Number Six stepped through the door and surveyed the shop. No lingering signs of violation remained. Everything had been returned to proper order. The Shopkeep looked up at the sound of the bell. Like the shop he too had been set right. The sourness of their last encounter had been swept away along with the spilled sugar and broken glass.
"Ah, Number Six," The man said. "How can I help you?"
Number Two's actors played their roles well.
"All the world's a stage." he said in reply.
"How's that, sir?"
"Shakespeare."
"I'm sorry. I don't follow."
"Number Two is to be commended. Shakespeare couldn't have written a better act." The man's bewildered expression amused him. "I trust the ships are running on time?"
The reminder was almost enough to crack the facade and let the real man peer out. But the voice that answered him was full of innocent confusion. "Ships, sir?"
The Village was place without permanence.
"Never mind that." He said. "I'm wondering if you might be able to help me? I'm looking for something rather special."
The Shopkeep smiled with relief. Delighted to return to an approved subject. "Of course. What are you in need of?"
"A scarf. Silk, if you have it."
"We have a nice selection. Silk is quite popular you know." The Shopkeep gestured politely. "Right this way if you would."
He followed the Shopkeep's rounded back to a rack of men's scarfs.
"Here you are, sir." The nice selection was indicated with a wave of stout hand. "All made from the finest silk. Very fashionable."
"I'm sorry. I should have been more clear." he said in mock apology. "I'm looking for a woman's scarf. Gift for a friend."
The man's smile was suddenly knowing. "A lady friend?"
"A friend." He corrected.
The smile remained as if they were sharing a sly confidence,"I believe you'll find what you're looking for over there." He indicated another rack.
The next display was indeed what he was after.
The Shopkeep selected a pale pink scarf with a delicate rose pattern. "Very feminine, don't you think?" He fingered the cloth. "Most elegant."
Six ignored him, his eyes on a gaudy red one. Impossible to miss. Just the thing. "I want something bold." He said, "That red one should do nicely."
His suggestion shunned the Shopekeep took down the red scarf and admired it approvingly. "Excellent choice."
"Would you mind wrapping it up for me?"
"Of course. Wont take but a moment." The Shopekeep turned away to carry out his mission then stopped as if struck by something. Turning back around he said. "So wonderful to see you settling down, Number Six."
"Am I?"
"Nothing to be ashamed of. We all come round eventually." The man said. "The Village has its ways."
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With a picnic basket hung over his arm Number Six stopped in front of Casey's cottage. Early afternoon sun dappled the walk through the branches of a spreading tree. The girl had not stepped foot outside since she was deposited on the door step two days past. The place was quiet as a tomb.
He glanced at a camera from which impatience seemed to emanate. Number Two should like the game to progress. He knocked on the door. A long silence answered it. The girl was not in a hurry for an interaction. After a time he knocked again with more force. This brought a reaction from within. The corner of a blind parted and an unseen eye peeked out at him through the gap, then was gone.
The third knock promised that he was not going away and furtive footsteps answered it.
The door opened a crack, so that only a bit of her face showed, still tanned from her time in the wild. There was a change in her. Something missing. Like pages torn out of a book. The Village has its ways.
"It's a beautiful day," He gave her a nice smile. "Care for a walk?"
She let the door opened just wide enough so that she might considered him from a position of easy retreat. He didn't like her eyes. They were the eyes of a prisoner.
"A picnic?" the voice was as dead as the eyes.
"Special occasion. Are you up for it?"
"What occasion?"
"Come along and find out."
The girl's dull eyes found a camera through which Number Two no doubt watched.
"Is that what he wants?"
"Naturally."
Her expression remained vacant.
"Come on now," a hint of a challenge. "we haven't got all day."
Nothing changed in her face but she stepped out and let the door close behind her. He held his arm for her. With the awkwardness of a mannequin she accepted it and he guided her down the walk. She was stiff at his side.
"I have a nice place in mind," he said. "It's a bit of a walk, but we'll take it easy. I'm still convalescing myself."
This earned him no comment and they went in silence past the watching cameras. Cameras she had once destroyed back when she was foolish enough to believe she could fight this place with rocks and greasy rags. She had received a hard lesson regarding that. Perhaps it had proved too much for her.
They walked the sunny streets alive with cheerful people who smiled and saluted. Everyone of them repeating like robots the Shopkeep's refrain. "So wonderful to see you settling down, Number Six."
The ridiculous display was for Casey's benefit. If she still harbored any confidence in him this was meant to erode it. Number Two was a master at the art of subtle cruelty.
They left the Village and climbed up a sunlit hill, each step taking them ever closer to the outer parameter. It would be a good test of his opponent's commitment to the game. He stopped for a moment and looked back. Below them The Village lay peaceful as a sow in the afternoon sun. No alarm. Did Number Two twitch with anticipation or was he the picture of calm, believing he still held the upper hand? He looked over at Casey standing beside him in that infernal stoic silence. If Number Two felt confident it was not without reason. The girl might well have broken. The idea stirred the familiar anger.
"It's just a bit further," he said to the quiet girl.
She came along, her hand as unyielding as drift wood in the crook of his arm. The sun was warm and the trees filled with bird song. But it was a pleasantness that never touched him. The cold walls of a cell could not have been anymore repressive.
A breeze swept down from the high country carrying with it the sent of snow and a memory of freedom. The girl at his side stirred to life. She raised her head and looked towards the mountain towering above them. He sensed the longing in her. Perhaps she was not so defeated as she pretended. Or perhaps he only dreamed it.
"There will be no running away today." He said.
She looked at him with that frozen face of hers. The eyes were still troubling.
The short climb brought them to the Mango Grove where the spying statues greeted them. Cold stone bust of men long dead swiveled on their pedestals to track the intruders. Casey stopped short, examining the odd display.
"Visual only," He assured her. "no audio."
He removed her lifeless hand from his arm and arranged the blanket under the trees. With equal care he set out the contents of the basket and motioned for her to join him on the blanket. She did so in a wooden manner, sitting rigidly with her back to the statues.
It was a pleasant scene. Very intimate. Number Two aught to be on the edge of his seat. He gave the statue with the flashing eyes a salute.
The girl looked round at the leering stone faces. Irritation creased her brow. She still cared.
"Why do they do this?" she motioned to the stone bust with their ridiculous camera eyes.
"Why do they do anything?"
"It's absurd."
"It is indeed."
He picked up a sandwich and handed it to her. "Eat something, you'll feel better."
She took it without interest. "Number Two said you aren't to be trusted."
"Number Two can be very persuasive." he noted, watching her impassive face. "Has he persuaded you?"
A strange, savage smile jerked at the corners of her mouth, as disquieting as a flash of fangs in the darkness. It left him uneasy even as her features settled back into the lifeless mask.
He considered her carefully. She sat with her legs folded half under her and her hands laying in her lap like a pair of sick fish fighting over a sandwich. There was no hint of the proud, unpredictable girl who had struck at the very heart of The Village. She had given them quite a bit of trouble and they had paid her back in kind. The thought angered him.
"This place," he said casually, "has a way of changing people."
A memory stirred. Some deep horror crossed her face with no more effect than a shadow has on a wall.
Without any feeling she said. "I don't want to go under that light again."
"Nor I."
She glanced up at him, but there was no surprise. No perceptible emotion at all. "You've been?"
"Many times."
Still as dull as a cardboard cutout she asked, "How can you stand it?"
Ignoring the question he took a sandwich for himself and watched the cameras as he unwrapped it.
"Do you remember what we talked about on the mountain?"
She said, "Number Two told me no one has ever escaped from this place."
"No one ever has."
"You've tried?"
"Of course."
"What makes you think it will work this time?"
"I have every confidence it will not."
This revelation brought no reaction. He observed her carefully as she slowly mangled her sandwich with unconscious fingers. A prison built in the mind is more difficult to escape than any constructed of steel and concert. Such was the devious nature of the Village.
Casey, it seemed, was no longer present. He noted she had slipped into a kind of trance. Her body sat obediently on the blanket but her mind had retreated. Crawled away to cower in some dark corner, awaiting death. He had no delusions about the limits of human endurance. He had known full well when he delivered the girl to them that she might be destroyed. It was risk that could not have been avoided, as was every injustice meted out in this place.
The anger grew and the silence between them become as thick as a cell door. With irritation he took a jack hammer to it.
"What else has Number Two told you?" he demanded.
She came out of her trance like a sleeper waking. He thought she may not have heard him but after a moment she answered. "He told me I could have a happy life here."
"And you believe that?"
With no emotion at all she said, "Number Two wants very much to kill me."
To his irritation the idea seemed of little importance to her.
He had hoped the man's desire to win would hold back his murderous impulses but that was not something on which they could count. The girl would have to do her part to convince Number Two she held some value to him. A tool with which he could not afford to recklessly dependence. In frustration he wondered if she would even try.
And suddenly Casey's passive indifference caused the anger to flare. He had a powerful desire to shake some emotion out of her. To prove to himself he was not wasting his time trying to save someone already dead.
"You can expect nothing less of him," he replied coldly. "You've made a quite of a mess of things haven't you?"
She looked at him, unfazed by his curtness, blank as slate. He might as well scold a stone.
He pressed on brutally, probing for some sign of life. "You took a shot and missed. A good assassin never misses the shot."
Her restless finger still tore at the bread. Crumbs rained down onto her lap unnoticed. Without feeling she said. "I'm not an assassin."
"It's high time you learn." his tone was harsh enough to cut. To draw blood is she had any left in her. "Lessons start tomorrow. You will meet me in the clock tower, first thing in the morning."
There was no response to this. She was just a ridged girl tearing a sandwich to shreds.
He settled back and forced the seething anger down. Number Two had done his work well. The girl might follow him to the ends of the Earth or turn and viciously destroy him at a word from her new masters. But there was nothing for it now. Win or lose the time had come to start the show.
He relieved Casey of the remains of the bread and tossed it to the ants.
"Enough of this sulking." He said making his voice cheerful. "This is meant to be a happy occasion."
He reached into the basket and drew out the brightly wrapped parcel. The Shopkeep had done an exceptional job.
He held the gift out to her. "Many happy returns."
She looked at him without comprehension.
"For your birthday." He informed her.
Still vacant as an empty room she said, "I don't know when my birthday is."
"Then today as is good a day as any."
She excepted the package and fumbled half heartily with the ribbon that bound it.
"Surly you must have celebrated your birthday?" He asked.
"When I was little." She said. "Always on different dates. I don't think any of them were the real one."
She managed to get the wrapping off and opened the box to reveil the garish red scarf. There was no show of emotion as she caressed the smooth cloth.
"Put it on. Let's see how it looks." he encouraged.
She did as she was told, tying the scarf in place with wooden fingers.
When she had finished he leaned back, appearing to admire it. "Suits you."
Awkwardly she reached up and pulled at it as if it were a noose.
"Do you like it?"
She answered joylessly, "It's the first present I've gotten in a long time."
"Then it's quite special," he said. "Wear is always."
They fell silent as the statues watched. Behind their dead eyes Number Two was waiting. The man had made such a bold play. It wouldn't do to disappoint him.
"There is one more thing." He pulled the white button out of his pocket, holding it so she and the cameras could have a good look. "I believe this is yours."
At the sight of it Casey tightened with sudden suspicion. She looked into his eyes trying to read him, but there was nothing there for her. In that fleeting moment he saw in hers what he needed. The spirit was wounded. But it was not yet dead.
He extended the button towards her. A dreadful thing. A thing that was not to be avoided.
With a steely resolve she reached out and took what was offered. This must be an exquisite moment for Number Two. He kept his eyes from the cameras because just now the rage could not be hidden.
In some quiet way Casey came alive again as she studied the white button with its bold number. A number meant to supplant her very identity. Though no emotions touched her face, she was animated with them as she held the innocuous symbol of dissolution.
In a hushed voice she said. "Lucky number seven."
"I've never been given to superstition myself." he replied.
"Are they?" This was asked in the manner of a soldier searching for a breach in the enemies' defenses.
He smiled faintly. "The very powerful often are."
That eerie calm settled over her again, wiping away her emotions as if they were chalk on a black board.
She said, "Number Two offered to make a deal with me."
This came as no surprise. "Of course you agreed."
"Of course."
"In that case," he motioned the button. "you best put it on."
Her eyes dropped to the thing in her hand but she made no move to comply.
"They expect it." he insisted. His tone harsh. Commanding.
She glanced reluctantly at one of the stone watchers, her face made terrible by its stillness.
It would not due to have her refuse.
"In the Village," he said unkindly. "Obedience must be absolute."
Her eyes came back to his, found no mercy in them and drifted away. But her fingers began the work of unclasping the pin. Then like an automation she drew it to herself.
Just as she seemed about to slip the pin through the cloth of her shirt, her resolve failed. She let her hands drop listlessly into her lap.
Number Two expected more for his plotting and scheming. Six was to demonstrate his willingness to make the girl submit and in doing so bring himself one step closer to giving in. He wondered if he might. A tiny crack can compromise a dam. A man was not so different.
Casey seemed to have gone back into her little trance as she stared down at the button in her limp fingers.
Impatient now to be done with this farce he commanded. "Put it on."
She lifted her head to glance at him. The look he gave her was vehement. Demanding obedience. He felt disgust.
"Put it on." He said again, his voice came out growl.
To his near relief she made an effort to do as she was told. But her hands were clumsy with stress, turning the simple action into an ordeal that threatened to reduce her to tears. He imagined angrily that Number Two should be quite pleased with performance. He was sick to death of it. Sick of his part in it. He had already given the sadist far too much satisfaction.
"Here now," he said, "allow me."
He leaned in to affix the button for her. As he did he said. "In pretending there is a danger of becoming."
"Are you," she asked,"pretending?"
"Always."