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He doesn’t move. His eyes are closed, but he’s breathing—thank goodness. It’s a rough and raspy wheeze. He’s half curled, his body twisted in a way that makes me worry that his spine is broken, and his hands are still bound, his wrists raw and bleeding. His fingers are pale blue, and I think he’s shivering.

“Cut him loose,” I call. “Someone—please—”

“Here.” Earle drops to a knee beside me, a knife in hand. When he cuts Corrick’s wrists free, his arm flops limply, slapping into the ground with a sickening sound.

I press a hand to his cheek. My fingers are trembling. “Corrick. Can you hear me? Open your eyes.”

His eyelids flutter, and he makes a low sound in his chest, but his eyes don’t open, and he doesn’t move.

I don’t know what to do. My breath hitches. I look up at the faces—most familiar, some not—around me. Some still hold weapons. Most look bewildered, though some are regretful. Some are ashamed. Some are doubtful.

Some are cynical, including Lochlan, and that freezes my tongue on any requests for help. I don’t want to give anyone an excuse to start beating him again.

I can’t carry him back to the palace on my back. I can’t carry him back to the palace at all. Not like this.

Earle looks up at the crowd. “Percy. Help me carry him.” He looks at me. “We’ve got a girl here who’s been patching people up.”

They say it as if Corrick has a little scratch, instead of looking like he’s a heartbeat away from a coffin, but I nod.

They lift him carefully, and I stay close. My heart is still pounding, waiting for them to change their minds.

To our left, a few people are jostled, and then a young woman pushes through. I throw up my hands as if she’s going to attack, but then I recognize my friend.

“Karri?” I say, and shock is enough to chase away some of my panic.

“Tessa! Oh, Tessa!” She throws her arms around me, then just as quickly holds me at arm’s length. Her dark-brown eyes trace my features, and I have no idea what she sees.

The men are moving away with Corrick’s body. Lochlan is following.

“Karri,” I say, and my voice is a broken mess. “Karri, I have—I have—I have—”

“Come on,” she says, tucking my hand into the crook of her elbow, then tugging me to follow. “I brought some supplies. Let’s see what we can do.”

My brain refuses to process this. “Wait—you’re—”

“Working with the rebels? Yes.” She glances over again, and her eyes are just as keen and bright as they were when we worked across from each other at Mistress Solomon’s. Her gaze flicks to the men carrying Corrick and then back to mine. “Just like you.”

Corrick’s back isn’t broken, but his shoulder is dislocated. Karri and Earle jerk it back into place, and that’s so painful it brings him around long enough to cry out and try to fight them off. His injuries must catch up with him, though, because he drops fast. We’re in a small lean-to at the edge of the village, hardly bigger than the workshop, but there’s a fire and it’s dry and warm. A small bed sits against the wall, and Earle eases Corrick onto it.

The prince doesn’t move.

I stand beside him, my hand hovering near his face, unsure if I should touch him. His eyes are already shadowed with bruising, and his breathing is too rapid, too rough. I don’t want to hurt him more.

I have to keep my eyes on Corrick, because Lochlan is standing by the door, and if I look at him, I’m going to tear him apart with my bare hands.

A few hours ago, Corrick was promising me he could do better, and now I want to be the vicious one.

“Here,” says Karri. She’s brought a kettle and a low pan, along with some squares of muslin.

I dip one and touch it to Corrick’s brow, where dirt has crusted with the blood along the cut over his eye. He flinches and sucks in a breath, blinking at me before his lids fall closed again.

“Shh,” I say gently. “It’s me. It’s me.”

He nods, and it’s such a tiny movement, such a trusting movement. This time, when I tend to the cut, he holds still.

“It needs stitching,” says Karri from behind me.

I know. I can see that myself.