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Or perhaps it was the punishments, the denigration and humiliation. The daughter of the Earl of Quinley, forced to go down on her knees, reciting prayers that nobody heard anyway.

The stone bit into Eleanor’s knees, a punishment she had known often enough but never grown used to. She parted her lips, and prayers to a god she was not sure she believed in anymore came forth.

At her first stutter, Sister Martha brought her cane down across Eleanor’s shoulders. Eleanor had long learned to keep her cries of pain behind her clenched teeth, but today, a choked, pained groan escaped her, and she swayed from the strike.

Another landed on the back of her thighs, and she forced her spine to remain rigid, to stay upright, to continue.

Bury the pain and the protests .

“Begin again,” Sister Martha instructed. “The Lord will receive nothing but perfect worship.”

“Yes, Sister Martha,” Eleanor whispered.

She remained kneeling on the stone floor, new bruises forming over the old ones, and recited and recited until her voice was hoarse.

Tears had long dried on Eleanor’s cheeks by the time she hobbled back to her room, bruised, with welts from the strikes opening on her shoulders and thighs.

Her dress stuck to her—whether it was the blood or sweat, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. That protective numbness she always let in had blanketed the pain and fury, leaving her empty.

While it protected her, it was exactly what the sisters wanted: she could not be angry, could not bite back if she was exhausted and empty.

And it was for that reason that Eleanor didn’t let herself collapse onto the bed as she ached to.

She dragged her weary body to the corner of her room, choosing to tuck herself away, even if the hard floor hurt more. This was her defiance, even if nobody but herself saw.

Stuffed in a pile of old bricks was ointment she had received from another girl like herself around two years ago.

“For your swollen knees , ” the girl had whispered.

She’d had haunted eyes, and Eleanor had asked for her name.

It doesn’t matter. That name and girl are gone. Soon, you will be, too.

Eleanor had seen the girl once after that and then never again. But the girl had hobbled around with her own swollen knees before disappearing for good. Eleanor would never forget her or the only kindness extended to her in years.

Now, she rubbed the ointment on her knees, biting back moans of pain.

Another girl drifted through her thoughts—Charlotte Vanserton. Through the murkiness of her time at the convent, Eleanor closed her eyes and gave herself to the memories she only indulged in during her darkest moments.

A girl who held the banister as she descended into a ballroom that glittered in the chandelier lights.

Skirts that shimmered and reflected an array of spring colors, and music that coaxed her to dance for as long as her parents allowed, passed from gentleman to gentleman.

Men who smiled at her like she mattered, as though she had not been one lady in a sea of many for them to choose from.

Now, she smiled through the pain of those memories.

For in the ballroom was a girl with hair the color of sunlight who had walked as though she was not aware of how beautiful she was. A girl who carried herself without vanity or pride. A girl who carried pain behind kind blue eyes but never spoke of it.

Charlotte Vanserton.

Eleanor had called her a friend, for she had lacked them, and Charlotte had been lovely and gentle. She and Eleanor had come together to face those ballrooms that were more of a beautiful game of chess than anything. That was what they had once laughed over, at least.

Now, Charlotte faced her own checkmate, as Eleanor may have once done had she not been foolish enough to try and uncover the dangerous things she had learned about Lord Belgrave.

She could not let Charlotte fall into the same trap. Follet and Belgrave were evil. Her breath hitched as she recalled the papers she had found in Belgrave’s drawers the night of her engagement party. And for the first time in months—in years , even—a well of rebellion surged through her.

She was Lady Eleanor Barnes, and she was not as helpless as the sisters made her feel.

She might be broken, but she could move. She could gather those broken pieces and flee.

Eleanor had long since stopped fighting for herself, but for Charlotte?

For Charlotte, she had to do something.

Evening fell, casting darkness over the countryside beyond St. Euphemia’s. Eleanor requested bandages for her knees, claiming she would not be able to pray perfectly the following day if she did not treat them properly.

As soon as Sister Theresa left her room to fetch the bandages, Eleanor moved as fast she could, catching her cell door before it closed.

She waited for a precious few seconds before she slipped out and ran-shuffled in the opposite direction to where Sister Theresa would have had to go for the supplies.

Three years of cleaning and tending to the old, crumbling Jacobean manor had allowed Eleanor to memorize the way to the stables. The sisters maintained them for themselves and any visitors, as well as transporting women like Eleanor to other establishments across the country.

She wasted no more time ducking into the shadows of the stables, immediately finding a pile of cloaks kept aside for the harsh nights of travel—which were kept secret for the right amount.

She had kept provisions in her room and transferred them from her skirt pockets into a saddle bag. She swung herself up on a horse, biting back cries of pain as her body protested.

“Hey!”

The call came from deep within the stables. A young boy’s eyes widened as they landed on her, his hand outstretched. But he did not move to stop her, did not shout.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please…”

But she was not sure if her pleas were heard. She did not have time to wait and see whether he would call for backup or ring the bell to alert the convent of a deserter.

So she took off on her horse and disappeared into the dark countryside.

As she rode away, she let herself break down one last time, and then, with each thud of the horse’s hooves, she gathered what remained of her strength for her friend.

For one woman, she could not fail.