I yelp again. Until I can’t.
Time passes differently in the dark. There’s no light except a sliver under the door. Sometimes I hear footsteps. A cup of water appears once. Then a heel of bread. Then nothing.
I think about Master Prophet’s voice and become determined.
They will not shape me.
Over the next few days, the dark becomes familiar. I begin to count breaths. Sing to myself in a whisper, notes and melodies flow through my body. I feel them in my chest, in my bones.
My name becomes a prayer. I press my hands together and promise:
I will not belong to them.
I will not marry Gideon.
I will get out.
When the door finally opens however many days later, my eyes sting as they adjust to the light.
Mother stands there. Pale. Empty. “Have you calmed?”
I nod.
She thinks my acknowledgement meanssurrender.
It doesn’t. Inside me, something sharp has taken root. Something permanent.
Not rage. Not fear.
Resolve.
They want me quiet so I’ll be quiet.
Careful.
They want me small, so I’ll be smaller than a speck of dirt.
Invisible.
One night soon…I will disappear.
six
Linus
Two Weeks Later
Thegigwrapslate.
The lads in the band are already half-pissed when we lock up the venue, tossing thank-yous like confetti as they disappear into the neon-soaked streets of Galway.
Niamh and I handle the settlement ourselves. Her on invoices. Me on gear logistics. It’s our dynamic. Has been since we were sixteen. She handles the front of house, I take care of the backstage chaos.
Her da says we’re the perfect pair.
No. I’m a fraud. Living someone else’s life.
We walk back to the hotel in silence, her fingers curled into the crook of my elbow. There’s nothing wrong on thesurface. The gig went off without a hitch, the band is thrilled, her da will be pleased with the money they made.
