Last time, Rhine and Gabriel escape the stolen boat successfully only to foolishly wander toward the lights and get ambushed. You’d think they’d have learned from moths.



THE SICK SOUND OF bone hitting skin. Gabriel lands a perfect punch that sends one of the men crashing backward onto the dirt, but then there are others grabbing his arms and kneeing him from all sides.

And right at the start of the second chapter, things are already taking a bad turn.

We last left our protagonist and her boyfriend getting attacked by a mob of people, and both went down swinging. Now, suddenly, Gabriel is back in the fight and we’re being told Mr. Sheltered can actually throw a good punch.

Even more disappointingly, the quality of the writing itself is failing me, unless one or the other has exposed bone involved here. The plot’s disappointment is inevitable, but the wording was the high point of last book. I hope this is just a momentary stutter.

An old woman is demanding to know their employer, believing they’re spies.

She’s a first generation, short and stocky, with gray hair arranged in a bun encrusted with gaudy glass rubies and emeralds. Rose, who over the years had been showered by our husband, Linden, with trinkets and gems, would laugh at this cheap jewelry—the oversize pearls hanging from the woman’s chicken-skin neck; the silver bangles, rusted and peeling, that run up to her forearm; the ruby ring as big as an egg.

What the fuck.

You barely knew Rose. You barely know gems yourself – just because you’ve been showered in the real stuff doesn’t mean you’re that easily able to recognize a fake now. And the thing I’ve never quite understood myself is, who cares? Maybe she likes gaudy, maybe she doesn’t care what’s real or fake. Plenty of fakes can look more interesting than the real thing, so all that matters is one costs more.

another man hits him. A boy, really; he can’t be any older than Cecily.

Fourteen, then – and if thirteen was young enough for Cecily to get knocked up, then it seems he’s surely old enough to count as a man. His life’s more than halfway over.

Gabriel insists they’re alone, and he gets punched more, and Rhine feels upset and stunned bad things happen out here in the world she spent her life terrified of, and she eventually speaks up to also say they’re on their own. She does express the belief it’s her job to protect Gabriel, though – let’s hope that’s not forgotten.

Filthy girls are peeking out from a slit in the rainbow-striped tent, blinking like bugs. And I know immediately that this must be a scarlet district—a prostitution den of unwanted girls that Gatherers couldn’t sell to House Governors, or who simply had nowhere else to go.

Hm. The brothel thing didn’t make much sense last book so I don’t have high hopes for that changing. If there’s girls with no better option to populate the places, why would they buy girls as well? If it’s just some tents, what stops the stolen girls from running away again?

The old woman cackles and clatters with fake jewels that are like big glass insects and infectious boils on her fingers and wrists.
“Bring her into the light,” the old woman says. They drag me into the rainbow-striped tent below a ceiling of swaying lanterns, and the bug-girls scatter.

The narration is rather extreme in its bias, but it sure does paint a picture, doesn’t it?

She spits on Rhine’s face to clean her off a bit, because somehow Rhine’s swim in the ocean has made her so dirty that’s necessary, and apparently decides Rhine will make a good addition. No one yet seems to have thought to look at their damn clothes and see that she’s covered in diamonds, which would make it pretty obvious she’s an escaped wife, not a spy.

“Goldenrod. Yes, I think that’s what I’ll call you.”
The smoke makes my eyes water. I want to spit back at her.
The girls in the tent moan their protest, and one of them raises her head. “Madame,” she says. Her eyes are languid and filmy. “It’s after sunset. It’s time.”
The old woman backhands her, and in that same calm voice she says, as she examines her jeweled fingers, “You do not tell me. I tell you. ”

Super creepy, though!

What’s up with the other girls, though? What are they “protesting”, the addition of someone new to their ranks and in such a weird way? What does this have to do with it being time for whatever (presumably opening the brothel, but why not just have it open all day?) and why is this so important it happen right on time that one of them would speak up about it?

She says to stick Rhine in the red tent, and Rhine gives up and is dragged limply away to be a prostitute probably.

All that trouble to escape, all Jenna’s efforts to help me, for less than one day of freedom before a new hell emerged.

You’re a terrible protagonist, Rhine. Oh no you’re trapped someplace that presumably has way less security than the last place, might as well just give up. Also, what about Cecily’s effort to help you, given that’s how you actually escaped?

Inside, she’s shown one of the boys has a gun and told not to escape.

I scan the tent for another opening I can wriggle through, but it’s rooted into the ground

Oh god Rhine. Yes. Tent flaps usually reach the ground. That doesn’t mean they’re “rooted” and immovable, you have to actually try pulling up the sides to tell. You can’t just glance over them and give up!

Well. No, I guess you can, since that’s what you’re doing now. Really, though, at least last book you actually tried getting the elevator open and getting a look beyond before giving up.

The tent is full of furniture with an oriental theme. Rhine assumes they’re antiques from the east, presumably because one of the many things lost to time is the knowledge America had plenty of people capable of making the stuff here too.

Rose would like these things. She would have stories for what’s saddening the black-haired women, could chart a path among the cherry blossoms that would take her where she wanted to go. For a moment I think I see what she would—an infinite world.

It seems the author is bound and determined to have Rose be the important character. I guess that’s why there’s a short story about her preceding this.

It’s just really, really weird. Rose was nearly dead when Rhine met her, and most of what she said was about how Rhine should stop struggling because she’d come to love the rapist. And she’s been dead for about a year – it was only well after her death her husband recovered enough to start raping his new wives, and Rhine escaped well after Cecily gave birth nine months after that. Rose is well past liking anything.

Cecily, though – Cecily is still alive, and she loved new things, especially pretty ones. She might not have a story for the sad woman, but maybe she’d ask Rhine to help think of one with her. Rhine’s brother is also still alive, and he was the one most interested in the world outside. And Jenna was the one who liked stories – she’s dead too, admittedly, but far more recently than Rose.

Rhine’s there to continue the interview with the old woman. She asks if Rhine’s eyes mean she’s malformed, which Rhine denies, although honestly that kind of is what having two different eyes is in humans. I guess it depends on your definition, but most of the causes involve something going wrong.

We just took a wrong turn.”
“This whole place is a wrong turn, Goldenrod,” she says. “But tonight’s your lucky night. If you’re looking for a fancier district to do business in”—she flits her fingers dramatically, letting ashes fly—“you won’t find any for miles. I’ll take good care of you.”

You know, she hasn’t actually said they’re prisoners. Jenna certainly couldn’t believe Rhine hadn’t prostituted herself before, since apparently that’s the only part of the economy functioning these days, so maybe this woman just assumes the same.

She raises my hand toward the lantern and gasps when she sees my wedding band. She’s probably never seen real jewelry before.

Um. Your ring marks you the property of some very dangerous people. Also, she’s first generation, she was born into the world back when it functioned and things only fell apart about fifty or so years later, when her and everyone else’s kids turned out to die at twenty.

Rhine lovingly describes how there’s blossoming vines etched into the ring from a design of Linden’s and how Rapist-chan often copied along his building designs when he was thinking of me. and she worries this ugly hag will steal her beloved wedding ring. For some reason, it doesn’t occur to her that the real concern is being turned in for the reward Rapist-chan and/or Evil Mad Scientist will offer for her return.

Instead, the evil monster woman washes out her cut so it doesn’t get infected, then bandages it up with gauze that looks like it’s been used. See, that just makes it sound like they have very limited first aid supplies and she’s spending them on you without any hesitation, which makes it seem all the more petty you want to keep your stupid ring.

Rhine then similarly has an internal tantrum over getting her sweater touched, so so much for the idea she thought it was barter worthy.

I think of Deirdre’s small, capable hands making it for me; they were etched with bright blue veins—her soft skin the only indication of her youth. Those hands could turn bathwater to magic, or thread diamonds into her knitting. Precision was in everything she created. I think of her wide hazel eyes, the soft melody of her voice. I think of how I will never see her again.

She was six years old and all you ever thought was how she could do things for you. Then you left her like you left everyone else, because you were sure the sweet rapist’s father did terrible things and you didn’t want that happening to you or your boyfriend.

Rhine finally claims she’s not involved in the woman’s business.

“No?” The old woman raises her penciled eyebrows. “You look as though you have been running from some other kind of business. I can offer you protection. This is my territory.”

I’m not sure if the book means for the woman to be playing on the wife aspect or just generally that she’s in trouble, but it works really well with the former, doesn’t it? Rhine is running from the other kind of prostitution girls end up in.

Rhine insists that they’ve just on their way to nearby family, the old woman says no one with family would be here. This is getting odd. The book sure seems negative toward the old woman, but now it’s doing backflips to avoid her actually saying she’s imprisoning Rhine. If nothing else, Rhine showed up here with another person, which is to say, “family”. This whole argument makes no sense.

The woman says it’s a carnival of amour and is impressed Rhine knows what amour means. (It seems pretty easy to work out from context, too.) Rhine explains to the reader about how her parents educated them, and yes but I thought it was about halfway useful subjects. Knowing the geography of a destroyed world is of dubious use, but it’s better than knowing the dead tongues spoken in those nonexistent countries.

The narration’s just calling her Madame and doesn’t show any signs of stopping, and that is pretty fitting. She gives us a speech about how There’s no more love, only the illusion of it. because that’s good brothel-madame talk, and puts an arm over Rhine’s shoulder and otherwise acts super chummy.

What is it with first generations and their collection of breathtaking things? I hate myself for being intrigued.

On the long lists of reasons you should hate yourself, that’s kind of low.

Then Madame says she probably doesn’t know the world carnival.

I know the word. My father tried to describe carnivals to my brother and me. Celebrations for when there was nothing to celebrate, he’d say. I could understand, but Rowan couldn’t, so the next day when we woke up, there were ribbons draped all over our bedroom, and a cake was waiting on our dresser with forks and cranberry seltzer, which was my favorite, but we almost never had any because it was so hard to find. And we didn’t go to school that day. My father played strange music on the piano, and we spent the day celebrating nothing at all, except maybe that we were all alive.

That’s really cute, but it’s also really hard to believe. I think I remember last book her saying something about there not being holidays either, but, while I can see that kind of thing breaking down along with the rest of the set traditions, there’s always people who want a good time. This is a world of kids who die young. Cheap happiness shouldn’t go out of business under those circumstances.

Incidentally, since we’re talking about what the word actually means, it’s a particular holiday that did indeed have a purpose behind it. I’m not really sure where her dad is getting the idea they were random celebrations either – that’s not how I’d describe the traveling carnival he’s presumably talking about.

Madame Oldlady introduces her to the Ferris wheel, which is the only functioning part of the place.

“It didn’t work when I found it, of course,” Madame goes on. “But my Jared is something of a genius with electrical things.”

Dammit!

First generations are the only ones with real education. If her Jared is her husband, as seems unlikely, this is merely reinforcing gender stereotypes. If, as is more likely, it’s her son, then it’s so hellbent on reinforcing gender stereotypes that some twenty year old in a destroyed world has a better chance of putting this back together than an adult with a real education and life experience of these things back when they worked.

Also, she can smell Madame’s strange foreign perfumes because I guess a little thing like only America existing won’t stop us from complaining about how foreign stuff is.

The two get on the Ferris wheel. You know, this thing must take an enormous amount of power if they’re not just lighting it up but turning it. Is this running off a generator or are they tapped into the same magic electricity that keeps random streetlights running? Also, even assuming some extremely sturdy construction, I’m really dubious it’d last this long, and keeping it repaired seems a lot harder to do than just getting its lights on.

Oh god it’s so nice to have details again. Even when they’re questionable details, at least they give you something to think about.

This wheel is five, ten, fifteen times taller than the lighthouse I climbed in the hurricane.

It wasn’t a lighthouse, Rhine. It was a miniature golf building that looked like one. I know this is probably very impressive, but maybe you could consider the references to last book satisfied and, say, talk about how much higher than the trees you are or something. That’s what I think when I’m on a Ferris wheel, how the trees that were huge and terrifyingly tall when I was on the ground are shrinking away.

Higher even than the fence that kept me trapped as Linden’s bride.

You kept you trapped there.

“This is the tallest place in the world,” Madame says. “Taller than spy towers.”
I’ve never heard of a spy tower, but I doubt they’re taller than the factories and skyscrapers in Manhattan. Even this wheel couldn’t claim as much. Maybe, though, it’s the tallest place in Madame’s world. I could believe that.

This does not make any sense at all.

The author seems to be trying to have her be both first generation and born into the post-apocalyptic current world, but the apocalypse only starts twenty years into the second generation, when kids start all dying. She grew up back when things were normal, then she lived decades as an adult before things fell apart.

If anything, it’s the skyscrapers that should be gone by now.

Also, Rhine, if you don’t know what a spy tower is, maybe you should be getting concerned. Either it’s something with a sinister name that you were totally unaware of, or the lady’s insane. In either case, it’s something that might be dangerous to you.

She thinks about her twin brother and says after their parents died he only cared and believed in practical and/or terrible things like ominous alleyways where girls become soulless and men pay for five minutes with their bodies. which, yes, prostitution is bad but maybe we could tone back talking about it like afterward they’re just empty objects we shouldn’t care about any longer? Because that doesn’t seem like it’s helpful either.

Her girls are milling below in their dingy, exotic clothes. One of them twirls, and her skirt fills up with air, and her laughter echoes like hiccups. A man grabs her pale arm, and still she laughs, tripping and flailing as he drags her into a tent.

Very creepy! This seems pretty movie-friendly, actually, a bright but unsettling scene – and if the fact the Host is 50% about beating your girlfriend didn’t stop that from ending up a movie, I can’t see why the rape in this would stop anyone.

“You’ve never seen girls as beautiful as mine,” Madame says. But she’s wrong—I have. There was Jenna, with her gray eyes that always caught the light, her grace; she would swirl and hum through the hallways, her nose buried in a romance novel the whole time. The attendants blushed and averted their eyes, she so intimidated them with her confidence, her coy smiles. In a place like this she would have been a queen.

Okay, first off, we already know brothel prostitutes, at least the ones sold, are ones who didn’t make the cut to be wives, so anyone who’s a wife should know at least the other wives in the building are likely “prettier” and so this actually doesn’t make much sense to be bragging about.

Second, you know Jenna was a prostitute, so what makes you sure she wasn’t in a place like this?

Third, Jenna was clinically depressed. She was not spinning through hallways humming. She walked to the library, she picked up a book, she lay down and read it, and the next day she did the same thing. When you inquired why she was reading them, she explained it was because it was an escape from her current horrible life in this horrible world where her sisters were dead and she was the property of the men who’d ordered that.

Why is this all getting erased now? It’s like Rhine’s suddenly decided to see everything that happened in the rosiest light since she escaped.

“They want a better life. They run away, come here to me. I deliver their babies, I cure their sniffles, I feed them, keep them clean, give them nice things for their hair. They come to this place asking for me.” She grins. “Maybe you’ve heard of me too. You’ve come here for my help.”

And we seem to be working out way up to another character who’s going to imprison Rhine while having no idea she’s doing so. Last book, at least we had to get halfway through before the attempt to say that Rapist-chan just had no idea that the crying terrified girls hadn’t signed up to be his wife and that he was sure the dozen gunshots afterward were totally unrelated and that the knockout gas in his car was just because he didn’t want them having heart attacks from the joy and excitement of being picked.

But this makes no sense, if she’s actually taking care of girls she has no need for another one.

And why are they filthy in this case? It’s not that hard to keep people clean if you think that’s important.

(Also, for our count, this first generation woman who presumably was educated back before the world fell apart can’t do anything fancy with electronics, but does know basic medical stuff – along with a litany of other female-associated jobs.)

Madame then finally references the obvious fact she’s an escaped wife.

“Running off with your attendant, Goldenrod, behind the back of the man who made you his wife? Did your husband force himself on you? Or maybe he couldn’t satisfy you, and so you met with that boy of yours in secret—in secret, late at night, rustling in your closet among your silk dresses like a pair of savages.”

My cheeks burn, but it’s not like the embarrassment I felt when my sister wives teased me about my lack of intimacy with Linden. This is sick and invasive. Wrong.

The events of the past book may be getting hazy, but Rhine’s weird moral sense is still with us. Rapists are huggy teddy bears, non-rapists squick her out.

Actually, I think this may be the first time anyone’s actually referred to sex being forced as opposed to just a thing that happens, which means Brothel-Madame is the only one so far in this setting who understands consent exists. If nothing else, believing a girl will run away if her husband tries raping her suggests she’s not the sort of person to try to force a girl to stay here and get raped. I’m sure the book has a few more backflips to explain how exactly that happens, followed by more to avoid Rhine actually getting raped because then she’d lose all value as a person and the author would no longer care what happened to her.

The fact she doesn’t seem to be thinking about any reward she might get for returning Rhine suggests that maybe cheating on your husband is actually a way out – you run off with a servant and he doesn’t want you back so badly. It seems unlikely, but I can’t see why else the issue of turning her in hasn’t appeared.

Rhine denies it, Madama says that Women are the fairer sex. And one as lovely as you—your husband must have turned into a beast around you. and the really sad thing is this is possibly the least fucked up stuff we’ve heard about sex from the author, since at least it’s phrasing the fact men rape you because you’re too pretty as a bad thing.

It’s no wonder you found yourself a sweeter boy. And this one is sweeter, isn’t he?

No, wait, the saddest thing is I think her lack of slut shaming is actually meant to be part of her being evil. She’s not evil for acting like men raping women is just a thing that happens because women are pretty, she’s evil for talking about girls getting raped and she’s evil for talking about girls having a sex drive of their own and she’s probably double evil for suggesting girls might judge men by how rapey they are and then pick the one who doesn’t seem like he’ll rape her. Rape is just a thing that happens and having opinions about it either way makes you a slut.

Rhine dodges this entire chain of thought, though, and just points out that Madame’s guys beat her sweet boy up. Madame just shrugs this off and says it proves they’re good at protecting girls so Rhine should stick around because it’s so safe here.

“Or maybe,” she sings, “your husband didn’t want to pass this defect of yours on to his children. Maybe he threw you out with the trash.”
Madame is a woman who loves to talk. And the more she says, the less accurate she becomes.

Why?

She knows Rhine is a bought wife, and defects disqualify you immediately for that. In fact, theoretically, a really visible defect would make you safe from the gatherers, but no one seems to be trying this tactic. Maybe makeup ones were common so the gatherers learned to just grab people regardless, and real ones are too dangerous because if you’re grabbed and they find it doesn’t wash off, that gets you shot on the spot.

Plus, Rhine is a runaway with an incredibly expensive outfit, a similarly expensive ring, and a runaway servant boy with her. She very obviously ran away. On top of that, it got a reaction from Rhine as if it was hitting too close to home. There’s absolutely no reason to try a second story.

Anyway, this means Rhine decides she can totally lie without a problem, so naturally she does and she claims her husband was the malformed one, because malformed is a good synonym for erectile dysfunction.

Nine times out of ten, he couldn’t do anything about it. And like you said, women have needs.” Madame bounces a little, rocking and creaking our car. It’s clear she gets off on the idea of young lust

Yes, yes, that’s creepy, but not something that really makes much sense in terms of everything that led up to it. Also, seriously Rhine, you spent months with a rapist sleeping in your bed and when you wanted some time alone you encouraged a thirteen year old to get raped more to distract him. Learn priorities.

Anyway she tells us about how this terrible woman doesn’t deserve to know the truth and stuff.

The girls, hundreds of feet below, are a chorus of giggles. They all dance with the men for a while before disappearing into tents. And Madame’s henchmen sometimes peel the opening in the tent for a glimpse.

Look, this really doesn’t sound that bad. Except for the fact the girls sound kind of drugged, but basically, it’s better than the rest of your crapsack world. Hell, even the bouncer guys sneaking peeks doesn’t seem so bad when you compare it to your standard talk about girls hopping into cars with men and probably getting murdered and dumped somewhere. At least if someone decides to go Jack the Ripper here there’s people to see and stop him.