She held out a hand to collect the weapon as she’d done with the other two clutched between her fingers.
My fingers tightened around the hilt as I lowered the blade from my throat, the urge to strike again flashing through my mind.
And I suppose my desperate thought was written all over my expression because she pressed her lips into a firm line and shook her head.
My shoulders sagged.
What was the use?
As I handed the dagger over, a knock came from the entrance to Graysen’s quarters.
Penn and I shared a curious look as the other woman tucked Zrenyth’s blade into her pocket. I hurried across the sea of carpet, velvet beneath my bare feet, toward the door, wondering who it could be. As I reached to open it, the cord cinched tighter around my throat.
Hellsgate!
I took a reluctant step back, and the constriction eased.
Penn pulled the door wide, and behind it stood the youngest Crowther, partially backlit by sunlight flowing through arrow slits in the outer tower walls.
Ferne held a stack of neatly folded clothes. A white ribbon bound her silken black locks into a loose side ponytail, and she chewed on her bottom lip as she shifted her feet nervously.
A small part of me abhorred my instant devious thoughts, but the rest of me drank her in, assessing and calculating, my mind becoming mercenary, whirling with possibilities.
Nothing can cut through it. Only a Crowther wielding a dagger can.
“I thought you could use these. I know we’re not the same size, but Gray…” Ferne faltered on her brother’s name, clearing her throat before trying again. “Well, I understand you don’t like clothes that are too restrictive because…” And again the words trailed off.
Penn retrieved the clothing from the other girl, and I took them. The soft fabrics of silk, cotton, and linen whisperedbeneath my touch, and the fresh smell of laundry filled my nose. “Thank you, Ferne.”
Thank you for capturing me.
Thank you for locking me away.
Ire simmered and stiffened my limbs, but even I knew that was the wrong approach to tackle this. I forced the heat down. Anger wouldn’t win her over.
Instead, I spoke to her like a long-time friend. A confidante. “You know this isn’t right.” And although it might have been inappropriate of me to say it to a girl who lost her mother in the most horrific way, I continued, “Your mother wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want you to be part of it…” Whose mother would? My own had become consumed by dark despair for what she’d done to save me by exposing her best friend’s secret. And my mother still believed Tabitha was dead. How would she feel when,ifshe ever discovered that Tabitha was alive?
“I’m innocent, Ferne, and you’re going to auction me off at the Witches Ball.”
Ferne’s anxiety tightened her throat, the pulse point fluttering like a butterfly trapped beneath a dome of glass, the tendons strained to silken cords.
“Let me go,” I said, willing her to hear the forgiveness in my tone and act on it.
She took a frantic step back.
“You know this is wrong,” I insisted.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered before whirling around, her white dress rippling.
“Wait, Ferne!”
Her footfall on the stone steps echoed down the twisting staircase, fading with her retreat.
I spun about and collapsed against the wall, bowing my head and pounding the heel of my palm against my forehead.
Godsdammit!
I’d pushed too hard.
