Climb out the window and run.
I folded in half, clutching my heaving midriff.
Vertigo swooped like bats of hell, flapping in my hair and screeching in my ears. I toppled to my knees, not stopping my cantilevered descent until my forehead touched the carpet. I stayed that way—with my arms locked around me in a useless embrace and my head at the foot of some deity who refused to save me.
It might not be what you think.
It might not be the Third Debt.
A sob crawled up my throat.
Lying to another was doable. Lying to myself was impossible.
Trembling, I sat up and grabbed the clothes from the bed. They slid from the sheets, scattering on the floor. The material was scratchy, rudimentary.
The urge to bolt grew ever more incessant.
Don’t let them do this.
I vaguely knew where the boundary was now. I could make it. I had a beast with four legs ready to carry me away. But even if I made it to the stables and to Moth—even if I made it to the boundary and galloped all my way to London—no one would believe my tale. Not after the press. The interview. Not after the online websites and gossip columns placing wagers on when our big day would be and how the world had been used in an elaborate hoax between family rivalry and an overprotective brother.
Cut had cleverly strengthened my bars to a worldwide level—locked in by hearsay and propaganda.
Swallowing the sickness from vertigo, I slowly stood. The room still spun. The nausea still battered. But I had no options. Deliver myself willingly and pray I was strong enough to get through it. Or wait for them to claim me and administer a worse punishment.
Tears clawed my lungs as I dropped the towel.
An ant’s nest of hatred and helplessness crawled over my skin as I picked up the breaches.
A shudder hijacked my muscles as I pulled the abrasive wool over my feet and up to my hips. Instantly, I itched—rasping claustrophobia within the primitive trousers.
Keep going.
Gritting my teeth, I slipped into the cheesecloth shirt, cursing the see-through fabric and my dark nipples. I might as well be wearing nothing.
I can’t go out like this.
The maid suddenly appeared without knocking. Her eyes cast over me. “Great, you’re almost ready.” Pulling a hair tie from around her wrist, she gave it to me. “You need to tie up your hair, too. They said in a bun.”
I couldn’t speak.
It took all my power to keep from murdering her and bolting.
Taking the elastic, I gathered my straightened hair and twisted it into a rope before twirling it up on top of my skull and fastening it in place.
“You ready to go?”
Ignoring the maid, I padded over to the full-length mirror, hating the fact my chest was in full view beneath the cheesecloth.
My reflection.
A wild moan keened. I slapped my hands over my mouth.
I look...
I look...
My heart decided it would no longer beat. No longer strum to keep me alive. It turned into coal—no longer flesh or blood or diamond—just dirty, dusty coal splintering into kindling.
