Iâm having a hard time focusing on what itâs saying.
Iâm in an amphitheater, rings of seats spiraling upward, but the seats arenât normal seats, theyâre chaise lounges, and sofas, and one even looks like a throne. And in each one sits a woman, her eyes focused on me, her clothing extravagant beyond anything I saw in my prep closets. Rippling, colorful satins; delicate silks; lace; feathers; crinoline; cloth-of-goldâglittering fabrics sewn with jewels, they are nothing like the ones the dolls in the Waiting Room were wearing. These women are masterpieces, living sculptures of elegance and nobility.
âLot 197, please take your mark,â the voice says again. I see him now, a man in a tuxedo standing to my left behind a wooden podium. He is very tall, his dark hair slicked back. Our eyes meet and he inclines his head.
There is a silver X in the middle of the circular stage. My knees shake as I approach it, this walk by far the longest of all the long walks Iâve taken today. I hear a rustling of whispers, like a light breeze running through the amphitheater. The man waits until Iâve reached the X. Then he removes a white candle from inside the podium and places it in a brass holder. His eyes scan the room once before he strikes a match and lights the candle. The flame glows bright blue.
âLot 197, ladies. Age sixteen, height five feet seven inches, weight one hundred and thirty pounds. Unusual eye color, as you can see. Four years of training, with scores of 9.6 on the first Augury, 9.4 on the second, and a tremendously impressive 10.0 on the third. Prodigious skill with stringed instruments, particularly the cello.â
It is frighteningly bizarre to hear myself described this way; a set of statistics, a musical instrument, and nothing more.
âThe bidding will start at five hundred thousand diamantes. Do I hear five hundred thousand?â
A woman in a blue silk dress, a massive diamond necklace roped around her neck, raises a silver feather.
âFive hundred thousand from the Lady of the Downs, do I hear five hundred and fifty thousand?â
A dark-skinned woman raises a tiny set of bronze scales with one hand, sipping champagne from a crystal flute with the other.
âFive hundred and fifty thousand, do I hear six hundred?â
The bidding continues. My value climbs to seven hundred, then eight, then nine hundred thousand diamantes. My brain has a hard time wrapping its head around such a sum. I canât seem to breathe normallyâmy lungs feel compressed, like theyâre being squeezed in a vise. The women donât speak, they just raise an object that signifies their House; I donât recognize them all, and the auctioneer doesnât always address them by title. Suddenly, I wish Iâd paid more attention in royal culture and lifestyle class.
âNine hundred and fifty thousand, do I hear one million?â
A young woman, seated in the chair that looks like a throne, raises a tiny scepter with a diamond the size of a chickenâs egg perched on its tip. I feel a collective intake of breath from the other women, and notice the auctioneerâs eyes flicker for an instant toward the candle. It has burned halfway down.
âOne million diamantes to Her Royal Grace, the Electress. Do I hear one million five?â
The Electress. I am shocked by how young she looks, even younger than in the photographs Iâve seen of her, almost like a child playing dress-up. Her gown has puffed sleeves and a wide brocade skirt, her lips painted a very bright red. I try to determine if there is anything particularly Bank-like about her, but she looks pretty much the same as all the other women in this room.
I notice a woman in the row above staring at herâthe womanâs almond-shaped eyes remind me of Ravenâs.
âOne million five to the Countess of the Rose,â the auctioneer says, and I am pulled back to the present. An older
Iâm in an amphitheater, rings of seats spiraling upward, but the seats arenât normal seats, theyâre chaise lounges, and sofas, and one even looks like a throne. And in each one sits a woman, her eyes focused on me, her clothing extravagant beyond anything I saw in my prep closets. Rippling, colorful satins; delicate silks; lace; feathers; crinoline; cloth-of-goldâglittering fabrics sewn with jewels, they are nothing like the ones the dolls in the Waiting Room were wearing. These women are masterpieces, living sculptures of elegance and nobility.
âLot 197, please take your mark,â the voice says again. I see him now, a man in a tuxedo standing to my left behind a wooden podium. He is very tall, his dark hair slicked back. Our eyes meet and he inclines his head.
There is a silver X in the middle of the circular stage. My knees shake as I approach it, this walk by far the longest of all the long walks Iâve taken today. I hear a rustling of whispers, like a light breeze running through the amphitheater. The man waits until Iâve reached the X. Then he removes a white candle from inside the podium and places it in a brass holder. His eyes scan the room once before he strikes a match and lights the candle. The flame glows bright blue.
âLot 197, ladies. Age sixteen, height five feet seven inches, weight one hundred and thirty pounds. Unusual eye color, as you can see. Four years of training, with scores of 9.6 on the first Augury, 9.4 on the second, and a tremendously impressive 10.0 on the third. Prodigious skill with stringed instruments, particularly the cello.â
It is frighteningly bizarre to hear myself described this way; a set of statistics, a musical instrument, and nothing more.
âThe bidding will start at five hundred thousand diamantes. Do I hear five hundred thousand?â
A woman in a blue silk dress, a massive diamond necklace roped around her neck, raises a silver feather.
âFive hundred thousand from the Lady of the Downs, do I hear five hundred and fifty thousand?â
A dark-skinned woman raises a tiny set of bronze scales with one hand, sipping champagne from a crystal flute with the other.
âFive hundred and fifty thousand, do I hear six hundred?â
The bidding continues. My value climbs to seven hundred, then eight, then nine hundred thousand diamantes. My brain has a hard time wrapping its head around such a sum. I canât seem to breathe normallyâmy lungs feel compressed, like theyâre being squeezed in a vise. The women donât speak, they just raise an object that signifies their House; I donât recognize them all, and the auctioneer doesnât always address them by title. Suddenly, I wish Iâd paid more attention in royal culture and lifestyle class.
âNine hundred and fifty thousand, do I hear one million?â
A young woman, seated in the chair that looks like a throne, raises a tiny scepter with a diamond the size of a chickenâs egg perched on its tip. I feel a collective intake of breath from the other women, and notice the auctioneerâs eyes flicker for an instant toward the candle. It has burned halfway down.
âOne million diamantes to Her Royal Grace, the Electress. Do I hear one million five?â
The Electress. I am shocked by how young she looks, even younger than in the photographs Iâve seen of her, almost like a child playing dress-up. Her gown has puffed sleeves and a wide brocade skirt, her lips painted a very bright red. I try to determine if there is anything particularly Bank-like about her, but she looks pretty much the same as all the other women in this room.
I notice a woman in the row above staring at herâthe womanâs almond-shaped eyes remind me of Ravenâs.
âOne million five to the Countess of the Rose,â the auctioneer says, and I am pulled back to the present. An older
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