She was turning, slowly. The sights she saw stole her breath and century upon century. The commotion warped and wove around her with the rotation of the stand. She did not have to look down at the plaque hung around her neck to know where she was.
Turn.
Turn.
Turn.
Every seven seconds, though she would not know them as such until years later, she looked up to see herself echoed by the figure to her left. The mind that was Chrysanthe now could bear up under it, the shame of immodesty in public for a child. More so for both herself and her sister, the daughters of a noble.
The words exchanged among the slavers and between slaver and client fell outside her comprehension. But the sight of coin being exchanged and the lanista jerking her and Tasia off the platforms by leashes was clear enough. The confusion lingered, and the tears fell.
Chrys awoke sideways on the SUV's floor mats, staring underneath the back seat. The stickiness on her cheeks told her that she'd shed tears, and a cold sweat dampened the back of her shirt.
Why now? Not in a millennium in a half...
The door opened with a soft click and she alighted, sitting up against the rear tire.
