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Ava turned her head and opened her eyes.

She was lying on a pile of straw on the ground, a short distance from a fire pit. Night had fallen, and people sat on logs set around the fire, chatting and laughing.

“Where are we?” she croaked.

“Near the river.” The little girl who answered was hunched down on her haunches, her light brown hair a fluffy cloud around her face.

Near the river told Ava precisely nothing. They had been near the river when Sirna had put the magic rope around her waist, but she assumed they weren’t still in the same place.

Sirna had obviously decided traveling with the caravan had some benefit to him.

She wondered what story he’d told them about her.

The rope was still in place—she could feel the subtle pull as it bled her dry—but Sirna had taken the bag with the rope in it off her and set it down a little way away from her. It was probably why she was capable of waking up.

“That is ugly,” the little girl said, pointing to where the rope lay between her and the bag. “It’s eating you up.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t you take it off?” the little girl asked.

“I can’t touch it with my hands.” She looked down at her shift. To her surprise, she saw someone had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Maybe she could cover her hands with the shawl and pick the knot at her waist apart.

She tipped her head to get a better view of the campfire, and saw Evelyn and Sirna were sitting directly in front of her, with their backs to her as they faced the fire.

She pulled down the shawl, sliding it from under her back and shoulders, until it covered the rope at her waist, and carefully, with her fingertips, pulled at the knot.

The magic of the rope nipped at her fingers, and she had to lift her hands off, as if she were touching a hot iron.

Her arms felt heavy, and if she hadn’t known she had gone fuzzy around the edges before, she would have dismissed the strange distortion around her hands as a trick of the light.

She went back to the knot. She pick, picked at it until it became too much, even through the shawl, and lifted her fingers away. Pick, pick, lift.

It wasn’t as if she’d forgotten the girl, she’d just needed the rope off her more, so when thick gloves were placed on her chest, she blinked up in surprise.

The little girl put a finger to her lips. “They’re my da’s. He uses them when he melts iron in the fire.” She paused. “I have to put them back quickly, so hurry.”

Ava tried to slide her hands into them. It was much harder than it should have been, and with an impatient click of her tongue, the little girl helped her put them on.

The rope seemed to know she was trying to free herself.

She felt its pull on her energy grow, and her head slumped back on the ground, but she would not give up. She would not.

She let her head rest on the sweet, fresh hay, eyes closed, and picked at the rope by feel, pushing the shawl off her and tugging and working the rope until she felt it give.

“Stand back,” she warned the girl. She hadn’t opened her eyes, but she sensed the child was crouched close by, watching. “Stand well back.”

She finally had the end of the rope in one hand and she managed to open her eyes and lift her head. She carefully set it down onto the ground and sat up.

It was a struggle, but she managed.

The world whirled around her for a moment, and she had a second’s panic that she would fall back down on the rope that now lay behind her.

A small hand touched her shoulder, steadying her, and she felt tears sting the back of her eyes in gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered.

She inched forward on her behind, getting more distance from the rope, and then leaned forward, got up on her hands and knees, and turned back to face her tormentor.

The end of it fluttered, as if in a breeze. Except there was no breeze.