Madeline stood under the harsh, accusatory glow of the stage lights, the heavy, velvet cloak weighing down her shoulders and the veil obscuring her panicked expression. The drummer gave a tentative, low roll of the snares, waiting for the "Maiden" to unveil a display of seductive grace.
The problem was, Madeline didn't know how to be seductive. She didn't even know how to waltz.
Panic surged, then curdled into a reckless, desperate defiance. If they wanted a show, she would give them one they would never forget. As the music took on a sultry, rhythmic thrum, Madeline didn't sway. She didn't shimmer.
With a sudden, violent jerk, she hooked her thumbs into her armpits, using the heavy fabric of her cloak to create massive, sweeping wings.
"Bock! Bock-bock!"
Her head bobbed in a frantic, avian rhythm, the veil snapping back and forth against her nose like a wet dishcloth. She squatted low to the stage, her crimson dress and cloak bunching into a massive, velvet nest as she pretended to peck at invisible corn through the mesh of her headpiece. This was the "Mad Chicken"—the ridiculous, sprawling dance she, Miguel, and Charlene had invented as children to make each other wheeze with laughter.
She popped back up and began to stomp her feet in a chaotic circle. The cloak billowed out, catching the air until she looked less like a seductress and more like a giant, angry bat trying to hatch a disgruntled egg. With every "Bock!", the veil puffed out with her breath, momentarily suctioning to her open mouth before fluttering wildly as she flapped harder than a hen in a hurricane.
The music died. The drummer froze, sticks suspended in mid-air. John the Auctioneer stood with his mouth agape, looking as though he had just witnessed a royal assassination. Madeline stopped, chest heaving, certain she had just earned herself a one-way trip to the flogging post.
Then, the room exploded—not with applause, but with a roar of hysterical, knee-slapping laughter.
John, ever the opportunist, wiped sweat from his brow and forced a booming laugh. "Ha! I told you! A riddle wrapped in a mystery! A maiden of... eccentric tastes! Who among you is brave enough to tame the wild bird?"
Despite the ridicule, the absurdity had broken the tension.
"Seventeen silver coins!" a man shouted, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.
"Twenty!" another countered.
Madeline's heart hammered. She had hoped to be so humiliating that no one would bid, but the numbers were climbing toward a fortune.
"I am Chris," a familiar, silk-over-gravel voice cut through the din. The tall man from the alleyway stood, his eyes glinting with a dark, possessive amusement. "And I bid twenty-five silver coins for the chicken."
Madeline felt a flicker of hope. Chris. He was a face she knew. Perhaps he was bidding to save her? Perhaps they were "friends" after all?
"Going once to Chris!" John shouted, raising his gavel. "Going twice! Do not miss the chance to uncover—"
He stopped. The Matron had scurried onto the stage, whispering frantically into his ear. John's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. He looked toward the darkened VIP balcony, his face pale.
"Gentlemen... I have just received word," John stammered, his bravado replaced by genuine awe. "We have a very important guest in our midst whose identity must remain in the shadows. He has just placed a bid." John paused, his voice trembling. "One hundred silver coins for the Veiled Maiden."
The laughter died instantly. A deafening silence smothered the room. A hundred silver coins? It was enough to buy the estate her grandmother worked on and even add ten more estates.
"This... this is unprecedented!" John crowed, gesturing toward the stairs. "Our precious gem, please. Make your way to the VIP lounge. Your owner awaits."
Madeline felt the world tilt. The hope of Chris's twenty-five coins vanished. She was being sold to a shadow—a man so wealthy and powerful he could throw away a hundred silvers on a whim. She felt dizzy, her legs shaking as she began to descend the stage steps.
"I'm sorry, Grandma," she whispered into the silk of her veil, tears blurring her vision.
She reached the base of the stairs, her hand trembling as she reached for the railing to begin her climb to the mysterious buyer. But before her foot could touch the first step, a hand—rough, familiar, and vibrating with a lethal, suppressed fury—clamped around her wrist and yanked her back into the shadows.
"You aren't going anywhere with anyone," a low, dark growl hissed in her ear.
Madeline spun around, her breath catching. It wasn't Chris. It wasn't the Matron.
Standing in the gloom, his knuckles white and his eyes burning with a mixture of betrayal and protective rage, was Miguel.