WICKED | WILLIAM FRANKLYN-MILLER

⟶ 18 | THE AUCTION

There was talking.

Another slam of a gavel.

And then it was time.

Opening the door, I let Lovey go through first before following her into the auction house. On the stage, men were moving a painting off into the wings, and bringing a large vase on. The crowd was chattering amongst themselves. 

But as we neared the wine-cellar, a figure stepped out into the light.

"[y/n]?"

Mori Fauna-Blanc was standing in the entrance way, shock on their face as they stared at us. With all the commotion, I'd forgotten they were here. There was a glass of wine in their hands, as if it had just been refilled, dangling loosely from their fingertips. 

"Mori?" Lovey gasped. "What are you doing here?"

The designer furrowed their brows. "Percy invited me."

I saw something change in Lovey's eyes, and her hand clenched tighter around mine. "You traitor."

"What?"

"You helped them find me, didn't you?"

Holding out my arm, I pushed Lovey closer towards me. I could sense the anger coursing through her veins—an anger I didn't think she'd have—but I understood it nonetheless. I couldn't imagine what she'd been put through while captive. I already knew what she'd gone through while she was still free. She was a ticking timer, waiting to blow.

"Mori doesn't know," I explained. "It's okay."

The designer furrowed a brow. "Know what?"

"Neither of you are safe here. I'm sorry, but I think it's best we leave."

"What are you talking about?" Mori was persistent. "Safe? Is something going on?"

"I'll explain later."

"Explain now."

"We don't have time."

"Well, I can't just drop everything to leave—"

"Just go, Mori," Lovey spat out. She jerked out her hand, grabbing her friend by the arm and pulling them towards the door.

In doing so, the glass of wine that had been in their hand fell, toppling towards the ground with an incredible speed. As soon as I saw it, a panic grew inside of me. I lunged, but I was too slow to catch it. The glass shattered against the stone floor, red splattering against every surface like blood. But no, something was worse than a broken glass. It wasn't why I was worried.

It was the sound.

Ear-piercing, jerking, and loud, the noise of the wine-glass echoed throughout the large room, turning the heads of everyone who sat in their chairs. I looked at table five with a speck of dying hope—please. Don't turn around.

"Run," I said.

But neither of them moved.

Table five had turned, and the faces of Percy Kent and Martha Ash were staring right back at us. There was shock in their eyes—no, surprise—but the anger was evident. I looked at Percy and felt it too; worse even. You never deserved her, I wanted to say. You deserve nothing. But before I could do anything, the door to the back-rooms swung open, and Robert Ash stumbled out with blood dripping down his face.

He raised an arm towards us, grimacing with a sickly scowl.

There were whispers from the rest of the tables.

Shifting of chairs.

But then there was silence.

And only two words left the man's mouth. "Get them."