But I also knew Mor would betray me to him, giving me the perfect opportunity to get within striking distance with Ferrinus in my hand. I believed it was only through her that I’d ever get close to Bram again.
Only I didn’t expect that the knife would fail. I got it all correct except for that one crucial detail. I still don’t understand why.
My certainty that I would be betrayed by Mor and need to kill Bram by my own hand is why I was fine leaving Lydia and the other girls behind. The less they were tied to me, the better. They needed deniability to protect them.
I wrote a letter to Nan and Fennick just yesterday begging them to shelter my sister and friends until Rhion could figure out a way to return them safely to England.
Eloree looks at me, startled, through the bars of my cell. She twists up the blanket until it, too, is small enough to pass through and I take it from her gratefully.
“Why are you crying, ma’am? I tried to bring you your dresses, but it was forbidden.”
I choke out a watery laugh. “That was very kind of you, Eloree. You are welcome to take the dresses for yourself. I have the feeling I will not have use for them again.”
Concern flickers over her face, but she curtsies and turns to leave.
“Wait—”
She turns back, face expectant.
“I need food,” I say. “They haven’t been feeding me.”
She sucks on her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I tried, really I did. They told me it was forbidden.”
“Who did?”
“The King’s Guard.”
Even crawling the few feet across the cell to retrieve the objects Eloree passed me has left me dizzy.
“Then tell His Majesty I request an audience.”
She looks to the ground sheepishly. “Prisoners aren’t allowed to make requests.”
“I’m the queen of England. Tell him I demand an audience.” I try my best, but my voice is too weak with hunger to carry any real sense of authority.
Her mouth wobbles with pity. I don’t even have the strength to keep myself upright, so all I see is her mud-slicked slippers disappearing down the hall.
It’s as if the darkness in the dungeon is a physical beast, swallowing me whole. Every moment I spend here I disappear a little more.
I don’t know how many days I’ve spent in the dungeons before I notice the scratches on the far corner of the cell.
They’re near the bottom where the stone wall meets the dirtfloor. It’s as if they’ve been carved with a sewing pin; it clearly took whoever wrote them multiple strokes to make each letter visible.
My vision is blurry, but the message is unmistakable:
Ivy Benton, 1830–1848
There was no one braver or more brilliant. She was too good for this world and she was too good for me. But that didn’t stop me from loving her. I loved her. I loved her. I love her.
I reach out with my good hand and brush my fingertips over the cool stone.
This must have been Emmett’s cell, I realize. He sat in this awful place and mourned me.
I’m surprised I still have enough moisture in my body to cry, but hot tears run down my cheeks and into the neckline of my filthy dress.
In the middle of the cell, the lux flower glows a deep, melancholy blue.
That day by the waterfall comes back to me. Emmett looked so beautiful with his face tilted toward the sun, the spray of fresh water making his hair even wavier than usual.
