After that dreadful morning, Violet withdrew entirely into herself.
She no longer argued. No longer spoke of escape. She sat apart from the others, her back pressed against the wooden boards, her gaze fixed upon nothing. When the wagon jolted, she did not flinch.
But at night, the silence broke.
"It was not my fault," she would cry out in her sleep.
The first time, it startled them all awake.
"It was not my fault," she repeated, her voice thin and trembling. "I did not know… I did not know…"
Elysia would lie still, listening to the anguish in those words. Francesca would close her eyes, her expression unreadable.
None of them tried to comfort her. What comfort could be offered?
The nights continued so. Murmured apologies. Broken pleas. Then silence.
Until one morning, there were no murmurs at all.
The dawn light crept through the narrow slats of the wagon, pale and cold. The air inside felt strangely unmoving.
"Violet?" one of the girls whispered.
She did not stir.
Francesca crossed the small space and crouched beside her. A long moment passed.
Then she rose.
"She is truly gone," she said quietly.
No one screamed. No one rushed forward. Grief had become too familiar to shock them now.
The wagon did not stop that day.
Nor the next.
They remained in that cramped space with her still form, the air growing heavier with each passing hour. Some of the younger girls turned their faces to the wall. One began to pray under her breath. Another rocked gently back and forth.
Elysia sat very still.
By the second day, the scent in the wagon had changed. It clung to their throats and settled into their clothes. The driver must have known. The men outside spoke in lower tones, and once or twice, the wagon slowed as though in hesitation—but it never fully stopped.
On the third morning, it did.
The door creaked open. Harsh daylight poured in.
The wagon driver climbed inside without meeting their eyes. He wrapped Violet's body in a coarse sheet, his movements brisk and indifferent, as though he were removing damaged cargo.
"Is she dead?" one of the girls whispered.
The driver did not answer.
He carried her out and laid her at the side of the empty road. No marker. No ceremony. Only dust and silence.
The door slammed shut once more.
The lock turned.
The horses were urged forward.
The wagon rolled on.
Inside, something had shifted.
Hope, fragile as it had been, seemed to have died alongside Violet.
No one spoke her name.
But that night, as the wheels creaked endlessly beneath them, more than one girl stared into the dark and wondered whether survival was mercy—or merely delay.
So again days passed and they didn't stop to rest or eat. Despite the hunger gripping their stomachs no one dare complain with the fear that they would meet the same fate as Violet and the others.
After what seemed like forever they finally entered a big city, Elysia leaned closer to the wagon's gates staring in awe at the nicely dressed people unlike where they came from, these people were dressed in fine silk, pearls and gold. She had never seen a pearl in real life– only heard stories of them. The small round object would glint in the sunlight as it's own walked past.
"It's so beautiful here," she gushed, her breath fogging faintly against the cold iron bars. Finally a different feeling.
Francesca did not share her wonder.
"Look again," she said quietly.
Elysia blinked and turned toward her, confused by the sharp edge in her voice.
"Not at the silk. Not at the pearls," Francesca murmured. "Look beyond it."
Elysia hesitated, then forced her gaze past the glittering shop fronts and polished carriages. At first, all she saw were colors—lavender gowns trimmed with lace, gentlemen in pressed coats, gloves as white as snow. Laughter floated through the streets like music.
Then she noticed the space between the beauty.
A boy stumbled near the edge of the road, his clothes little more than gray rags clinging to bone. A metal collar circled his neck. Attached to it was a chain.
The chain was held by a woman draped in emerald silk.
Elysia's breath caught.
Further ahead, a thin girl with matted hair was dragged behind a carriage, her bare feet scraping against cobblestones. A man barked at her to keep pace. When she faltered, he jerked the chain without even looking back.
"They shine," Francesca said bitterly, "because someone else is forced to live in the dark."
Elysia's fingers tightened around the wagon bars.
More collars. More chains.
Some of the chained figures carried parcels heavier than their own bodies. Others knelt in the dirt to scrub the street while their owners strolled by, chatting idly as though they were discussing the weather.
No one stopped. No one stared. No one cared.
It was ordinary here.
The pearls no longer looked beautiful. They looked stolen.
"We didn't come to a paradise," Francesca continued, her voice low enough that only Elysia could hear. "We came to a marketplace."
The word settled like ice in Elysia's stomach.
As if to confirm it, their wagon slowed. The horses snorted. The driver called out to someone ahead. The heavy gates of the wagon creaked open just a fraction, enough for sunlight to slice through the darkness inside.
Men approached.
They were well dressed, smiling, inspecting.
One of them peered inside the wagon as though examining livestock. His eyes moved slowly over the girls, calculating. Assessing.
Elysia instinctively stepped back.
Francesca did not.
She lifted her chin, though her hands trembled in her lap.
"Told you," she whispered. "Look beyond the beauty."
Outside, a chain clinked.
And this time, it was coming toward them.
The wagon door groaned as it was pulled fully open.
Sunlight flooded in, harsh and unforgiving. The girls shrank back, blinking like creatures dragged from underground. Boots scraped against cobblestone as three men stepped forward, their captors, except the wagon rider ,were gone no where to be seen.
One of the three men carried a ledger.
One carried a riding crop.
The third carried nothing at all.
It was the third man who unsettled Elysia most.
He was not dressed as extravagantly as the others, yet his coat was cut from fine dark cloth. His gloves were spotless. His expression held no cruelty, no kindness—only detachment. As though this were a chore.
"As promised–" the wagon driver said with a slight bow. His injured eyes was now covered with black cloth "Healthy stock."