21. Seraphina
21
SERAPHINA
“TOO MUCH GUTS”
12 years ago…
I stand in front of the lavatory’s shattered mirror, tracing the deep pink groove of my scar as my gaze goes in and out of focus. The tile beneath my soles is as cold as the air, signaling the arrival of winter and another three months of utter hell.
I know this winter is going to be particularly bad. We lost our best forager, Zenith, during the summer trials, and because of that, we were unable to harvest and store enough rations for the remaining eight of us.
Zenith… poor Zenith…
My chest squeezes with physical pain as I recall the six months ago. All nine of the remaining girls had completed the summer trials—all but one. All we had to do was unpick the shackles binding our ankles to the bottom of the lake and swim to safety. It seemed easy enough—we had all been trained so extensively in lock picking, and even Maggie had come to master it. But with the added pressure of being underwater with no oxygen… some of the girls started to crack.
I was the first of the Madam’s in Training to undo my shackles and swim to the surface of the lake, but was unable to help any of the others, forced to watch and wait as only seven of my eight sisters resurfaced.
After thirty agonizing minutes, I was allowed to retrieve Zenith from the bottom of the lake. But what I found wasn’t her anymore. Zenith's pretty face was bloated and purple, her tongue hanging from her mouth unnaturally like she tried to bite it off in her last moments of insanity. And her legs— God, her legs.
I shudder as I remember the mangled flesh around her ankles—carved down to the bone in some places where Zenith tried to claw her way free of the iron shackles. Even till the end, she fought. She fought and fought and fought, and I was not going to allow her life to end in vain. If no one else would, I would live through this. I would survive, if only to be able to carry on her memory. Zenith’s, and the other four girls we lost in the plast eleven years.
Ebony, 3 months. Dehydration.
Samantha, 4. Accidental poisoning.
Carissa, 8. Knife wound.
Monica, 8. Knife wound.
And now, Zenith, 12. Drowning.
I recite their names, ages, and deaths so I might etch their memories into my mind. So much is lost in our training that, I’m afraid if I don’t carry out the silly ritual, I’ll eventually forget them entirely.
I’m broken from my thoughts as someone jiggles the door to the tiny bathroom. I whip around, deftly undoing the lock and preparing a speech on people needing to have some damn patience when my eyes catch on flaming red curls.
“Nina! I’ve been looking all over for you!!”
I blink at the light shining from her bright white smile, wondering where all her energy comes from this early in the day. “You okay, Magoo?”
She rolls her big blue eyes, pulling at my arm impatiently. “Of course I am. But I won't be if we don’t get going!”
My eyes go wide as I look at the iron clock hanging on the wall of the lavatory. Is it really almost seven? “Frick. Let’s go.” If we’re late to the first of the winter trials… I don’t even want to imagine the punishment we’d face.
I silently promise to thank Maggie for this later as we race through the woods toward the clearing, the icy morning air burning our skin and reddening our cheeks. Frosted grass crunches underfoot as we stumble into the clearing, and I take Maggie by the hand as I lead her toward the lineup. We take our place beside the other six girls silently, hanging our heads when Madam sends a piercing glare our way.
“Nice of you to join us, girls. ” She plucks a gold gold-crusted watch from her pocket and flips it open, her cruel emerald eyes taking in the ticking hands. “You made it just in time. How lucky for you.” She snaps it closed with a sneer and pockets it before stepping into the center of the clearing, holding her pointed chin held high to the frost-covered skies. “The first of the three winter trials will now commence.”
A sense of dread fills the air as three white-masked men step from the clearing, their bulging muscles barely hidden behind their fine fine-tailored suits. Masks.
Faster than I can blink, they’re upon us, their strong arms reaching out to restrain. Each one of us fights, kicks, and screams, but it doesn’t affect them in the slightest. With a nod from the Madam, each Mask pulls out a syringe, injecting it into their captive’s neck.
I don’t even notice when mine goes in—too busy keeping eye contact with Maggie, praying she understands the words my eyes are screaming at her. Don’t be afraid. Keep your head. I’ll protect you. No matter what happens, I will protect you.
And then everything goes black.
I wake sometime later, my eyes crusted closed and a pressure on each of my extremities. I pry my eyes open, my vision swimming at a blinding fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling. I try to lift my head but, find my neck immobilized by a thick leather strap, then try to move my limbs. No luck there, either. In addition to the restraints, headphones are fitted to my ears, blanketing the world in silence and causing panic to grip my chest. My chest rises hard and fast, but I force myself to calm down, shutting my eyes and focusing on my breathing. I take deep, slow breaths in and out of my nose, praying it will be enough.
When I know I’ve calmed down enough, I crack my lids open—only to slam them closed when I realize what’s dangling mere inches above. I hadn’t noticed them earlier due to the light and my panic, but now that I’m thinking clearly, there’s no question what they are.
Twin spikes—each tip positioned the perfect width apart to puncture both my eyes if it were to drop even six inches.
I long to reach out and hold Maggie’s hand, to tell her everything is going to be okay, like I thought it would be earlier. But being here, not knowing what this next test is, I truly don’t know if I’ve lied to her.
My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp crack, and I know the Madam has turned on the headset.
“By now, the last of the drugs administered to you should be making their way out of your system. In five minutes, the first of the winter exams will begin. Listen closely as I explain, for I will not be repeating myself.”
Madam clears her throat, clearly pleased by our restraint. “By now, you may have noticed the spikes positioned above you. For this test, you will be asked questions pertaining to the Sanctum and your roles as the Madam—should you progress enough to be given that esteemed title. For each question you answer incorrectly, the spikes will lower. Answer enough incorrectly, and well…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. “If there are no questions, we will begin.”
As always, we remain silent. Once, a sister actually did have a question about a trial, and Madam repaid her by cutting out her tongue. She’s still alive, but the light she used to hold in her bright green eyes died that day.
“Good. Best of luck to you all.” Her voice holds none of the sentiments her words do. “We will now begin.”
The spikes jostle horribly as the machine roars to life, but I don’t have time to think about them—don’t have time to think about anything else as the Madam’s voice rings out in my ears.
“When was the Sanctum founded?”
“1803,” I whisper, praying the other girls are of sound mind to answer. She’ll start with easy questions, but I’m sure they will only get more difficult from here on out. My heartbeat slows with each question I get right—with each time those horrid spikes stay right where they are—and for a moment, I think I’ll pass this trial unscathed.
“What was my original name?”
Wait. What? My mind reels as I try to recall this piece of information—but for the life of me, I can’t remember a single time the Madam actually told us her real name.
“Calathea Crel.” I whisper the name the Sanctum gave her, praying the question was a trick and this is the way she wanted us to answer.
The spikes lower, and panic twists my gut. No. No, no, no.
My own panic is cut short as a piercing scream punctuates the silence, the pitch of it loud and clear enough to pierce the noise-canceling headphones. And I know that scream—I know it well.
Arabella.
I jerk my head to the side as much as I can, horror gripping my chest at the sight that greets me. Arabella is strapped to her table like me, but those horrible glinting spikes have actually punctured her eyes—a result of answering too many questions incorrectly.
Her body convulses on the table, and the spikes dig farther into the pulverized organs, causing blood to pool down her face in fat red tears in one of the most horrifying sights I’ve witnessed. I want to reach out—to hold her and calm her down.
But the next question is starting.
“Stop,” I whisper, missing the beginning of the question as my mind fractures. “Stop! Stop it! Please, you have to STOP!”
But no one listens. No one cares.
“...wastes the most resources?” Madam’s voice rings out strong and true, and I know poor Arabella is doomed. I don’t even bother trying to answer the question—I just keep staring at my sister and —watch the spikes lower one last time.
“NO!” I scream. “NO, NO, NO! Arabella, you have to calm down! You have to answer the next question!”
The spikes drop. Her body jerks, falls limp—and I know Arabella is gone.
“No-o-o-o,” I wail, the sound interrupted by great, heaving sobs. “Noo. Please, no. It’s not real. None of this is real.”
Not real, not real, not real.
But it is, and Arabella refuses to rise. And I know—I know, against all my efforts, wishes, and prayers—that we’ve lost another.
“Well done!” Madam cheers through my headset, her voice much too cheery for the circumstances. “Those of you living have passed the first of the winter trials. You should be proud of yourselves.”
As the Masks come around, unshackling our restraints, I can’t help but think how not proud I feel. There’s a hollow pit in my abdomen where my stomach used to be, and it takes everything in me not to retch as I finally sit up.
“So you see, girls… Being a madam is not only about being intelligent. You have to have some guts, as well. Otherwise, you end up like Arabella.”
Maggie vomits onto the floor, and the Madam tuts in disgust. “Too much guts, girl.”
She turns to the rest of us, her expression proud, but severe. “All of you get cleaned up and ready for dinner in the main hall. We’re having a celebration.”
As we all trudge silently back to our quarters, the bells high above the Sanctum begin tolling. Bells of death.
I make eye contact with Maggie, neither of us willing to voice what they mean. Tonight, we will have a celebration—of life, and of death—and at the end of it all, we will stand around a bonfire, watching as Madam burns Arabella’s body and all of her remains. It’s just the design of the Sanctum.
But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.