Taken (Erin Bowman)

“Nothing is going to materialize on its own.”
    “Very well,” she says, placing her cup on the wooden table between us. “You’ve been slated to Emma Link for the next month. You know Emma, right? Carter’s girl? Works in the Clinic?”
    A knot forms in my chest. “Yeah, I know her.”
    “Good. Well that is all, Gray. You may go.”
    I leave without thanking her. For the first time since shattering the frame, my mind shifts away from Ma’s secret. I should like this matchup, but I don’t. Emma isn’t just another girl. I don’t want to be with her because I’ve been told to. I want to be with her on my own terms and with her reciprocating that feeling, or not at all.
    Perhaps it won’t even matter; Emma will likely reject me. It’s been rumored that she hasn’t accepted a single one of her slatings, that she turns them all away. Blaine’s friend Septum Tate, who was lost to the Heist a few months back, claimed Emma had actually lodged her knee into his groin when he refused to believe she truly meant no thank you. No one believed him. Mostly because Emma is so sweet, so gentle.
    I look up to find my feet have subconsciously carried me to the Clinic. I suppose now is no worse a time than any to face her. I push open the doors and step inside.
    Carter is attending to someone in the front of the room. I can make out their silhouettes through one of the thin curtains. Emma sits at a desk in the rear, scrawling something onto a piece of parchment. She is wearing a long white dress and her hair is gathered haphazardly atop her head. A few stray pieces fall into her eyes as she writes. I run a hand through my bangs anxiously and then march back to her desk, plopping myself in the seat opposite her without an invitation.
    “Hey.”
    “Hi,” she says, barely looking up. “Do you need help with something?”
    “No.” I’m still trying to work out what to say. Maybe coming to the Clinic was a bad idea. Maybe I should avoid Emma for the month.
    “Then what are you doing here?” She puts her quill down and folds her arms across her chest. She looks pretty when she’s cross.
    “I’ve been slated to you,” I say. There, it’s out.
    “Oh, is that all? Good. I’m not interested.” She picks the quill up again and returns to writing.
    “Yeah, I know. I was just hoping I could get the truth out of the way so that we can actually enjoy spending the next month together.”
    She looks at me, confusion on her face. “I’m not sure you heard me, Gray. I’m not interested. We won’t be spending any time together.”
    “See that’s the thing, Emma; I don’t want to be a father. Not in a million years. I don’t want to end up like Blaine, leaving a kid behind. And you’re not interested. You’ve made that clear. But the Council still wants me slated to you, and if we hang out for a few weeks, they’ll think we’re doing what they want us to, and then they’ll be off our backs. Heck, I could probably even convince them to keep me slated to you for several months, and then you won’t have to deal with matchups at all.”
    She’s quiet for a moment, her dark eyes searching mine. I’m not sure what she’s looking for or what she’s thinking. She’s too good at being blank.
    “Okay,” she says finally. “It’s a deal. What do you want to do?”
    “What, right now?”
    “Yes, right now.” She smiles, ever so slightly. It causes that pain in my chest, that heave I get when she looks at me, to pulse.
    “We can do anything. What do you want to do?”
    “Let’s go to the pond,” she says, putting her things away.
    “What pond?”
    “The pond. The only one. The one near that field of purple bellflowers.”
    “That’s more of a lake.”
    “Oh, it’s a pond in my mind. Come on, let’s get out of here.” And then she’s grabbing my hand and pulling me from the Clinic. I guess I won’t be hunting today.

FIVE
    WE HEAD SOUTH THROUGH TOWN, passing the school and blacksmith shop and the numerous houses, including my own, that create the border of the village. Where the dirt fades away, tall grass begins, sprouting up in patches, until finally we are entering the woods. I don’t usually hunt along the southern portion of the forest. It’s marshier, and the larger game sticks to the drier areas. The ground grows soft beneath our feet as we continue, but there’s been little rain lately and we avoid sinking into the doughy earth. When we reach the coarse thicket that I know to be