Twisted - Esme Devlin

1

Sapphire

He doesn’t have a name yet, so in my head I just call him Scout.

They’ll give him a name soon enough, when his fate gets decided for him.

Right now, he’s too young.

He’s still ducking and diving across that fine line between cute and handsome.

If he’s strong and smart, he’ll be a guard.

If he’s strong and stupid, it’ll be off to the fields with him.

Scout is my favorite. He’s always running. Always laughing. Always naughty. He has a toothy grin that gives you a glimpse straight into the hearts he will break in the future, but his big brown eyes still have traces of innocence. “Damn girl, you look hideous.”

I lift a painted eyebrow at him. “Damn?”

He smirks at me. He’s been practicing his smirks lately. He’s almost got it down. Almost. “Twenty-nine taught me that. He says it’s better than the fuck word.”

I can’t fight my smile. “Probably. But both will get you a beating.”

He shrugs and runs a finger through his hair, pushing it back off his face. “Only if you rat me out, which you won’t.”

I laugh at him. “So sure of yourself.”

There it is. The devilish grin. “Someone has to be.”

I shake my head, turning back to the mirror and locating my powder brush. “Shoo, pest. I don’t have time for you tonight.”

He chuckles, and I watch him walk away with a swagger that he’s also trying hard to perfect. “One day though, princess,” he calls over his shoulder.

I’m caught between a laugh and giggle. “Did Twenty-nine teach you that, too?”

“Nah, I thought of that one just for you.”

He ducks behind the curtain with another one of those baby smirks. So confident. I hope he never loses that.

I stare down at the silver dish he placed in front of me. Vitamins, supplements, and medicine. The lights are on tonight, although they have cut out five or six times already.

I’d lit a small tea-light candle on my dressing table, a precaution against the inevitable flickering that will probably soon start. The flame makes some of the pills glisten in the dim light, the black ones and the clear capsules. For others, it turns them stonelike.

How many people risked their lives for these things?

I can almost imagine the pills are little jewels and precious stones. Somehow it is easier to think people died for riches and not so you can remain healthy.

Sometimes, the circus-pups—the collective name for the little boys who have no true purpose other than to roam and cause mischief until they’re old enough to be useful—will take a bribe.

You give them a trinket, and they switch your pills around. A vitamin in exchange for a pill that’ll take you on a short trip away from this place.

A pill that will let you forget.

Scout and I have never made such an exchange.

I’ve never been one of those girls. I’m not a rebel, as much as I wish I could be.

No, I think doing that would be worse. Knowing the only escape available to you isn’t real would be harder than not having an escape at all.

There is a goblet beside the dish, and that is encrusted with precious stones. Maxim demands the very best of everything. Even a cup.

He likes to spoil us.

He reckons if he does, there will be less chance of us choosing to take our chances with a razor blade. The place I sleep—I’d call it a room, but I haven’t heard that word in a very long time—my dwelling, is actually a cave. But you wouldn’t know it. A single bulb hangs from the roof and casts the space in turquoise light. At least, it does when it’s on. From the bulb, muted colored fabric drapes across to the far corners and hides the bare stone walls. I sleep on a platform raised a foot above the ground and covered in pillows and throws, velvet and silk and the finest cashmere. Remnants of the old world, or at least that is what I like to think.

The truth is I don’t really know. I barely remember what it was like before this.

What is old?

What is new?

What survived the end and what was lost to us forever?

I had a mom, though these days it’s more like I had a dream of having a mom. I can barely picture her face or hear her voice. It’s more like a feeling somewhere deep inside me. A very distant memory I choose to keep buried.

Apparently, she was sold to some rich prince in the Middle East. That’s a common