Screams of joy rang from outside.

Miss Scrubbs looked at the room with wicked satisfaction.

"Hear that? The Auction's ready for you."

No one argued as they were lined up and shackled. Credence knew well what came next, though she hadn't been on this side of the Auction before.

She was not prepared for the crowd on the other side of the door, that jeered and laughed as the line was marched to the stage. She was not prepared for the hands that pinched and grabbed at the prisoners, or the vulgar comments made as they passed. Some managed to tear away pieces of clothing, and laughed in victory when they did.

When the red stripes were walked through the crowd, Miss Scrubbs and her women had kept the more brazen hands back, but those in line now were afforded no such courtesy.

They were criminals, little better than black stripes.

Not quite people in the eyes of the towns.

Unlike the last Auction, the Chopper had not roused the crowd with a show of blood, but as the line drew close to the stage Credence saw the giant man standing silently.

A large, curved blade hung like a threat at his waist.

He was waiting for his turn, and from the sounds of the mob, he would surely get it.

Credence feared that once the Auction began, no one would bid on any of them, simply to add more victims to the violence promised at the end.

Many of them, she knew, would die tonight.

The masked man who led the revels was dancing a giddy jig across the stage, building the excitement of the audience.

When the line of prisoners was stopped at the foot of the stage, the masked man held his hands up to command silence.

"Dark times, indeed," he said in mocking sadness. "What a terrible shame, what a horrible waste, when children do not mind their betters!"

The crowd jeered in response and their hateful eyes fell to the line. The prisoners under their scorn shrunk down, embarrassed and frightened.

"Some among them were to be our newest angels," the masked man continued. "And some may yet be spared to grace us with their beauty—but! Who would wish to dally with such traitors, such beasts? It'll be a hard time, I fear, for any keeper who buys this stock, to find a patron daring enough to pay for their attention!" The masked man winked. "I suppose, perhaps, there might be some here who like a bit of danger in their comfort!"

The crowd laughed and the masked man nodded.

"And what danger they do cause! Only last night we were made aware of the cruelty they were capable of! How fitting then, how...necessary...to remind them of their place. To remind us all what happens to those who disrupt the peace of our glorious towns!"

He ran to the edge of the stage, choosing a domestic at random, and pointed a judging finger at the old woman.

"And what of the domestics who stood by while their poor headmaster suffered? Perhaps a black stripe for them all!"

The crowd cheered in agreement.

To punctuate his threat, the masked man was handed a small bucket, which he held high in the air. Black paint spilled over the edge of the bucket, splashing onto the stage at his feet. The crowd urged him on when the masked man was given a brush to dip into the paint.

The prisoners at his feet trembled and held their breath, and the poor domestic who had been the focus of his attention began to sway as if she might faint at any second.

"But why deny us our fun?" the masked man said, pausing in his actions. "Judgment should be yours, should it not?"

With the mob's approval, the masked man tossed the bucket and brush to the floor and added with a nasty smile, "We'll paint what's left—now, let's have us an Auction!"

The line was pulled behind the stage.

The first section of it, which contained seven students including Credence, was unshackled and guided onto the stage behind the masked man, while the rest waited for their turn behind the painted scrim.

For the first time, Credence had a full view of the crowd.

The sight was haunting.

Hundreds of heads, both noble and commoner, were turned towards the stage. Some wore powdered wigs, creating speckles of white, like little fish in an ocean.

Mud-caked faces, clean faces, painted faces. Tattered clothes and rich velvet coats.

A menagerie of people from all walks of life, gathered to witness the spectacle.

Their faces were full of malice and bloodlust.

They didn't look like the same bodies that walked the streets of the towns, but an imitation.

It was a terrifying thing for Credence to comprehend, how those same people, who were civil in their daily life, could harbor such darkness within them, and so quickly turn on their own.

She hated them all. They were more inhuman than any beast from the woods.

"Oh, something sweet to start us off," the masked man said as his eyes roamed over the shivering youths. 

Credence shuddered when his gaze passed over her, feeling somehow tainted by it.

"Yes, lots of beauties to get to tonight—let's not waste another moment!"

The masked man grabbed the arm of the first boy in line and pulled him to the center of the stage.

"Marvelous thing," he said of the boy, "sure to delight any eye. Give us a turn, love."

He nodded at the boy, who turned in a slow circle, obviously confused and distressed.

"See here," the masked man said to the crowd, "he follows orders with no fuss or tears!"

The audience turned to each other, chatting amongst themselves while pointing at the boy, who blushed under their attention.

"Note the red in his cheeks," remarked the masked man. "How demur, how charming!"

He turned to the crowd.

"How's fifteen gold and twenty silver suit you?"

From every corner of the crowd, voices began calling numbers.

"Seventeen and ten!"

"Twenty and two!"

"Twenty-seven and eight!"

The masked man moved swiftly, keeping his finger pointed at the highest bid called. The number was well into the forties when the voices began to dim and then fell silent.

A lone voice called out, "Forty-eight and four!"

No one spoke to beat it, and after three stomps of his foot the masked man clapped and gleefully announced, "Forty-eight gold and four silver, to Master Jaycob!"

The winner stepped forward, and polite applause congratulated a man with long gray hair. The boy was hastily moved offstage, disappearing into the crowd before Credence could catch where he went.

The next person in line, a girl whose attributes were listed as a pouting pair of lips and a long neck, caught the highest bid of seventy gold and nine silver before she was taken away by a man with blonde hair.

The next person, a girl from the oldest class, made only thirty-three gold and two silver on her bid.

One by one, they were brought to the center of the stage for the masked man to appraise, and sums were screamed to place their worth.

There was a hard tension running through the line and crowd alike. Credence felt it as strongly as everyone else, fearing for the ghastly moment when a prisoner might receive no bids at all.

The Chopper was still waiting, leaning against a wooden beam with his arms crossed.

He watched the prisoners like a starving wolf at a stumbling doe.

"Have a look at this one!"

The masked man grabbed Credence's arm and pulled her forward. He circled her to give his judgment.

"Those eyes! Gray as storm clouds..." He took one of her hands and held it up to his cheek. "Just like lamb's skin," he teased and the crowd laughed.

Something gave him pause. He jumped back, startled, and dropped her hand with a gasp.

"Oh, no," he said, "no, no, no, no..."

He took her hand and held it up for the crowd to see.

"Shy a full set of fingers," the masked man announced and clucked his tongue in disapproval.

A few groans came from the audience, signaling their disappointment. The masked man smiled lecherously.

"I'd wager ten gold she's intact where it counts!"

He bowed at the laughter such a jab elicited.

Credence fought the urge to slap the mask off the man's face.

The Chopper's eyes were on her, and his hand was ready to act.

"As she's bereft a few minor parts," the masked man continued, "I'll start her sum at, oh, thirty gold even."

It was utterly humiliating to have a price placed on her. Before she could stop herself, Credence's fists balled up and her body shook with silent fury.

The masked man noticed.

"Oh, have I made a mistake? I've upset the little lady with such a low offer, haven't I?" He looked her up and down. "Quite right she is, I think."

He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. The hair on the back of Credence's neck rose under the warmth of his breath. 

"Such dignified anger reflects highborn blood, does it not? I must ask the lady to excuse me." He whispered in her ear, "She's an expense I'll happily pay for soon enough."

He grabbed her hand and twirled her away from him with a graceful flourish. Credence stumbled to catch herself and glared at the man.

He bowed to the audience, paying her no mind.

"New bid! Let's say...forty gold and seven silver."

A voice instantly shouted, "Ninety and twelve!"

The crowd turned in surprise, and even the masked man took a step back, as if such a price had slapped him in the face.

It was Sally, her face twisted in worry, standing in the middle of the crowd with her fist raised high.

"Ninety...gold?" the masked man gaped. "Whatever will you use her for, tavern maid? This is the Auction, not a sale of brooms and beer."

Sally blushed as the crowd snickered.

"My bid stands," Sally answered and straightened her back. "Ninety gold and twelve silver. Do you want my coin or not?"

The masked man shook his head, still astonished.

"Where did you find such a fortune?"

"Does it matter if I'm offering it to you?"

The masked man rubbed his chin in thought.

"Suppose not. But...is there something you know about this beauty then? Something special about her?"

Sally paled, suddenly on the spot. She once told Credence that she had only attended a single Auction, and refused to return after what she saw. As such, she was not acquainted with the art of it, nor did she understand the nuance of building upon a bid.

She had offered her entire fortune at the start, and as it was highly irregular for a commoner to bid so high, and even more shocking to place so much on only one person, she had unintentionally made Credence a target of interest.

When Sally could not think of a quick answer, the masked man grinned and clapped his hands.

"The wench knows something we don't and she's keeping it to herself. I say don't let her. I know there's someone here who can outbid a tavern rat." He gestured to the crowd. "Will no one see this lady to a keeper's home? There's more to her than meets the eye, so why deny us the chance to find out what it is?"

Mistress Cinder's voice answered from the crowd.

"Ninety-eight and three."

"Finally, a respectable buyer," the masked man said with a nod.

The crowd made way for Mistress Cinder to approach the stage. At her side was Rose, as lovely as Credence remembered her, save for a large bruise under her left eye.

Credence wondered if Mistress Cinder put it there.

"I'll buy the beauty," Mistress Cinder announced, putting on just as much of a drama as the masked man. "I know her secrets, and I'll be happy to reveal them. I promise she'll make a wonderful curiosity for discerning patrons."

"A sharp eye, as always, Mistress Cinder. Shall I wait any longer, or give her over now?"

The masked man looked back at Sally, daring her to go higher.

With a painful look in her eyes, Sally lowered her hand from the air.

She had nothing left to bid. She turned her back and left the crowd.

A tear dropped from Credence's eye as she watched her chance for happiness disappear.

I'll never see her again.

It was a comfort that Sally had tried, and Credence didn't blame the woman for not wanting to stay and watch the end. She imagined Sally would have a troubled evening and a difficult time finding the bottom of her secret bottle.

There would be no dancing in her tavern tonight.

"The sum stands at ninety-eight and three," the masked man said. "Will anyone raise Mistress Cinder's bid?"

No one answered.

The masked man stomped his foot once.

Twice.

"One hundred even," a voice boomed.

A shiver ran through the audience, and Credence could hear the sound of everyone turning to seek out the one who'd spoken. 

Even the keen-eyed masked man had difficulty placing the caller, but before he could find them, Mistress Cinder answered, "One hundred ten and fifteen."

A whoosh of heads turned back to her. She gave a smug smile.

"One hundred fifteen and ten," came the reply.

Whoosh.

"One hundred eighty and two."

Whoosh.

"Five hundred."

It was so silent, one could hear the pulse of the person next to them.

Mistress Cinder's face went pale.

"Five...hundred...gold?" the masked man said, dumbstruck.

With a hint of humor, the voice added, "And one silver."

A very serious whispering began in the crowd. Mutterings of such a price being impossible were heard, and all the heads slowly turned back to Mistress Cinder.

The woman stared ahead with her jaw clenched tight.

After a long moment, she shook her head in a sign of defeat.

"Well I—I mean..." the masked man stumbled over his words. His mouth remained open at the end of them, like he no longer knew how to close it.

Hesitantly, he stomped his foot upon the stage floor once.

Then twice.

He threw a cautious glance at Mistress Cinder, and when she refused to meet his eyes, he gave a third and final stomp.

It was customary for the crowd to applaud a winning bid, but they remained silent, waiting to see who had won the girl onstage.

The masked man cleared his throat.

"Five hundred gold and one silver to...I'm sorry, I can't see where you are."

The crowd shifted before giving way to a figure covered head to toe in a dark robe.

Its hood was raised to mask the wearer's face.

The stranger from the tavern.

He was leaning on an elegant cane, a prop Credence had never noticed him use before—though she couldn't remember ever seeing him walk, only sitting at a table or standing still outside the courtyard gate.

Hope rose within her.

He had always been friendly. He warned her about the school and helped during her fight with the imposter.

Perhaps he meant to aid her escape from the towns.

He pulled back the hood, revealing blonde hair and a handsome face.

A faded scar ran over his lips and chin.

The air left Credence's lungs. 

Give me to Mistress Cinder, she thought. Give me to anyone else.

The masked man bowed. "Your name, sir?"

The man smiled, not at the one who addressed him, but at Credence.

"Name isn't important," he answered.

The masked man nodded. "To—the stranger!"

Hesitant applause and confused cheering followed.

Credence couldn't hear them.

The entire world had faded away from everything except the man who purchased her.

The last time she'd seen him, she had left him for dead.

The Collector's minion. The wolf posing as a humble hunter in the woods.

John.