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Garrick skipped forward at the touch of the knife and climbed.

James passed the knife back to Mr. Sarolt with a snark about paying attention this time. The vile man then retrieved the reins and climbed to sit beside Grace in the driver’s seat. He wrapped his arm around her, forcing her to press into his side.

She recoiled, and he gripped her side hard enough to hurt. A sickening revulsion rolled through her. She didn’t want to feel his arms around her, didn’t want to smell his sickly sweat.

With a hard flick that sent another wave of disgust through Grace, the horses started off, using the light of a lantern to navigate toward town square.

As they went, Grace scanned the farmers’ homes frantically. Surely someone was still awake and looking out at the noisy bustle of a carriage in the silence of night. For a moment, she thought she saw Milo in the window of the Tucker home, but couldn’t be sure, and no one came out of the cottage to help them.

Grace didn’t dare call out. She couldn’t see the bed of the wagon any longer and could only assume Mr. Sarolt still held Garrick at knifepoint.

She couldn’t lose him. Not now. Not ever.

She’d find a way. Her family would find a way.

When the wagon passed through Craftsman Ridge, a few Fidarans gazed out their windows at them. Grace pled with her eyes, and a few came outdoors to gawk at Garrick, unmasked and still wearing the verdure cloak. No one rushed the carriage, but Alaina Dahl went running for the farmland.

What gratitude Grace felt for what she hoped was the girl’s attempt to get help mixed with anxious uncertainty when she remembered her family currently sat for dinner at the mayor’s. If Alaina went for them, there’d be no one to find. But there were others from whom she could seek help.

And, Grace realized, when the wagon reached the town hall and the jail in its basement, her family would be close enough to hear them. How could she ensure Garrick’s safety so she could cry out for them?

It would have to be after James stopped the wagon, when he released her from this skin-crawling hold.

She’d be ready. She’d wait for an opening and spring at Mr. Sarolt.

But when the platform in town square came into view and, after a moment’s confusion, Grace recognized the two tall frames for what they were, took in the presence of a half dozen patrolmen, and saw the three restrained figures standing beside them, her blood ran cold.

Her family. They had her family, tied up and standing beside two hangman’s nooses.

“Grace!” Russell cried.

“No!” she shouted, jerking forward without conscious thought, her chest constricting.

James and Garrick cried out simultaneously, and Grace tried to right herself. Her heart pounded, her mind raced. Her family. She had to save her family, get them away from the guards stationed at the corners of the platform. And Garrick. Had Mr.Sarolt stabbed him? She’d make the patrolman pay if he’d hurt the man she loved.

The wagon stopped, and James dragged Grace down from the seat. She slammed her elbow into his chest. With a grunt, James buckled, leaving Grace blessedly free of his arms.

The nooses weren’t near her parents’ or Russell’s necks, so she turned first for Garrick.

She nearly leapt into the wagon bed. It was effortless; she’d scaled trees twenty times higher with far more insubstantial footholds.

Mr. Sarolt turned to her, removing the blade from Garrick’s back, and she leapt. Garrick thrust the man’s arm up, and the knife clattered to the ground.

Moments later, hands, several of them, pulled Grace and Garrick out of the wagon.

Grace struggled, screaming.

The patrolmen holding her dragged her with minor effort. Three to one wasn’t exactly a fight in her favor.

She expected to be led up beside her family and Garrick, who thrashed against three guards of his own as they dragged him up the stairs, so it took a moment to realize she was being yanked away from the platform, down the cobbled path to her manor.

Why? Why were they separating her from her family?

She heard James laughing and struggled all the harder.

“Not yet,” James said, “but soon. Soon, a knife isn’t the only thing that’ll press into your neck.”

Once again, Grace felt a blade, and she cursed. She was sick of this tactic. Sick of the man she couldn’t believe she’deverbelieved to be the Rogue. He was dirt, dross. Lower than the guts of a squashed beetle.