Her ladyship wields the whip infrequently, yet always lovingly, fervently. I’d forgotten how excruciating healing is, each brush of air like a thousand lit matches against my pulped flesh. Falling back asleep will be impossible. Without something to dull the ache, I will lie here in agony until the sun chases back the dark.
It takes long minutes to slip a dress over my shredded back. Hunching forward, I carefully shove my feet into my tired loafers. Then I’m up, easing slowly down the stairs. The bottom step whines as I plant my weight on it. I wince, holding still. Nothing stirs. Good. I would not wish to disturb my employer at an hour so late.
After filling the kettle, I place it on the stove. I build the fire beneath, puffing hard through the pain. I’m not sure which hurt is worse—my back or my ribs. As I wait for the water to boil, I collect the necessary ingredients to make a healing tea that will induce restorative sleep. This, at least, soothes me. My hands fall into motions familiar and safe. Herbs cut and pressed, sliced and rolled.
The kettle screams. I remove it from the heat, steep the brew in boiling water. It is then that a note catches my eye—her ladyship’s elegant script.
Gone to inspect a few potential flats in town. Will return tonight. Stir Our Lady of Mercy thrice at sunrise.
I stir the fresh batch of poison, though it will take weeks before it is complete. I have erred—badly. If she is inspecting flats in town, is it possible the estate’s sale is already in motion?
Fear of losing my home draws my attention toward the stairs leading to the tower. Time is a luxury I cannot afford. However, if I can find the prisoner’s ax myself, I know Lady Clarisse will give me anything I ask for in exchange—including my home.
Swiftly, I down the healing tea. The relief is immediate, a cool numbness encasing my shoulders, spine, and ribs. I pour a second cup for the prisoner. If I approach this god with kindness and understanding, if I offer him relief, might he grant me the information freely?
Lady Clarisse believes she is the only one who knows where the spare keys to the northern tower are hidden, but she is wrong. Tonight, I retrieve the key ring from one of Nan’s old teapots, tuck it against my palm. Chilled metal, small yet mighty.
It is a laborious ascent up the stairs. My legs shake, and twice I’m forced to rest, my sharp, open-mouthed gasps splintering the quiet of deep night. By the time I reach the landing, I require the wall for support, sweat drenching my front. But hesitate I do not. Inserting the key into the lock, I slip inside, quiet as a wraith.
4
“SO, THE BIRD HAS RETURNED.”
The prisoner’s coarse rasp emerges from the back corner, where the shadows breed thickest. The sound’s echo folds onto itself: small, smaller, gone. All is obscured: the walls, the floor, even the shape of my own hands. This is no cell. It is a tomb.
I am a fool to have placed myself in such a vulnerable position, but… a curious fool. Tentatively, I take a shuffling step forward, porcelain cup gripped tightly. My hand trembles. It sloshes the boiling brew across my wrist, and I expel a hiss of pain. “I m-m-made you a cup of tea.”
The scuff of chains pricks at my ears. “You mean like the poison that witch forced down my throat while I lay senseless from her cursed sleeping powder?”
“No.” Another step forward. It’s impossible to determine how far from the prisoner I stand. “This is a h-healing tea.”
“I’m sure.”
Gradually, my eyes adjust to the gloom. Stone walls. Stone floor. The available light is scant, naught but a thin outline surrounding the slot used to shove food through the door. From what Lady Clarisse has told me, the prisoner is shackled to the far wall, with only enough length in his chains to reach the meager meals we serve him. The manacles were enchanted by a witch her ladyship captured many years beforeand forced to do her bidding. They are unbreakable. So long as I keep my distance and do not provoke the prisoner into using his mysterious powers, I am safe.
“If it w-would help,” I say, “I can take a s-sip of the tea and prove there is n-n-nothing wrong with it.”
Once more, quiet takes shape. It is decidedly suspicious.
Lifting the cup, I take a hearty swallow. By now, the numbness has spread to fully envelop my hurts. “Does that p-prove anything?”
“It proves you believe me gullible, soft,” he bites out. “You’re her employee. I can’t trust you.”
“Fine.” I’m not sure why his judgment irks me. It is understandable, considering his captivity. Maybe I take umbrage with him lumping me together with my employer. We are not the same, she and I. Lady Clarisse relishes others’ pain, she lusts for power, covets leverage. My desires are humble: food on the table, a roof over my head. A home of my own.
Gently, I set the cup on the ground. Maybe he will choose to drink if I do not hand it to him directly.
“What did she do to you?” the prisoner asks.
His voice now sounds like it is coming from my right, whereas previously it emerged from the left, though I’m not sure how that is possible. I peer hard into the blanketing darkness. Nothing. I see nothing. “Excuse me?”
“She hurt you. I heard your cries earlier.”
I curve one hand over my shoulder as if to shield my wounds from his gaze. “N-nothing I d-d-did n-not deserve.”
“Why do you feel you deserve such punishment?” If I’m not mistaken, he sounds peeved. “There are other employers who would treat you better. Why stay and endure this pain?”
“My l-l-lady has m-my best interests at heart. Everything she does is to m-m-make me into a better apprentice—”
