“Iwillkeep my promise,” he says. “But I need a few days, perhaps a week.”
Replacing my veil, I nod—refusing to get my hopes up before it’s certain—and slip out the door.
chapter four
FIRST DAY ARRIVES WITH ITS weekly promise of torturous entertainment. Thick gray fog hangs over the city, its somber atmosphere the perfect reflection of the bleakness I feel inside. Small snowflakes drift through the chilly air, and people huddle close, rubbing their arms and shifting their feet to ward off the cold. Yet despite the discomfort, no one dares disobey the minister and stay home. Truth be told, I’m not even sure they want to.
The town square is already packed with people by the time I arrive, everyone eager to watch another victim burn to death. Even Master Coperie will defy his hangover and get out of bed to attend the weekly executions. Not that he has much choice unless he’s eager to be next week’s entertainment.
Hurrying past the long line of mudlings standing in front of the city administrators—all waiting to sign in, the record informing the minister that they were present for the executions on First Day—I slowonly when I reach the part of the square reserved for properties. No need to sign in to a book when the brace leaves you no choice but to attend. Refusing a request is impossible—Father knows I’ve tried.
I steal a quick glance at Master Coperie, where he’s seated on the elevated tribune reserved for the city’s noble houses. If last night was proof, he’s getting angrier, more impatient, and if not for Mrs. Cooker’s healing balm, it would have been too painful for me to get dressed today.
I press my lips into a thin line, afraid I might scream out loud if I’m not careful. The indignity of having to serve him and his noblemen in nothing but a sheer linen shift, hair unbound, is almost worse than the excruciating pain of his torture. I rub my chest. Parts of me feel as soulless as the minister. At least the pain is distracting—it helps me forget this feeling of emptiness. Yet the way he uses the compulsion of the brace to make me pick up hot coal with my bare hands and press the scorching pieces against the sensitive skin on the inside of my arms and thighs over and over, torturing myself, is what leaves the visible scars. The men clearly reveled in the absolute power they had over me. Their twisted pleasure was evident in the way they rubbed themselves in unspeakable places while watching me writhe in pain. At least they didn’t touchme.
I breathe deep, holding on to the anger, afraid that if I let it go, I’ll never find the energy to continue going. I can deal with pain. It’s second nature by now. And I won’t let Master Coperie break me, not now.
My hand clutches the sleek dagger in my pocket. Do I have it in me to kill him if it comes to that? If he can’t take me to bed soon, hewillget rid of me in one way or another. It’s basically kill or get killed at this point. Unless Llyr comes around and secures my freedom first, and although he promised, I dare not rely on that. Someone’s word doesn’t mean much around here. I scan the crowd for the old man. He’s bound to be here somewhere.
A prickly feeling on my neck makes me turn around, and my eyes meet Em’s in the crowd. I lift my hand to wave at her, but she dismisses me with the turn of her back, creating a sudden foul taste in my mouth. So much for being fostered together for the first ten years of our lives. The same girl who once refused to leave my side through my first whipping—resulting in quite a few lashes for herself—now won’t even look at me. Part of me wants to chase after her, to shake her and remind her who we used to be—two girls who swore we'd escape together. But I can’t afford sentimentality. Not when I’m this close to freedom. Not when Master Coperie's patience is running out and my first bleed is nowhere in sight. Em made her choice. Now I have to make mine. If that’s where we’re at, I refuse to feel guilty when I get my freedom without her. She’s on her own.
The tolling of the temple bell calls my attention back to the podium, and by the last stroke of the bell, the crowd is enveloped in a heavy silence. Fixing my stare at the massive whipping table next to the pyre, I pray her death will be swift, although I know it rarely is. My gaze trails the bloodstained cracks along the edges, the stone stained dark from years of public punishments.
The first rock flies the moment Mrs. Willox is brought out to the pyre, and I force myself to watch, as is appropriate. It strikes her face, leaving a deep gash, and I steel myselfnot to flinch.
“Witch, witch, witch, witch.” The rhythmic chant echoes through the square as people stomp their feet with each word, feeding the religious fervor of the city. Next to me, a young boy clings to his mother’s skirts, wide-eyed and trembling, his innocence a sharp contrast to the brutality unfolding before him.
“Burn her! Burn her!” A rock hits her square in the chest, causing her to gasp for breath, followed by another one at her face.
I keep my face in a much-practiced neutral expression as I study Mrs. Willox. Blood gushes down her face, and her dress is tattered, yet she doesn’t make a sound. She has that distant look in her eyes,indicating her absence from the present moment, and perhaps that’s for the best, given what awaits her.
A moment later, her husband is hauled out by two of the minister’s henchmen. The crowd roars as he stumbles and falls, turning into a frenzy of sadistic pleasure when they yank him back up before they throw him down onto the stone table, cuffing his hands and feet. Yet another victim to hate.
“Dear faithful men and women of Bronich.” The minister’s voice booms through the square. “We are gathered here on First Day to witness the Father’s judgment over two heretics.” The way he towers over everyone on top of the podium, wrapped in his wolf-skin cloak, he appears larger than he is. “Let us all thank the Father for His ever-watchful eyes and pray He will always be there to weed out the evils amongst us so that we, the people of Bronich, can forever stay safe.” His gaze sweeps over the crowd. “Now, pray.”
The crowd bows their heads as one, lips moving in silent prayers. I stare at my feet, whispering curses. I hate this life, this city. Hate the metallic tang of blood that always lingers just beneath the surface. Is Llyr right? Is it all designed to break us? Turn us into nothing but broken puppets dancing to the minister’s cruel whims?
My gaze follows an ashcrawl climbing across my boot, its black shell gleaming.
“It is time.” With a flamboyant gesture toward the pyre, the minister shouts, “Let her burn!”
The crowd’s cheers rise to a crescendo, the vibrations of their thumping feet reverberating through the square.
“Burn! Burn! Burn!”
With a swift motion, the executioner raises his flaming torch high, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. The crowd falls silent, anticipation hanging in the air like the heavy fog, and the torch descends, a blazing arc of destruction, aiming for the kindling beneath the woman’s feet.
I drag my gaze away from the twisted smile stretched across the executioner’s face as the pyre catches fire. Power, it seems, breeds cruelty in all who wield it.
The flames dance eagerly, their orange tongues licking at her body, while I keep my gaze fixed at a distant point above the fire. Soon, the acrid stench of burning flesh fills the air, but I don’t dare look away. Any suspicious behavior, and ten fingers will be pointed toward me.
My face a carefully constructed mask, I force myself not to flinch as ashcrawls swarm toward the pyre in a writhing mass, their obsidian shells gleaming as they dive into the flames to feast on burning flesh. The sight is horrific enough, but Mr. Willox’s heart-wrenching screams make it unbearable—lash after lash falling on him as he’s forced to watch his wife burn. She hangs limp and unconscious, mercifully unaware of both the flames devouring her and the creatures feeding alongside them.
As soon as it’s safe to do so, I hurry toward the east gate, desperate for fresh air—anything but the stench of death. Save for the rats, the alley is blessedly empty.
“Laïna.” Llyr steps out from the shadows, startling me with his sudden presence. “Come.” He gestures for me to follow him down the deserted alleyway. Once we’re well out of earshot of the crowd, he turns to face me. “We leave the day after tomorrow.”
“Leave?” I sign, refusing to use my voice out in public, even if no one is close enough to hear. I look up at him, trying to discern his expression, but his features are obscured by the shadow of his hood. Does he jest? No one around here ever leaves.
