It approaches the minister, and it’s clear it communicates something, although the words are too hushed for me to pick up.
“Is that so?” The minister turns back toward me. “Seems you won’t burn after all—at least, not yet.” He taps a finger against his nose. “But there certainly are fates worse than death.” He chuckles to himself. “Make her forget.” He dismisses me with a curt flick of his wrist.
The umbra glides toward the prison wagon, darkness twisting and turning around it. It’s captivating in an eerie sort of way.
Shaking myself out of the stupor, I get on my feet and scramble backward. I’ve seen too many examples of the mindless shell that will turn me into. My heels bump into something, and I stumble and fall. I’d forgotten all about the dead man in the back. The overwhelming stink of urine and feces makes me want to vomit—and I don’t even want to think about what grime is on my hands—but I dare not take my eyes off the umbra.
It stops at the edge of the wagon, its angry hisses reaching all the way to the back. Good. That means it won’t come inside. My relief lasts until I see Bran approaching. He has no scruples about climbing in and grabbing my arm, and he hauls me to the front. Not wanting to look inside the umbra’s hood, I keep my gaze on my hands. The stench is as bad here as in the back. The only difference is the sickening sweetness to it, which is absent from the dead man. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, and my muscles tense as I struggle to suppress my rising panic.
The umbra reaches a hand toward my face, and icy fingers grab hold of my jaw, forcing me to look up. I stare into the darkness of the hood, and for the first time, I’m close enough to distinguish its pale yellow skin—fragile, like parchment—and deep red eyes. I blink. Nothing is happening. With Mr. and Mrs. Willox, it happened in an instant. Does it mean it’s not working? The thoughts move through my mind in the span of a heartbeat, and I decide to pretend. I let my eyes glaze over and slump forward, like I have no will left.
“It is done,” the umbra hisses toward the minister.
I drop to the floor of the wagon as it lets go of my jaw, keeping my eyes closed until the latch slams shut.
“There will be someone here to collect the wagon, second bell after first light,” the minister says. Then the sound of his heavy boots disappears into the night, and I’m left with Bran’s low whistle.
I stare into the darkness.Emma.Despite her betrayal, my heart breaks for her. She was like a sister to me. How could I have missed the depth of her devotion to her master? Thinking back, it’s been evident in her every gesture for some time now.
Shifting on the unforgiving surface of the prison wagon, I place my satchel beneath my head, using it as a makeshift pillow. I rub at the hollow feeling in my chest, trying to soothe the constant ache that runs deep within me. Closing my eyes, I listen to the thunderous beat of my heart in the heavy silence, each beat reverberating through my body, echoing the shattered feeling within.
No. Mrs. Cooker is wrong. Life is better lived alone, far away from anyone who could do me harm.
A HEAVY THUD JOLTS ME awake, followed by another.
Did someone just take out the guards?
“Laïna, is that you?”
I sit up, shaking my head to clear the fog of sleep, my heart pounding. That familiar voice... Am I dreaming? No, the frosty night air drifting into the wagon as the latch swings open is undeniably real.
“Llyr?” I whisper.
He grunts an agreement, and my heart leaps. I may have a chance after all. I scootch closer to the entrance and glance outside.
“Youdid that?” I nod toward the two guardsmen on the ground. One is Bran—he got what he deserved.
Llyr shrugs. “Thought you might need some help.”
My eyes widen. “You’ll burn for that.” I can’t be bothered with the signing, not after everything.
“Then I’m glad I will be elsewhere.” He gives me a once-over. “You’ve removed your veil. Good. Now, show me your brace.”
I frown, reaching my forearm toward him, and pull up the sleeve. The many small symbols on the brace pulsate at a slow beat in the dim light. How odd. I’ve never seen that before. They’re similar to the ones on the dagger, I realize.
“The umbra’s mind wiping didn’t work on you.”
It’s not a question, but I shake my head in confirmation nonetheless. “Why?” I ask.
“The brace,” he says. “Blocks magic.” He shakes his head. “Would have thought they knew better,” he mumbles to himself as he studies my brace.
“Magic,” I squeak, wrenching my arm free. The mere mention makes my skin crawl.
“The sheer ignorance of this society.” He scoffs. “How do you think the brace works?”
“I... I don’t know.” Why is it that every time he asks for my thoughts, I have no clue how to respond? Am I that incapable of thinking for myself? Or have I just been so caught up in my own situation, too focused on my own escape, to notice what was going on around me? Whatever the reason, I obviously lack an understanding of the society I live in. Ignoring Llyr’s warning, not seeing how Em was changing... I stare at her still form, slumped lifelessly on the ground. They haven’t even bothered to move her.
“That is the entire problem,” he grumbles. “The damnedFatherforbids you to think for yourself.”
