She felt it—the truth I never dared speak.
I hadn’t wanted her.
And now that she was here, she was a constant, screaming reminder of everything I had tried—and failed—to escape.
The only thing keeping me from falling apart entirely was the thought of John James. I had to find him. Before Balthazar found me, I had to uncover the truth before he tore whatever scraps of freedom I had left. That meant leaving Philip and leaving Emily.
I packed everything I needed in the barn days ago—a satchel stuffed with clothes, a belt, a blade, and some food—jerky andpemmican. The plan was ready. All that was missing was the courage to follow through.
Each time I tried to walk away, something invisible held me back. A cry. A glance. A soft, sleeping sigh.
But today felt different.
Today, I knew she would grow to hate me.
If Emily ever discovered who I truly was—what I’d done—disgust would twist her heart. She would despise me.
So, I decided that she would never know me—not really. It was better that way.
As I went to the bedroom to dress, the thought wrapped around me like a shroud. Then Philip called from the kitchen, cheerful and full of hope.
“Should I make breakfast for Emily?”
He wanted her to smile—just once—before the day ended. Every day, he tried something new.
He didn’t see the truth.
I had to go now.
Without a word, I returned to the kitchen. I walked up to Philip and hugged him tightly, holding on for just a moment too long. Then I bent down and kissed Emily on the forehead, the tears already rising in my throat.
Into her tiny ear, I whispered, “It’s best if you never know.”
And then I left.
Their voices—soft and sweet—faded behind me as I slipped out the front door.
I didn’t look back.
I raced to the barn, snatched my rucksack, and fled into the gray morning.
I traveled for days, slipping from inn to inn with the small stash of coins I’d taken from Philip. I needed distance—miles and memory—between me, that man, and the child I left behind.
I knew Philip would come looking.
He loved too earnestly, too hard.
But love couldn’t stop what was coming.
When my money ran out, I sold my body to a soldier for one night of warmth and silence.
Then I slit his throat and took what little he had—paper currency, Spanish dollars, a few British pounds.
The hunger in my gut faded. The guilt never did.
My feet throbbed as I pushed deeper into the wilderness, far beyond the comfort of towns or well-worn paths. I glanced over my shoulder every few steps, jumping at every rustle, snapped twig, and shadow that might have been Balthazar.
I imagined him riding toward me on his black stallion, face twisted in rage, eyes full of betrayal.
