I heard boots, then—a real threat, coming from the barracks at the far end of the yard. I grabbed Scarlette’s arm and hauled her upright, adrenaline burning away the pain for one brief second.
Lady Elise pulled open the cage, the hinges squealing like a pig at slaughter. “Go,” she hissed.
Scarlette nodded, but tears streamed down her cheeks. “Mother, come with us.”
“I can’t. If they see me gone, they’ll sound the bell. You have minutes, no more.”
I looked at Lady Elise, really looked at her, and saw her for the first time. The set of her jaw, the battered pride in her posture, the way her eyes flickered from Scarlette to me and back again, memorizing every detail. She had the look of a woman who’d decided, finally, to do what mattered.
I nodded to her, a soldier’s nod. She nodded back.
Scarlette clung to her for a heartbeat longer, then let go. I half-carried, half-dragged her out of the cage, down the row of empty cells, past the racks of old, splintered weapons. The air was thick with the smell of wet stone and mold and, underneath, the tang of fear.
Behind us, Lady Elise rattled the cage shut, then melted back into the darkness, her footsteps already erased by the pounding of our own.
Scarlette stumbled, her ankle buckling. I caught her, slung her arm over my shoulder.
The echo of pursuit was growing louder. I could hear voices—one, then two, then a full bellow from the night guard. “They’re gone! Cage is open! Raise the bell!”
We hid beneath a planked walkway. Above us, I heard boots, the clash of swords as they searched the yard.
We crawled, hands and knees, down the sloping tunnel beneath the walkway until the voices above faded. My knees bled, but I kept moving, dragging Scarlette with me until we hit a grate, rusted half-through. I kicked, once, twice, and it gave, dropping us into a ditch behind the manor wall.
We lay there, side by side, gasping for air. I could taste her blood in the dark, could feel her heart hammering against my chest.
I touched her face, wiped the mud from her cheek. “We made it,” I said.
She nodded, and this time, she did laugh.
Behind us, the bell finally rang, a single, desperate cry that was swallowed by the cold.
We ran blind, the only light coming from the torches behind us and the feverish gleam of the moon. The world outside the cell was colder than I remembered, the wind straight off the ice, slicing through whatever courage I’d worked up in the dark. Scarlette’s breathing grew ragged within a dozen yards. The mudsucked at our boots. She stumbled, and I half-lifted her, arm banded across her ribs, feeling the tremor of each breath and the way she tried not to whimper.
Lady Elise suddenly appeared behind us, her silk slippers no match for the frost-slick stones. She kept pace through grit alone, lips pressed into a thin line. Every time we hit a patch of light, she hesitated, searching for eyes at every window.
We slipped along the wall of a large house, ducked through a broken gate, and found ourselves in the main courtyard. The ground here was chewed to mud, the air rank with the piss of livestock and fear. The pyre—Scarlette’s pyre—loomed on the far side, stacked so high it blocked out the stars.
Scarlette tensed at the sight. I squeezed her shoulder, then steered us left, where an old orchard edged the property, the trees all bone-white in winter. There was cover, but it was open enough to see the guards moving by the outer gate, three of them, spears at the ready, bored or drunk or both.
“Now,” I whispered, and we ran for it, the three of us a single, gasping animal.
The grass was slick with dew, the ground turning from stone to frozen turf. Lady Elise’s slippers lost purchase, and she nearly went down. Scarlette caught her hand, yanked her upright, and we kept going, hearts hammering in sync.
Halfway to the treeline, a shout split the air. The guards at the gate, finally seeing the shapes darting through moonlight. A man bellowed, “Halt!” in a voice too practiced to believe in mercy.
We ran harder. I could hear the snap of pikes, the crunch of boots in mud. The orchard was close, so close I could smell the rot of last season’s apples and the old, slow-burning wood of the caretaker’s hut beyond. My lungs ached, but the animal in me was wide awake, counting every stride, every heartbeat.
That was when I heard it. The low whine of a drawn bowstring. The cut of air as the arrow flew.
I tried to shield Scarlette, but it wasn’t aimed at us. The arrow struck Lady Elise between the shoulders with a sound I’ll never forget—a wet, dull thunk, like a fist breaking through rotten meat.
She stumbled, arms pinwheeling. Scarlette screamed, caught her before she went down, and they both collapsed into the weeds.
I spun, looking for the archer. He was back by the gate, already nocking another, grinning in the torchlight. I wanted to kill him, but Scarlette was crying out, voice raw and high, and I dropped to my knees beside them.
Lady Elise was still alive, the shaft buried deep, blood black in the moon. Her face was slack, but her eyes found Scarlette’s, and for a moment they were just mother and daughter, no history, no debts.
Scarlette cradled her mother’s head, hands slick with blood and mud. “Please,” she whispered, “please stay, please—”
