the tablet and then glancing at the last man. He keeps his blank eyes fixed on something just beyond the audience. He doesn’t smile, or sneer, or give any indication that he’s aware of the crowd.
Finally, the original woman shakes her head and hands the tablet to the new woman, whose mouth is slightly ajar. She looks like she may cry.
The new woman faces the crowd and keeps her eyes down on the tablet. “Toran Mikas, son of Stellan and Sava Mikas.” The woman’s voice breaks and I’m not sure she’s going to finish. Finally, she says, “You stand accused of plotting the assassination of Malin Greene, our Vice Head. For this, you are sentenced to death.”
Time grinds to a halt. Executions are unheard of in our Society. But more than that, this man tried to kill my Mother? Who is he?
I study Toran as the woman finishes reading the particulars of his execution. He keeps his eyes forward and his back rigid. There’s no emotion or horror in his eyes. When the Sensitive Enforcers shove him to side of the stage, he shuffles along until he reaches the stairs.
He lifts his head and whistles four haunting notes.
The Alouette.
Chills run down my spine. Either he’s a human with bad taste in music or he’s a member of the Splinter group.
From all around me comes a response: the same slow and mournful notes.
My heart races as I shove my way through the tidal wave of people pressing toward the stage. The song is everywhere, like an unstoppable virus, corrupting everything in its path.
This is more than one man in the club. There are dozens of members of the Splinter Group here in San Francisco. Within feet of me. How is this even possible? Why haven’t security or the Enforcers caught them?
With one last shove, I’m out of the suffocating crowd, emerging on the far side of the street. I gasp for air as the reality of what I witnessed crashes down on me.
My hands bunch the once luxurious fabric of my dress and I force myself to stay calm. To walk leisurely. After all, it will only take one person recognizing me before the whole crowd is on me.
I need to find Kyra. We should never have snuck out.
But even though I’m terrified out here alone, one thought pummels my mind: Mother is publicly executing Sensitives. It must not be a popular policy if even the Enforcers, whose job it is to distribute justice, have a hard time stomaching it.
So what is Mother doing?
A dank, repugnant odor hits my nose and I recoil in disgust. Cages filled with people line the walkway. More supposed criminals for the State to parade across the stage. I doubt many of these people are witches at all. Most are probably unfortunate humans.
The crowd here isn’t as thick, and the attention is definitely on the cages, not me. Sneering men throw pebbles at the captives and taunt them with obscenities. A few of the people behind the bars sob while the more belligerent yell back. The hatred for these accused people is tangible. No wonder we, the real witches, hide.
But how much of this has been manufactured by our own people. By Caitlin Greene, my ancestor? And by Mother? How much has the State flamed the fires of hatred? And more importantly, do the people need to hate someone in order to keep the witches safe?
Dejected and frightened faces peer out from the dark recesses of the cages. They’ve no doubt heard the sentencing and fear for their own lives. The State has plucked humans of all ages, from mere children to the elderly. No one is safe from accusation.
As much as I fear the crowd, I need to get away from the horror of the people in the cages. I can’t be part of this. I can’t.
I quicken my pace. At the end of the walkway, a familiar flash of dark curly hair catches my eye. Kyra. Thank God.
Since I can’t use my wristlet because it’s being monitored, I cup my hands around my mouth to call her name. Before I do, a feeble voice cries, “Lark? Is that you? It’s me, Miss Tully.”
I freeze. An annoying ringing fills my ears and my head feels like I’ve stuck it under water. Someone bumps me from behind, but keeps going. I should keep going, too. It’s safer if I do. And Kyra is so close. We could be home in a matter of minutes.
“Lark?” Miss Tully