Chapter 19 #2
There was no way to know for sure because magic buzzed naturally in the air here with every breath I took, but it was a possibility. Since we hadn’t found him yet, and hadn’t run into a blockade, it was a very real possibility.
Eventually, we entered a circular room with a domed glass ceiling, which was a first. And when we caught a glimpse of it—our eyes were upward any time we went through a door—we all gasped, froze, panicked.
Because above us were people.
At least we thought so at first. A lot of people standing in a circle over the glass, except…they weren’t moving.
That’s because they weren’t made of flesh and bones. They were wooden.
Wooden mannequins filled the room above us. Life-sized, painted in colors that had faded over the years, and they stood in rows, their jointed arms frozen mid-gesture, their painted faces smiling identical smiles.
My heart might have run from me in those moments if it wasn’t for my ribcage. They looked so awfully real it was impossible.
Then something ahead of us moved.
Someone screamed. Could have been me as well. We all jumped back, hearts slamming, mouths wide open, shaking—until we saw the mannequins down here, too.
It was one of them that had moved—just its head, a slow mechanical turn toward us. Its jaw dropped open and a voice came out, tinny and distant, like someone speaking through a long pipe.
“Welcome to the Carousel of Faces. Please select your face and take your place in line.”
Sparetime save me, that I didn’t drop dead in those moments meant I never would.
We were by the door through which we’d come, all of us together, pressing against one another—except for March.
He remained there a few feet into the room, looking around, taking in all the mannequins down there—over two dozen, some piled together on the floor, most standing.
“Guys…” someone whispered, I couldn’t tell who.
Then, “Welcome to the Carousel of Faces. Please select your face and take your place in line.”
The voice came again. The same voice, from the same mannequin, its faded colors trying to make it look like a woman with short brown hair and wide blue eyes, wearing a blue uniform.
“It’s a game,” March said, his voice rough, dark, low. His head fell back and he looked at the ceiling, at the other mannequins up there. “They’re just part of the game.”
Game.
My mind echoed his words. All of it was just a game.
“It’s automatic,” Cook said, and he stepped away from us, closer to March, though his voice wasn’t entirely steady. “Just a mechanism, that’s all. They’re just wood.”
“This place is freaking me out,” Levana hissed. “Can somebody explain to me why all these games exist when obviously nobody’s playing them?!” Her voice was high pitched, her panic evident.
“It’s the Labyrinth,” Cook said, shaking his head. “Nobody really knows how the Labyrinth works.”
True. All I’d ever been able to find before applying for the Trials was that the Labyrinth was a mystery to everyone, even the people who took care of it.
“C’mon, let’s get going,” March said, eyes on me when he held up his hand.
I practically ran to grab it.
We moved through the room quickly, stepping around the mannequins, trying not to brush against their outstretched wooden hands.
The same one with the wide blue eyes said the same words when we went closer, as if it could sense movement.
Still just as creepy as the first time—the greeting, the dead voice, the frozen smile.
Seth, who was closest to it, still jumped and swore under his breath, walked faster.
But the next room was worse.
It was long and narrow, and the walls were lined with glass cases, floor to ceiling, each one lit from within by a faint golden light.
Inside the cases were flowers. Not real ones—they were made of silk and wire and something that shimmered like liquid.
Absolutely breathtaking as they were terrifying.
Pieces of art—very strange art. Roses and lilies and orchids in colors I’d never seen in nature, deep blues and silvers, and a black so dark it seemed to absorb all the light around it.
“Okay, I really want to get out of this place now…” whispered Anika as we slowly went through, not entirely sure what to expect, but there was another half open door on the other side, so we made for it.
Until…
“Are you here to play or are you here to cry?” said the black orchid in the case nearest to me, and its silk petals moved like lips.
I froze. My jaw fell open. I almost let go of the seeker and March’s hand.
“We get both, you know. Mostly the second.”
I couldn’t fucking breathe.
“Ora, move,” said March, pulling at my hand, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t look away from the flower that tilted on its wire stem, as if studying me. “You look like a crier,” it decided, its voice female. “The pretty ones always are.”
“How do you—”
“Don’t,” March warned. “Don’t talk to it.” And he was right, of course, but my curiosity weighed a mountain, and my fear had yet to let go of me.
Then the orchid said, “Rude. The red one’s rude. Tell the red one he’s rude.”
My mouth opened and closed.
A silver lily three cases down chimed in, its voice higher, more musical. “They never stay to chat anymore. Remember the last ones? The tall girl cried for an hour and the boy with the scar sang us a song.”
“Lovely song,” said a blue rose near it. “Terrible voice.”
“Terrible,” echoed three more flowers in unison.
“You guys…are you seeing this?” asked Erith, shaking her head, frozen in the middle of the room as she looked at the flowers.
The talking flowers in cases.
Time’s Teeth, how in the world did this place even exist?
“Move it! C’mon, let’s go! Through the door!” Seth shouted, and the sound of his voice finally snapped me out of it.
I let March drag me to the other side while the flowers complained, all of them speaking now:
No wait! Where are you going? Stay a while, we get bored! It’s been ages, decades, centuries. Stay a little longer—pretty please!
We didn’t stop.
A few called the boys handsome and the girls witchy, whatever that meant, and some commented on our clothes, our hair, the movement of our limbs. Mimi had stopped by the door with tears glistening in her eyes, watching a mustard-colored rose say, “See? Told you they were criers!”
Then we went through, and March closed the door behind us, and the sound of the flowers cut off all at once.
Over. It’s over-over-over.
And the next room was quiet, but somehow that was even worse.
We were still breathing heavily, our hearts still racing, trying to get ourselves under control, but we all knew we weren’t safe. Not even close.
This room was square, with a low ceiling and a dirt floor—actual dirt, packed hard but still soft enough to leave footprints.
We saw our own—as well as a pair ahead toward the middle of the room—and a single hole near them on the right. Like a hole a cane would leave.
Silas.
Everything came to a halt. I blinked and looked around, and my mind kept calling my eyes liars, because this room was filled with dolls.
Not flowers, not mannequins—dolls. Small ones, knee-high, made of porcelain and cloth, arranged in clusters on the dirt floor like they’d been set down just for a moment, then forgotten.
They wore tiny versions of suits, some white and some black, some blue, yellow and pink.
All decorated with patches of the courts’ colors in some way—pockets, threads, hems and collars.
In fact, a few of them had white suits on that looked terribly—terribly close to the ones we’d had on that day we woke up in the arena.
Twelve in each cluster.
“Are they…” I couldn’t even finish the question, but Russ could.
“Hands,” he whispered. “They’re Hands.”