I swallow and swipe hair out of my eyes with my good hand. The strands are damp with tears.
I’m terrified to look at my injured hand.
“Tell me,” he says.
I don’t want to look at him either.
“Jax.” His breathing is shuddering, and I can’t tell if he’s afraid of what’s happened—or if he’s thought of something worse to force the truth out of me. “Just tell me where they are.”
There’s too much pain. My thoughts are scattered and lined with agony.
“Under my bed,” I say roughly, and my voice is thick.
He draws back. “Next time, you give them to me. You hear me, boy? You give them tome. Maybe this will teach you to be honest.” He tugs at the leather ties to his apron, and he goes into the house. The door slams behind him.
All that silver, everything I risked, and he’s going to take it.
That hurts almost more than my hand.
Well. Not quite.
I finally dredge the courage from somewhere and look at the damage. The skin across the center of my palm is a straight line of blistered skin, a red so dark it’s almost brown. Three of my fingers as well. I can’t fully close my hand. I can barely move it.
I’ll never be able to grip a hammer or tongs until this heals.
Or a crutch.
I draw a whimpering breath. I need to get out of the mud. I need to figure out what to do.
There’s nothingtodo. Nothing. I brace my good hand against the snow and lever to my knees, then shuffle back into the workshop, where I ease onto one of the stools.
If any part of this could be calledlucky, it’s that my injured hand is my left—which means I can still use one crutch. I’ll be slower, but I was never really fast.
My entire hand is throbbing, and I can’tthink. I pull it close against my body, as if cradling it will help the pain. For the first time in my life, I want to ask my father where I can get the best spirits, because I would quite literally do anything to stop this pulsing agony.
How long could this take to heal? It’ll be weeks, most likely. Months?
Ever?
I’ll never catch up on what we owe now.
I think of that moment when Lord Tycho stood in the workshop. The way he said,I would offer you mercy.
I’ve heard that they believe in fate on the other side of the mountain in Emberfall, and right this moment, I want to beg fate to send him back.
Nothing happens. Because, of course, if fatedoesexist, it’s laughing at me.
I duck my face to dry the last of my tears on the shoulder of my cloak.
Then—then—hoofbeats sound in the lane. My breath actually catches, which is ridiculous. My legs are half frozen from kneeling in the slush and mud, and my hand feels like it’s still on fire, but for a wild, crazy second, I don’t care. I’ll confess my crimes and he’ll drag me away from here, and at this point I don’t even care if I end up in prison because at least it will be better than this horrific misfortune that follows me every day.
But then I see the horse, and it’s not a dark bay with a crooked stripe down her face, it’s a blazing red chestnut gelding.
It’s Lord Alek.
Ah, yes.Thank you, fate.
At least he didn’t find me crouching in the mud. I tuck my injured hand behind the leather strap of my apron, because after the way he tossed the coins into the slush, I don’t want to give him an excuse to bemoreof an ass.
