“I’m sorry,” Kelta said when her mirth had died down. “But don’t you think it’s funny that in the last year there are so many girls changing their names to Alianas and Mardeths, and Bonnas — some slaves are even being allowed to do it.”
“But why?” Bonnie whispered with such obvious genuine bewilderment that Kelta said, “Why, to fit into the story, of course. To be named after the ones who killed old Bloddeuwedd while she was rampaging through the city.”
“That was such a big deal?”
“You really don’t know? After she was killed all her money went to the fifth sector where she lived and there was enough left over to have a holiday. That’s where I’m from. And I used to be so frightened when I was sent out with a message or anything after dark because she could be right above you and you’d never know, until—” Kelta had put all her money into one pocket and now she mimed claws descending on an innocent hand.
“But you really are a Bonna,” Kelta said, with a flash of white teeth in rather dingy skin. “Or so you said.”
“Yeah,” Bonnie said feeling vaguely sad. “I’m a Bonna, all right!” The next moment she cheered up. “The shop’s empty!”
“It is! Oh, you’re a good-luck Bonna! I’ve been waiting two days.”
She approached the counter with a lack of fear that was very encouraging to Bonnie. Then she asked for something called a blood jelly that looked to Bonnie like a small mold of strawberry Jell-O, with something darker deep inside. Kelta smiled at Bonnie from under the curtain of her long, unbrushed hair and was gone.
The man who ran the sweetshop kept looking hopefully at the door, clearly hoping a free person — a noble — would come in. No one did, however, and at last he turned to Bonnie.
“And what is it you want?” he demanded.
“Just a sugarplum, please?” Bonnie tried hard to make sure her voice didn’t quaver.
The man was bored. “Show me your pass,” he said irritably.
It was at that point that Bonnie suddenly knew that everything was going to go horribly wrong.
“Come on, come on, snap it up!” Still looking at his accounting books, the man snapped his fingers.
Meanwhile Bonnie was running a hand over her sack-cloth smock, in which she knew perfectly well there was no pocket, and certainly no pass.
“But I thought I didn’t need a pass, except to cross sectors,” she babbled finally.
The man now leaned over the counter. “Then show me your freedom pass,” he said, and Bonnie did the only thing she could think of. She turned and ran, but before she could reach the door she felt a sudden stinging pain in her back and then everything went blurry and she never knew when she hit the ground.
Bonnie woke slowly, coming up from some dark place.
Then she wished she hadn’t. She was in some out-of-doors place — only buildings blocked the horizon where the sun hung forever. Around her were a lot of other girls, all approximately her own age. That was puzzling, first of all. If you took a random sampling of females off the street there would be little girls crying for their mothers, and there would be mother-aged women taking care of them. There might be a few older women. This place looked more like — oh, God, it looked like one of those slave warehouse places that they had had to pass the last time they had come to the Dark Dimension. The ones that Elena had ordered them not to look at or listen to. But now Bonnie felt sure she was inside one herself, and there was no way not to look at the still faces, at the terrified eyes, at the quivering mouths around her.
She wanted to speak, to find the way — there would have to be a way, Elena would insist — to get out. But first she gathered all the Power at her command, wrapped it into a cry, and soundlessly screamed Damon! Damon! Help! I really need you!
All she heard in return was silence.
Damon! It’s Bonnie! I’m at a slave warehouse! Help!
Suddenly she had a hunch, and lowered her psychic barriers. She was instantly crushed. Even here, at the edge of the city, the air was choked full of long messages and short: cries of impatience, or camaraderie, of greeting, of solicitation. Longer, less impatient conversations about things, instructions, teasings, stories. She couldn’t keep up with it. It turned into a menacing wave of psychic sound that was curled like a wave about to break over her head, to crush her into a million pieces.
And then, all of a sudden, the telepathic melee vanished. Bonnie was able to focus her eyes on a blond girl, a little older than her and about four inches taller.
“I said, are you okay?” the girl was repeating — obviously she’d been saying it for a while.
“Yes,” Bonnie said automatically. No! Bonnie thought.
“You might want to get ready to move. They’ve sounded the first dinnertime whistle, but you looked so out of it, I waited for the second one.”
What am I supposed to say? Thank you seemed safest. “Thanks,” Bonnie said.
Then her mouth said all on its own, “Where am I?”
The blond girl looked surprised. “The depot for runaway slaves, of course.”
Well, that was that. “But I didn’t run away,” she protested. “I was going right back after I got a sugarplum.”
“I don’t know about that. I was trying to run away, but they finally caught me.” The girl slammed one fist into an open hand. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that litter carrier. Carried me right to the authorities and me blind and without a clue.”
“You mean you had the litter curtains down—?” Bonnie was asking, when a shrill whistle interrupted her. The blond girl took hold of her arm and began dragging her away from the fence. “That’s the second service dinnertime whistle — we don’t want to miss that, because after that they shut us up for the night. I’m Eren. Who’re you?”
“Bonnie.”
Eren snorted and grinned. “All right by me.”
Bonnie allowed herself to be led up a dirty stairway and into a dirty cafeteria. The blond girl, who seemed to regard herself as Bonnie’s keeper, handed her a tray, and pushed her along. Bonnie didn’t get any choice in what she was to have, not even to veto the noodles that were squirming slightly, but she did manage to snatch an extra bread roll in the end.
Damon! Nobody was telling her not to send a message, so she kept on doing it.
If she was going to be punished, she thought defiantly, she was going to be punished for trying to get out of here. Damon, I’m in a slave warehouse! Help me!
Blond Eren grabbed a spork, so Bonnie did too. There were no knives. There were thin napkins, which relieved Bonnie, because that was where the Squirmy Noodles were going to end up.
Without Eren, Bonnie would never have found a place at the tables, which were crammed with young girls eating. “Shove over, shove over,” Eren kept saying, until there was room for Bonnie and her.
Dinner was a test of Bonnie’s courage — and also of how loud she could scream.
“Why are you doing all this for me?” she shouted into Eren’s ear, when a lull in the deafening conversation gave her a chance.
“Oh, well, you being a redhead and all — it put me in mind of Aliana’s message, you know. To the real Bonny.” She pronounced it oddly, sort of swallowing the y, but at least it wasn’t Bonna.
“Which of them? Which message, I mean?” Bonnie screamed.
Eren gave her an are you kidding look. “Help when you can, shelter when you have room, guide when you know where to go,” she said in a sort of impatient chant, then looked chagrined and added, “And be patient with the slow.” She attacked her food with an air of having said everything there was to say.
Oh, boy, Bonnie thought. Somebody had really taken the ball and run with it.
Elena had never said any of those things.
Yeah, but — but maybe she’d lived them, Bonnie thought, a tingling breaking out all over her body. And maybe somebody had seen her and made up the words. For instance, that crazy-looking guy she’d given her ring or bracelet or something to.
She’d given her earrings away to people with signs, too. Signs that said: POETRY FOR FOOD.