guilt. Faith, the Elite boy and a couple more Offerings are left in the kitchen as we move further into the castle.
A few more of the Offerings are left in an area where they make clothes and I realise the castle is divided much like our Realms are but on a smaller scale.
We make more stops in various areas, some with an introduction, some without. As our numbers have thinned, a strange thing has happened; with a growing excitement our little group seems to be latching onto the hope that being an Offering isnât as bad as people feared last night. I remember the way Faith tried to explain the Kingâs behaviour and, even though none of us left on the tour have said it out loud, the fact we are talking to each other again is a sign that we are becoming more optimistic. One girl from the South tells another that she canât wait to get to work and it is as if we have all blanked Wray and Jela from our minds. I sense it too, the combination of the footage, the tour and Ignacia making me feel as if everything will be all right.
As we move, I have been looking for potential ways out; unguarded doors, corridors where there are no cameras, walls which could be low enough to climb and windows which might be worth trying to see if they open. But the further we travel, the more I feel resigned. I canât explain my own feelings but suddenly Iâm wondering if Wray did something wrong after all. Perhaps he was incredibly disrespectful to the King? Maybe Jela is a fair price considering all he has done for us?
Soon we arrive at an area where Ignacia tells us she does her daily work. At the far end of the corridor I can see a couple of Kingsmen but she doesnât take us that far, instead leading us through a doorway into another passageway with openings on either side. She asks which of us have been marked as clerical and three people put their hands up. She points to a door on the left and says it is the Minister Primeâs office, then the one opposite, which is hers. I peer through the open door to see banks of electrical items, including thinkpads, thinkwatches and other things I donât recognise. The clutter of items reminds me of my objects from home and suddenly I realise the one thing I have missed. Despite the more positive thoughts of what it means to be an Offering, I wonder what happened to last yearâs â and every yearâs before that. We didnât see anyone around the barracks and there were only one or two people in the kitchen and textiles area. If Wray was a one-off and we are so valued, then where are last yearâs thirty? Plus those from all the years before?
I hear footsteps echoing away from me and find I have fallen behind Ignacia and our remaining numbers, lost in my own thoughts. As I turn, I bump into someoneâs solid chest and step backwards, muttering an apology and hoping Iâm not in trouble for being on my own in this area. The person apologises too and, as I look into his face, it is as if I have gone back in time. Staring down at me, almost as confused as I am, is Hart â Martindaleâs last Offering.
12
I struggle to know what to say. When he left our village, Hart had a distinctive smile with large, well-built arms that came from years of helping out with various things around the place. He would unload supplies from the trains and deliver them. Now his face is thin, the bones jutting into his cheeks, and there is a hollowness around his eyes. His brown hair has grown out slightly, but it is still short and slightly patchy, with a tuft sticking out at the back. He squints, trying to place where he knows me from before I whisper âSilver Blackthornâ. At first his eyes widen in recognition but then, before I can speak any further, he gives a slight shake of his head, brushing past me and entering one of the offices without a word.
I am in shock at seeing such a familiar face but have no choice other than to follow the sound of the
A few more of the Offerings are left in an area where they make clothes and I realise the castle is divided much like our Realms are but on a smaller scale.
We make more stops in various areas, some with an introduction, some without. As our numbers have thinned, a strange thing has happened; with a growing excitement our little group seems to be latching onto the hope that being an Offering isnât as bad as people feared last night. I remember the way Faith tried to explain the Kingâs behaviour and, even though none of us left on the tour have said it out loud, the fact we are talking to each other again is a sign that we are becoming more optimistic. One girl from the South tells another that she canât wait to get to work and it is as if we have all blanked Wray and Jela from our minds. I sense it too, the combination of the footage, the tour and Ignacia making me feel as if everything will be all right.
As we move, I have been looking for potential ways out; unguarded doors, corridors where there are no cameras, walls which could be low enough to climb and windows which might be worth trying to see if they open. But the further we travel, the more I feel resigned. I canât explain my own feelings but suddenly Iâm wondering if Wray did something wrong after all. Perhaps he was incredibly disrespectful to the King? Maybe Jela is a fair price considering all he has done for us?
Soon we arrive at an area where Ignacia tells us she does her daily work. At the far end of the corridor I can see a couple of Kingsmen but she doesnât take us that far, instead leading us through a doorway into another passageway with openings on either side. She asks which of us have been marked as clerical and three people put their hands up. She points to a door on the left and says it is the Minister Primeâs office, then the one opposite, which is hers. I peer through the open door to see banks of electrical items, including thinkpads, thinkwatches and other things I donât recognise. The clutter of items reminds me of my objects from home and suddenly I realise the one thing I have missed. Despite the more positive thoughts of what it means to be an Offering, I wonder what happened to last yearâs â and every yearâs before that. We didnât see anyone around the barracks and there were only one or two people in the kitchen and textiles area. If Wray was a one-off and we are so valued, then where are last yearâs thirty? Plus those from all the years before?
I hear footsteps echoing away from me and find I have fallen behind Ignacia and our remaining numbers, lost in my own thoughts. As I turn, I bump into someoneâs solid chest and step backwards, muttering an apology and hoping Iâm not in trouble for being on my own in this area. The person apologises too and, as I look into his face, it is as if I have gone back in time. Staring down at me, almost as confused as I am, is Hart â Martindaleâs last Offering.
12
I struggle to know what to say. When he left our village, Hart had a distinctive smile with large, well-built arms that came from years of helping out with various things around the place. He would unload supplies from the trains and deliver them. Now his face is thin, the bones jutting into his cheeks, and there is a hollowness around his eyes. His brown hair has grown out slightly, but it is still short and slightly patchy, with a tuft sticking out at the back. He squints, trying to place where he knows me from before I whisper âSilver Blackthornâ. At first his eyes widen in recognition but then, before I can speak any further, he gives a slight shake of his head, brushing past me and entering one of the offices without a word.
I am in shock at seeing such a familiar face but have no choice other than to follow the sound of the
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