I turn to the bed. Then look up at the ceiling and think about the night before. “Merc.”
“Mmm…?”
There’s a creak of leather as he looks over at me. Then on an abrupt surge, he’s back on his feet, and coming across.
As our eyes meet, his callused, scarred hand reaches out and brushes at my hair. I think of him and the blond working woman and feel sick to my stomach.
“It shouldn’t come easy,” he says.
“I’m… sorry?”
The black side of his stare reminds me of the crystals rising out of the crown’s beautifully wrought black metal. “Killing something, even if… you’re doing it for the right reasons. It shouldn’t be easy.”
That’s when his mask falls away, and I’m leveled from the pain and the regret in his soul. It’s as if I’ve entered a dark, deep cave of torture and I’m staring into an abyss of pain. And still his eyes roam around my face, my hair, my shoulders.
“You are a rare light in this world, Sorrel. Fearless and brave, strong and true—”
“I am no such thing.”
“You need to acquaint with yourself, woman.” His exhale is ragged. “You’re all that and more.”
“I’m a coward who’s asked you to commit murder.”
His shrug is so offhanded, we might as well be talking about the weather. “The cook has it coming. And don’t let him bother your conscience. He’s not worth it.”
“Murder is wrong.”
“And you’re only feeling like this because it’s your first time.” Abruptly, his tone grows weary. “It’s the hardest.”
“It’s myonlytime.”
In the silence, I think of the speech that Sallae Mae always gave the new girls, about how the first time… was always the hardest—and I try to find the farmer in the mercenary before me, the man beneath all the weapons and the scars.
“Was that true for you? Was your… first… the hardest.”
It’s a long while before he shakes his head. “I thought so for a long time. But as fate would have it… I was wrong.”
Riding a desperate wave, I gather his much bigger hands in my own, and squeeze to try to get through to him. “You can stop. You can get out of this life. I see what’s inside of you—”
“No, I can’t.” He separates us and goes back to the window seat, resettling his body in a determined pose of repose. “And… you don’t.”
Fifty-ThreeBelt and Suspenders.
It happens again.
As I come awake, there’s grit in my mouth and down my throat, and the sensation of the sand is all I’m aware of—that and an urgency gripping my mind and body. Some kind of dialogue is happening when I sleep, but I don’t have any conscious memory of what was said or by who—
Sitting up with a jerk, I seek Merc across the room. He’s where he was, in the window seat, and he’s got a journal open in his lap. He’s brought the lantern over, and in the golden glow, he’s writing something with a lead pencil.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I shift my legs off the bed. “How late is it—”
“Late enough.” He makes a couple more notes, puts the journal aside, and gets to his feet. “The crowd is full downstairs. It’s time.”
I don’t hear anything but the maddening rain and a screaming in my head. How many hours have passed—oh, fates, maybe it’s too late and the girl is dead.
“What are you going to do?” I ask roughly.
“Do you really want to know.”
