Page 37

And again.

And again.

There was such rage in those blows. I fought Lottie’s grasp. In agony, my heart leapt, wishing it might leave my body and block the strikes from driving Rook’s temple into the rock.

Bronwyn tapped the advisor and muttered, “That’s enough.”

The advisor rounded on Bronwyn, ready to attack her next.

Bronwyn wagged a finger, as if to say, ‘No.’ Trembling, the advisor dismounted Rook’s beaten body.

Marek strode down the path; he grabbed the front of Rook’s shirt and righted him.

Rook’s face, purple and bloodied, was hardly recognizable.

Though one eye was swollen completely shut, his other caught mine.

He looked as if he wanted to apologize, as if even the beating were his fault.

Is this it?

Will I ever see him again?

If this was the last time we saw one another, it wouldn’t be like this.

Though I wanted to fall to my knees, I forced a smile.

If I could give Rook anything, let it be that.

The last thing I might give him was the thought that our eyes meeting brought me joy.

That seeing him was my happiness, even like this.

Perhaps it might comfort him during what was to come.

Against the gag, Rook’s bloodied cheeks returned the smile.

It turned into a grimace as Marek shoved him into the wagon.

With a snapping of whips and grinding of wheels, they took off.

Lottie loosened her grip; I shoved her and tore down the path.

I stopped at the road, and as the wagon crested the hill…

I waved. Those in the wagon thought it was for Marek. Indeed, he returned my gesture.

But I knew. And Rook knew.

Below the shackles adorning his wrists, Rook’s fingers reached for me. I’d let myself picture a home with Rook, a life filled with slow mornings and evenings by the fire. I remained on the road, watching the wagon until it disappeared, stealing that life— my dream —with it.

Lottie met me on the road. “I… I’m sorry,” she said. “But he killed our father!”

Pushing Lottie, I screamed, “Marek killed our father!” Fat, furious tears rolled down my cheeks as I advanced on Lottie. Mother hurried down the path, stepping between us.

To me, my mother whispered, “What did you say?”

My breathing chugged as I sobbed. I dodged my mother and punched Lottie.

She fell back and I screamed, “You couldn’t listen to me—couldn’t do one thing I asked, could you?

!” Mother grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back.

“Agh!” Pain splintered through my elbow.

She kicked my knees and I hit the ground.

Crouched over me, my mother hissed, “Did you say Marek killed Jean?”

At once, I stopped fighting. When was the last time my mother had said his name? Through sniffles, I hiccupped, “Yes.”

My mother processed that word.

Slowly, she helped me up. Lottie remained several feet away, tracking my movements. Eerie calm settled on my mother, though a muscle twitched, just below her eye. Guiding me back to the cottage, she said, “Tell me.”

I did. I told them everything. Of my hunt for the Hound, of Rook, the curse, and Marek.

It was no coincidence the previous captain fell to the Hound.

It was a title desired by Marek, so he simply got rid of anyone who came between him and the position.

Marek took the same approach with our father.

He believed that, with Father out of the way, Mother would need a new husband—and a captain too!

Though Marek underestimated the bond between my parents.

Even with Father dead, Mother showed no interest in Marek.

He hoped then, with her children gone, my mother, left with nothing, might seek solace in his arms.

When I finished, Mother stared vacantly at the wall. Surprisingly, it was Lottie who reached out and urged her to say something. “Mum?” My mother rose and threw a cloak on.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m going to cut his throat,” Mother replied, as simply as if she were popping out for milk.

I leapt up. “No, you—”

“We’ll go together,” Lottie interrupted, and grabbed her cloak too.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Mother snapped. “You’ll stay here and care for your brother!”

“I’m coming with you,” Lysander said, shambling from his room, where I’d assumed he’d been sleeping off the excitement.

“You’re ill!” Mother pointed down the hall. “Back to bed!”

“I feel better!” Indeed, colour crept back into Lysander’s cheeks. “The sickness won’t rob me of passing justice on that weasel!”

“And I’ll not let Marek rob you of your futures!” Mother cried. “This is my battle.” She opened the door, which Lottie promptly slammed. Lottie was the only person in the world who could receive the glare my mother gave her, and live.

“Let’s think about this,” I said, backing toward the table.

“I’ll not be talked out of it!” Mother shouted, reaching for her weapon.

“No one is talking you out of it.” I slid a chair back, encouraging my mother to sit.

“You’re the cleverest person in town. Surely, you can think of a better way to pass justice on Marek.

Preferably, one that doesn’t involve walking out and slitting his throat in front of an entire town of witnesses. ”

Mother stared at the chair.

Finally, she said, “You’re right.” Removing her cloak, Mother sat down. Lysander set a goblet and bottle of wine in front of her. Despite our mother’s years of abstinence, she poured herself a large glass and drank. Mother coughed and choked out, “I want him to suffer.”

“That’s good,” I soothed. “That’s a good start.” Lottie and Lysander sat with us.

Together, we came up with a plan.