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‘Obviously. We would be fools not to.’
Genevieve turns to stare at him. She ought to find him frustrating, this arrogant man entirely without manners. She ought to resent the sea-changes of his moods, the brazenness with which he speaks. But now, as he stands beside her, sunlight dancing in the blue of his eyes, his shadow falling over her, she feels only that giddiness again: as if they are falling, falling. As if she must reach for him before they hit the ground.
Then the Auctioneer cries, ‘Gather round, gather round!’
They crowd together at the foot of the statue. Genevieve catches the eye of Saliha Sultan, resplendent in her purple turban, and they trade smiles. It is comforting to have found another ally in this place. The remainder of the guests seem more uneasy than anything, shuffling from foot to foot as if they are tempted to run away.
‘Our founder, my mother,’ the Auctioneer says, gesturing to the golden woman. ‘She is grateful, I am sure, for your presence here.’
‘Not grateful enough to show up herself,’ the stranger says—the guest that Genevieve has yet to be introduced to, the tall, broad man with a glowering expression.
The Auctioneer ignores him. His expression remains perfectly amiable, eyes crinkling as if he is on the precipice of laughter. He continues: ‘You have accepted our invitation to the auction; for this we are eternally grateful.’
‘Accepted an invitation,’ Missah asks. ‘By burning it, you mean?’
‘Indeed. You wrote your heart’s desire upon the paper. This desire is the lot each of you bids for. Should you be the winner of the auction, you shall attain your lot—should you lose, you will be obliged to pay a penalty.’
Genevieve sees in her mind’s eye her own writing, faint pencil marks, nearly invisible in the sun. To forget Claire Marchand. Her heart’s desire, as cruel as it is: to kill a woman twice over.
The Auctioneer gazes upon his audience, lips twitching as if someone has made a joke that only he can hear. ‘I know doubts haunt you,’ he says. ‘I can see the alarm in your eyes! But rest assured, the Company can fulfil your wish, should you win. Anything beyond undoing death, as stipulated upon the invitation. In return, we require you to follow a few simple rules.’
He outstretches his palm and holds up one finger, pointed towards the sky as if he is about to admonish them by wagging it about.
‘The first!’ he cries, too loudly, and beside her Sterne flinches. ‘The rule of obedience. Should I offer you an instruction, regardless of how minor, it is expected that this instruction shall be followed to the letter. You have accepted our invitation and thus you must remain at the event until bidding is concluded. Obedience to the Company, to the schedule, is our highest expectation of our esteemed guests. If you are not obedient, you will receive a penalty and you will not be permitted to bid on the morning of Tridi.’
‘A penalty?’ Missah asks.
‘You will no longer be considered our honoured guest. The penalty shall otherwise be appropriate to the offense committed.’
‘And how shall we bid?’
The Auctioneer replies, with a flippant flap of his hand, ‘You shall come to this courtyard and make your bid to Lady Reverie herself, who will judge the winner.’
‘What do we bid with?’ Madame Kramarov asks. ‘Gold? Assignats?’
‘Far simpler,’ the Auctioneer replies. ‘Your bid must be a secret: freely given, accepted, and understood. The greater the secret, the higher its value.’
A murmur swells from the audience.
‘But that is preposterous,’ Saliha Sultan says.
‘If something being preposterous precluded it from reality, Sultana, there would be no kings and my hat would be far less interesting,’ the Auctioneer returns. ‘Please, no further questions until I have completed my explanation of the rules.’ He clears his throat, then cries, ‘The second!’
It is Genevieve who flinches this time, and the movement causes her arm to brush against Sterne’s. She can sense his answering stare. She tries to ignore it.
‘The second rule is that of fraternity. As our guests, you are unified by a single purpose. You are expected to treat each other and the Château itself with respect and humility. Violence of any sort, or destruction of Company property, will not be tolerated and will be considered a violation of our hospitality.’
Little complaint from the guests at this. Genevieve is relieved to hear it; she has not missed that their bid must be a secret, but not necessarily their own. She has no need for thievery, not with her circumstances, but that does not mean others present would be unwilling to stoop to such measures.
‘The third,’ the Auctioneer murmurs, his voice now so low she can barely hear it. ‘The third rule is the most important of all. Honesty, my dear friends. Honesty is the lifeblood of the Château, the thing that our Lady values above all else. She looks out from the windows of her kingdom down onto the earth below and is disgusted by the deceit, the duplicity, that we wallow in. This auction is her gift to us, her offering. She allows us an opportunity to unburden ourselves. To cleanse ourselves of worldly filth and make ourselves anew. In exchange we must maintain our honesty throughout our time here. No direct lie must pass through our lips. We cannot speak a word that is not truth. If such a lie is discovered, the consequences will be grave.’
‘That doesn’t mean we can’t deceive each other,’ Sterne says. ‘Even if we can’t lie directly, we can still mislead.’
‘I forbade further questions, Monsieur Sterne.’
‘It wasn’t a question,’ Sterne replies, his tone harsh, almost mocking. The Auctioneer smiles at him in response, like someone humouring a child.
‘These rules are held sacred,’ the Auctioneer says. ‘Trust in them, in us, and you shall have the opportunity for your dearest dreams to be made reality. Your secrets, my friends, are more precious to us than gold.’
