She flinches and I cross the room to her and wrap her in a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I mutter softly.
Lydia lays her head on my chest, but she’s breathing against me like she might cry. I know every hitch of her breath by now.
“I’m getting paint all over your shirt,” she says.
“I don’t care.”
“I’ll help you tell her. We can do it together,” Lydia says gently.
I pull away from her. “Give me time.”
Lydia chews on the inside of her cheek, looking so much like Ivy as she considers me. “I’m just not sure how much we have.”
There’s a heavy stretch of silence and I know Lydia is waiting to say something else. I flop back into my well-worn chair and wait for it. She finishes the shading on a cloud and then asks, “You really thought she was dead?”
I don’t like to think of my first few months here, but the memories rush back to me in a torrent I’m powerless against.
I spent two months in the dungeons of the castle, locked in a damp cell, slowly starving to death, going mad with worry for Ivy and with grief for my father.
I attempted escape three more times after my disastrous firsteffort, but each time was unsuccessful and left me beaten to a bloody pulp. My left hand still can’t make a fist after all the bones in it were shattered by a particularly enthusiastic guard.
I was lying on the stone ground, staring at the ceiling, when I heard Bram coming. After years of living in each other’s pockets, I recognized him by only his steps.
I rolled over and followed the line of his shiny boots, visible under the bars of the cell, up to his face. He wasn’t sneering. He was looking at me like he might be sorry for me.
Even after everything, I still felt a pang of love for him, like the clang of a bell in a church that burned down long ago.
“Have you come to mock me?” I asked.
“I’ve come to talk,” he replied.
I pushed myself up to a sitting position and leaned against the far wall of my cell. Between the shadows and my too-long hair, Bram was less likely to see any of my reactions. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“Talk, then,” I said.
“Ivy is dead.”
I gasped like I’d been hit, unable to stop myself. “No,” I muttered to myself. “She can’t be.” Wouldn’t I be able to feel it somehow? That very first night we met in the carriage, when she was out hunting for Lydia, she told me she’d be able to feel it if her sister was gone. I understood exactly what she meant. Even worlds apart, I cannot imagine I could go on living unaffected if Ivy Benton’s heart stopped beating. Wouldn’t something be fundamentally damaged within me? I should have been able to feel it like a broken bone.
But then—so many of my bones were already broken. Maybe I couldn’t distinguish it from the pain I was already in.
“The night of our wedding,” Bram went on. “After my mother’s bargains were broken, there was a riot at the palace.”
“The guards couldn’t stop it?” I’d been worried about something like that happening, but had enough faith in the palace guards to keep us safe. I was willfully naive about a lot of things. I know that now.
“No. The gates were breached, and Ivy was killed in the chaos. I found her trampled body near the orangery. I think she must have been looking for you. I’m sorry to deliver this news, it brings me no pleasure.”
“I don’t believe you.” The words were strangled.
Bram reached into the pocket of his coat and fished out a small object. He tossed it and it landed at my feet. In the low light of the cell, it took me a moment to recognize it.
I scrambled back in horror.
Lying in the dirt was a human finger wearing Ivy’s engagement ring.
“I was fond of her, too,” Bram said.
“Were you?” I asked, aghast, the devastation making my eyes blurry.
