I think of the dead rabbit, the still-beating heart after I held it in my palm. Of my mother’s bitterbloom vines pushing through the soil, growing in a dead land without sun. Of Bram—the one person who has ever seemed tocare. And I fight.
My knee comes up between Ransom’s legs, and my elbow connects with his jaw. He crumples, expression confused, pain leaking from his eyes.
“Adelaide, what the—”
I stare down at him while he wilts, eyes flashing, taste the ghost of blood in my mouth, the feeling of Father’s words cutting my throat.
“I will not live in this wood, Ransom. I will not become some puppet of Erybrus. And I’m calling our bargain off. When we return home, I will not be your wife. I will be myself.” The words come to me as easily as water from a pipe.
Ransom twists his features. “Do you even know what that is?”
Righteous anger floods my veins. “Get up and get out.”
Ransom scrambles up from the floor, wiping at his mouth. At the open door, he turns back.
“Adelaide, I’m—”
“I said, get out. I’ll see you in the morning, and there will be no more about it.” My skin shakes, but I remain resolute, my expression set in stone.
Ransom’s face hardens when the door creaks ajar and washes him in ruby light. He opens his mouth to say something more, but I do not give him the luxury. The sound of the resounding slam and the snick of the lock is a comfort to my ears.
Shaken, but strong, I make my way back to the bed and curl up against Rascal beneath the sheets. My fingers reach for the bell beneath the pillow, and I close my eyes, hot tears stinging my cheeks.
When I finally fall asleep, I dream of cutting Ransom open, spilling his guts out in the moonlight, and finding only rot and the wriggling shoots of bitterbloom flowers.
nineteen
There is a scream in my throat when I wake. I am lying in my bed, but the room is different, darker. There are no windows, only the musty smell of closed-up spaces. Rascal’s warmth has vanished, and I shiver in the sheets.
I am alone. The ghost of Ransom still lingers against my lips, but I press the memory away.
“Rascal?” My voice is a hushed thing in the blackness. “Hello?”
I push myself against the headboard, bringing my knees in tight against me.
“Bram?” But even when I open my mouth, I know he will not answer.
The darkness presses down on me like some unseen force, a kind of monster ready to swallow and devour me with its slick, black tongue. I reach for the stammering of my heart I am sure is there, but it is gentle. This is who I am, this pain, this wrong beat. And if it is gone, who am I?
Whatam I?
I open my mouth to call Bram’s name again, but there is a click of light in one corner, and my breath hitches, turns sharp.
“What a pretty living thing,” a voice says. “Sure to catch a good price.”
I gasp, choke on cold air. “Who’s there?”
A shadow crosses the brightness. It happens so quickly.
A match is struck, a lantern lit. My suspicions were right. I am no longerin my room, and Rascal is gone. The ceiling here is lower, damp. The walls drip with condensation. I squint in the sudden light, wrinkling my nose at the smell of mildew and rot.
“Look at me, you pretty little thing.”
I grind my teeth and turn to the voice, to the gnarled hand holding the lantern. “Show yourself.”
There is laughter—thick and rotten, like a raven choking on peach pits—and then a face appears above the flickering light.
The innkeeper. He stands against the wall, jawbone sticking out like the ribcage of some shored fish.
