Every night for the next week the boy would go to the latrine and stare at the board. He was too weak to pry it free, so he would have to break it. It was old and would splinter from a kick, but the sound of the snapping board would bring Derog’s guards. He never got the courage to kick the board and several days later he was shipped out to a country estate, where his life became a living hell.
That should have been a big obvious clue that the children were watched, but I had read right over it. I thought he just had an irrational fear. In my defense, I usually skipped that chapter during my rereads because in the end, once River Fog delivered the child to the prearranged place, an assassin murdered him and the girl. The whole thing was one giant setup by River Fog’s employer, who had wanted the child dead.
I hated reading about child abuse and murder. I could read about horrible crap as long as it happened to adults, but crimes against children skeeved me out, so I had only read that chapter two or three times. As far as I could remember, Derog, his nephew Talpot, and the bookkeeper, Lasa, were the only people mentioned by name. I had no idea who the guy guarding us was.
I was reasonably sure the escape hole was already dug, because the man who’d made it mentioned it was during the cholera outbreak. The city had been under quarantine, which was why he had been stuck with Derog for so long. The outbreak had happened four years ago.
I had to find the tunnel and figure out how to break the board without alerting the asshole in the chair.
I wrung the rag out, straightened, and lifted the bucket.
The oldest girl jumped off her bunk. “I’ll help you.”
Perfect.
She grabbed the other side of the bucket’s handle. Together we carried it to the latrine, passing the boy on his bunk. He glanced at us and went back to mad dogging at the guard.
The latrine had a sink and a simple shower on the left and a wooden box on the right with three holes cut out, one for an adult butt and two others smaller. We set the bucket down. I turned, trying to bring the guard into my view without looking obvious. He was conducting a fascinating study of his own nails.
I turned to the girl and held my finger to my lips.
Her eyes widened.
She was a pretty girl with round eyes somewhere between blue and green and braided hair on the darker end of blond. Swirls of old bruises covered her face, no longer purple, but a sickly greenish yellow. She was maybe five foot six or five foot seven, and strong, not fragile. I had gone to high school with girls just like her. They played volleyball and ran track.
I kept my gaze on her, moved to the first latrine, and gently knocked on the board next to the hole. Solid.
She watched me.
Second hole. Solid.
Third. Hollow.
The girl blinked.
I motioned her over with my hand. She dragged the bucket over and began slowly pouring the bloody water into the hole, blocking me from the guard’s view. I bent, trying to find the edges of the board. It wasn’t hard since I had a helpful cluster of nails to guide me.
Neither she nor I would fit. The rest of the girls were too young. It would have to be the boy.
“What’s behind there?” she whispered.
“A hole that leads to Derog’s back door.”
The board was nailed well. I’d need a pry bar, which I didn’t have. No, breaking it was our only chance. It looked thin enough.
“Does the guard ever come into the bathroom?”
“Only when he has to go,” she whispered.
We needed to do it now. The longer we waited, the higher the risk that Derog would ship one of the kids out during the night.
“What’s your name?”
“Clover.”
“Are you good at kicking?”
She glanced at the board and nodded.
