I sigh, walking backward to the bed, dropping down like my bones are mere straw.
“I wanted a toy for Spero. That’s how it all started with Tide,” I admit. “I wanted a bottle.”
I can feel his gaze on me as I rub my eyes.
“If you need things, you just have to ask, Dahlia. If you can’t find me or Lagos, then look for Beauty. I think she will be kinder to you. You have more in common with her than others. She used to be a Trade girl.”
The sound of the door closing is all that sinks in, my mind already half-asleep.
Sleep when he does…
I lie down on the mattress and curl my knees to my chest. Inhaling and exhaling, finding sleep.
* * *
Most nights since I left the Half-tower, I dream of Maple’s silky brown strands parting as I comb through them. I would groom her, and she would tell me stories.
I miss my friend.
And yet, her comforting brown hair isn’t what I see tonight. During my moments of slumber, I’m brushing black hair, and when she turns her chin, it’s Sweets’ profile I see.
I wake to Spero fussing and crawl to the bottle. I mix the formula. It’s unusually quiet in The House; often, I would be cursed to hear bed-springs and groans, but not tonight.
Lagos wore them out.
I wonder if he is still down the corridor. My imagination slides through the narrow passage to the room. His huge, muscular body is sprawled across the bed, face down, forehead resting on his thick forearms. Two naked girls clinging to his firm body on either side, wet from sweat. Wonderfully satiated. They are safe, warm, tingling, and his for the night.
Uncontrolled, I moan.
Sweets’ words ring between my ears. ‘He clearly doesn’t like you at all, Lace Girl.’ Rejection stings me. Why? Because I’m inexperienced? Annoying? I made a mistake trusting the Endigo man!
Okay… I wish I didn’t care what that brute, Lagos, thinks of me, wish his disdain didn’t choke, but my body has a mind of its own. Chest tight, skin vibrating, heart sinking, biting jealousy— I care!
Playing with Spero’s lips until he sucks the bottle, I lie down with him propped beside me, holding the bottle with one hand.
My mind reels with the vision of Beauty’s face in sweet agony and Sweets’ awe toward his stamina. He likes them. They share a harsh existence. Find relief in each other. Find an escape. I want that. I’m just surviving, too, and I want something pleasurable in my lonely, scary new life.
The image of that man holding Sweets’ wrist in the lobby comes to mind. The way he hissed the word “bitch.” That image slides to one I made up, of her being held down, her wrist breaking as a man takes her with brutal force.
Not the same man.
‘He paid with his life.’
Probably at Lagos’ hand.
Or fists…
But no matter the situation my mind conjures, Sweets’ eyes are always level and proud. She is tough.
Besides finding my Ward poisoned in his bed, and worse, mere hours later watching Maple bleed to death, I have never experienced anything that might build that kind of resilience and strength.
What must she think of me? She probably believes I’m pathetically simple.
Am I?
I don’t want to be.
After caring for Spero, he falls asleep, but I stare at the dark ceiling, finding the quiet uncomfortable. Agitation over Lagos’ mean ways gathers in my stomach. Guilt and sorrow toward Sweets tighten my forehead. I wish I could do something to help her. I’m not a weak, fragile Lace Girl. I would have cut Lagos with my hacksaw that first day, and I ran away from a safe life, from Meaningful Purpose and all that I knew to protect someone else’s baby. Isn’t that character? Does that not hold any value to… I bite my lip at his name—Lagos.
Tomar sees more in me.
Maple did, too.
Soon, I’ll show him.