The cackling swells again. Maude’s laughter follows, jagged and giddy. “They told me to make him hurt her! They told me she’d sing sweet when she bled! They always know what pleases best.”
Doubt and Desire, He murmurs in my mind.They live on temptation and guilt. They pour poison into grief until it becomes need. This woman’s a puppet—her strings soaked in lust and regret.
Maude jerks her head to the side, as though struck by invisible hands. “Shut up!” she screams, to no one. Then shelooks to me, wild-eyed. “They like you. They say you’ll take me to Him, and that He’ll burn me from the inside out!”
Her body convulses, the chains cutting deep, blood slipping down her arms in ribbons. The laughter in the walls turns into shrieks of delight.
I take a step forward, knife drawn but low, eyes fixed on her twitching frame. “He doesn’t burn, Maude,” I say softly. “He consumes.”
Her voice breaks. “You think you’re safe just because He talks to you?”
“He doesn’t talk.” I lift the blade until the light kisses its edge. “He commands.”
She spits, feral. “Then command Him to save you when I tear your throat out!”
She lunges, snapping the chains tight and fast enough to rip her wrists open. Her teeth flash, eyes rolling black. The laughter of Doubt and Desire floods the cell, high and wicked, circling me like wind.
And behind it all, I hear Him again—quiet, steady, velvet and vast.
Doubt and Desire have told me that you can have Maude for a little… fun, my ruin.
The Scavenger’s Daughter is stashed in the corner of the cell like a rusted iron spider, its hinged frame no longer than a man’s arm, but thick enough to crush a confession from stone. Two curved bands—one for the shins, one for the chest—are joined by a screw-bar at the back. A crank handle juts from the bar like a broken bone. Turn it one way, the bands open; turn it the other, they close, folding the body into a ball of its own ruin. Invented in this very Tower, it needs no fire and no blade, just leverage and time.
I drag the contraption forward by its chain, the links clanking across the flagstones. Torch-smoke curls around theiron, making it gleam wet. Kneeling, I wipe the crank clean with my sleeve, then spin it counterclockwise until the bands yawn wide. The hinges groan like old gates. Good. Wide enough for the witch.
“Put her in,” Doubt murmurs, fingers threading through Maude’s hair.
“Make her small,” Desire croons, tongue flicking the witch’s earlobe.
Maude’s lips part. “Yes,” she rasps, the word scraped raw, as she watches from the wall, wrists shackled, her hair plastered to her skull with dungeon damp. “Fold me. Hide me.”
I kick her knees forward so she drops hard, but she only giggles. I shove her shins into the lower band, the cold metal kissing skin already mottled with bruises, and I fold her torso down, forcing her chest into the upper curve. Her spine protests with a wet click as I thread the screw-bar through its notch, giving the crank a testing tug. The bands kiss, but are not yet biting.
Only then do I step back and smile.
Maude screeches so loud. “They’ve left me! Come back! What are you doing?”
Doubt and Desire have gone to the shadows in the corner, my torturer. They want to watch the show. I promised them you won’t kill her here tonight, so make sure you have fun but don’t go too far, my queen.
I grin.
“Ready, witch?” I ask, voice soft as a lullaby. “Time to fold you.”
I set my hand to the crank.
One turn. The bands narrow and Maude’s spine bows; her sternum kissing her knees. A gasp escapes her, but she doesn’t scream.
Two turns. The iron bites and her skin blanches white around the edges before flushing crimson as capillaries burst. Her ribs creak like old ship timbers and blood dots her lips where she’s bitten through.
Three turns. A wet pop—cartilage parting. Maude’s scream shreds the air, high and animal as her eyes roll, sclera threading with red.
Four turns. The crank squeals. Maude’s body folds further; her forehead striking her shins with a dull thud. Blood pours from her nose in a thick ribbon, pooling between her feet, and her tongue protrudes, swollen and black. She tries to speak—a curse, a prayer—but only froth emerges, pink and bubbling.
Five turns. The bands kiss bone on bone. Her sternum cracks—sharp, like wood in a fire and blood erupts from her mouth in a gush, splattering my boots. Her bowels let go with a wet sound, the stench of shit and copper filling the cell. Her fingers, still chained above, claw at nothing, nails splitting against the ringbolt and veins in her neck stand out like blue cords, pulsing frantic.
And then—silence.
I press my thighs together, feeling the slick pulse between them. Maude’s agony is a hymn, and I am the choir. I lean close, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
