She bends over the sheet of paper.
Tried to escape.
The words pull a gasp from me as they materialize.
Was locked up. Waited for lights out check. When door opened, threw chair at her.
“Wow, Lydia.” My hand flies to my mouth, and I can’t stifle a snort. “I think you just became my inspiration.”
She exhales softly through her nose.
Tried to run. Didn’t get far.
“And you still warned me when you saw me.”
She nods.
The terror of that night—the memory of her stark, pale face and the wild horror in her eyes—rushes back in a sobering wave. A chill crawls down my spine.
Afterward — mouth sewn. Threw me underground. Separated from everyone, always.
Oh, hell. “I’m so sorry. That must be terribly painful and lonely. I can’t imagine.”
Pain mars her expression, her gaze glued to the paper. The hot, damp air is starting to curl the corners.
“The prioress gives the betrothed girls a substance of some sort, right? Something that keeps them in a delirious state?”
“Mm-hmm,” she nods.
“But it doesn’t work on you. Why not?”
She shrugs, leaning over the paper again.
Not given me.
“It isn’t?”
She pauses in the middle of the next sentence to rub her hand. When she’s finished, misery for the poor girl puts down roots in the pit of my stomach.
My punishment. Wait for death. Count down days to Festival of Eisha.
So she does know what happens to the betrothed girls.What’s going to happen toher. My heart breaks for her.
But this also means the ritual didn’t work on her, either. Or, like the sedatives, perhaps Deirdre simply didn’t bother with it. I can’t fathom how anybody could be so cruel, so calculating.
But the urge to keep digging is gripping, and there’s only one thing this could mean: “You still have your memories, don’t you?”
She gives a nod, her gaze on me intense.
Goosebumps sweep my body. “Does that mean— Do you—” I swallow my nerves, afraid of what her answer will be or that she won’t have an answer. But I’m in too deep; I’m too invested inthis to balk now. “Lydia, do you know me from before? Or do you know someone who might?”
She hesitates. I hold my breath, undecided as to which would be worse: if she answers in the affirmative… or not.
Finally, her eyelids drop, and she nods slowly, making a low noise in her throat.
“Youdo?”
She wavers, shifting her weight and looking between me and the paper. The sheet is smothered under her hasty scrawl. Anxiety clamps my gut like a fist, and I glance at the door, wishing there was a clock in here.
