Deep Roots by Beth Cato

did the other colors mean? Did she really want to know?
    The circle was activated again and sent a faint wave of heat over Rivka’s skin. Outside the ring, the workers waited with military posture. The medicians began to work, which involved a great deal of muttering and hand-­waving and herb-­sprinkling. The mechanist stared at them and every so often tweaked the mechanical arm or said something too low to hear.
    It was hard to see the creature with ­people in the way, but they occasionally stepped aside, and Rivka could see its face.
    Beady black eyes stared straight at her, unblinking. Its countenance seemed . . . blank. Braced for whatever was to come. Rivka knew that numbness. She’d known it every day for months after Mr. Stout moved her into the bakery. That constant dread of what he’d say. What he’d do. What he’d make her do.
    Rivka twisted her skirt. She should speak up. She should do something. What? A hand gripped her, forced her to stay still and down. Tatiana’s expression reflected dismay as she put a finger to her lips.
    â€œThis is taking forever. It’s as if the Lady doesn’t want to grant us help. Pah!” Miss Arfetta used a cloth to mop her brow. “At least this chimera is smaller than the first one we made. Less flesh, smaller limbs. Agility over brute strength.” She stood back and nodded to herself.
    â€œIt’ll need a smaller jockey then, too, won’t it, m’lady?”
    Beside Rivka, Tatiana fidgeted.
    Miss Arfetta snorted. “Don’t get any ideas, Broderick. You might be skinny as a tram rail, but you’re too tall. Watch out for that jar you—­” Something struck the floor with a loud ping. Her screech rose like a siren. “You clumsy oaf! You spilled pampria all over the floor! You’ll need to sanitize all of it, every shred! Do you have any idea how expensive this is?”
    â€œYes, m’lady! I’m sorry!” He knelt and vanished from Rivka’s line of sight.
    â€œScoop it up. Use that bag there, yes. That kind of mistake could kill someone. You know what happens when you kill a patient?”
    â€œYes, Miss Arfetta. You don’t earn a profit.”
    â€œThat’s right. Now take that mess and the wand and go over there.” Miss Arfetta waved. The bangles on her wrist jingled. “Make sure every last zyme is cleansed away.”
    â€œYes, Miss Arfetta.” He walked straight for their hiding place. Tatiana grabbed Rivka’s arm. They couldn’t retreat to the other crates, either; Mr. Cody’s men still stood close by. Broderick set his things atop their crate. His white trousers showed through the gap between boxes. The sharp cinnamon-­like odor of the pampria filled her senses.
    Some of the red herbs spilled again, drifting between the boxes. Broderick stooped down.
    His gaze met with theirs. His jaw fell slack as he emitted a yelp.
    Seconds later, the other men rounded the backside of the crates. “Damn t’all!” one cried. “Where’d you gals come from?”
    Tatiana stood first, arms folded over her chest. “I’m Miss Tatiana Garret, a guest of August Balthazar Cody.”
    Rivka felt the intense stares of the men and ducked her chin as if to hide her lip. “Me, too. A guest of Balthazar Cody, I mean. I’m Rivka Stout.”
    â€œWhat is this hullabaloo?” Miss Arfetta swept over, her face a dark storm cloud. “You girls, spying on us?”
    â€œBest let Mr. Cody know,” said one of the men.
    â€œBest let me know what?” Mr. Cody’s voice boomed from the entrance. “That my two youngest guests decided to explore the premises?” He glanced behind him. “Go fetch Mrs. Stout.”
    Tatiana curtsied as Mr. Cody approached them. Rivka followed Tatiana’s example.
    â€œIt’s very good to see you, Mr. Cody,” said Tatiana. “This laboratory you created is a