Chapter 1 #2
The ritual brings some measure of comfort to my spirit but does nothing to allay the heavy tug of dread in my gut. A key rattles in the cell door. I suddenly feel as if I might faint. I cling to the priest’s arm to steady my spinning head. “What . . . what is your name, Father?”
“Donal.”
“Please don’t leave me until it’s over, Father Donal.”
He pats my hand. His palm is sweating, and I realize he’s just as afraid as I am. “I promise I won’t.”
Collingwood enters my cell, his brows drawn together in a frown.
Mrs. Banks trails him. She’s been crying, poor bird.
She’s fond of me. I’ve always thought so, but I can see it plainly now.
She served my meals before the others’. Brought me books to read, paper for letters.
I’ve always been a good girl, after all.
The eldest of four daughters. Biddable and eager to please. Prison didn’t change that.
The warden roughly brings my hands behind my back and loops a length of scratchy rope around my wrists.
“Not too tightly, Mr. Collingwood, sir,” Mrs. Banks says, her voice thick. “She’s but a wee thing after all.”
My mouth is a desert, my pulse a drum. “Are my parents here, Mrs. Banks?” I ask.
“Only your father, Miss.”
Dear Papa. Of course he came. My heart sinks at Mother’s absence, though I’m not surprised. “Might I have a word with him, before?”
Collingwood sighs. “We’ve already gone late.”
Late to my own execution. How disappointing. I’ve never been late to anything in my life.
“I’ll find your father after and tell him whatever you’d like, Miss Carmichael,” Father Donal says, his voice gentle.
“I’d be grateful.” My tongue is sluggish and thick in my mouth. “Tell him I love him. Mother, too.”
Collingwood tugs on my bonds, leading me to the door.
I spare one last glance at my cramped, narrow quarters.
The hay-strewn floor. The slender cot bolted to the wall and the dented chamber pot beneath it.
A single chair, now empty. Papa’s money has afforded me, as a gently bred woman of the chivalry, a private cell on the upper ward.
Most of the prisoners here aren’t so fortunate—left to rot and fester in overcrowded communal cells on the lower floors, the tidewaters bringing in rats to bite and scurry at their feet, pestilence, and sickness.
Few survive more than a year at City Jail.
I’ve been here for two. After I’m gone, this room will be swept clean in readiness for the next unfortunate soul, with nary a mark to show I’ve ever been here.
Father Donal follows close behind as we pass into the cold, damp corridor.
My gorge rises as the stench of human excrement and vomit accosts me.
I’ve never grown used to it. The other prisoners peer through their barred windows as we pass, banging their breakfast spoons against the metal.
“Godspeed, Miss Carmichael!” Claudia calls with a taunting lilt.
I ignore her, the sound of rain on the roof drowning out her cackling as we progress to the tower and down its spiraling steps.
At the bottom of the stairwell, the strange sensation of being outside my body overtakes me.
Gray light floods through the windows lining the passageway leading to the courtyard, where the gallows await.
The Long Walk. The name given to it by the condemned.
I turn my head and glimpse Papa through the window, dressed in black mourning, his face mottled from the cold rain.
His hair—white now—is plastered against his scalp.
It was still a glowing copper the last time I saw him.
William is there, too, at Papa’s side, his face aged beyond its five-and-twenty years.
He catches sight of me and his eyes skitter away, his lips tugging downward.
He’s here only for justice, then. Not for any lingering affection. Resentment curdles in my stomach.
Collingwood flings open the heavy wooden door.
A blast of rain-chilled air drives into the vestibule.
Water sluices across the floor, as it always does at high tide.
Outside, the gallows stand, stark and grim.
Six rickety steps lead up to the platform.
All that remains is the muddy path ahead.
The path to my death. At the sight of me, framed by the door, the crowd’s murmuring grows louder.
Their faces blur. I begin to tremble. My heart beats so fast and hard I fear it may burst.
“It’s all right, dove,” Mrs. Banks soothes.
But it’s not. I don’t want to die. I don’t deserve to die. I didn’t kill my sister. I didn’t do anything wrong.
“Come on then,” Collingwood urges, his impatience palpable. “If you don’t move, I’ll be forced to carry you.”
Yes. Just like Lavinia Fisher, who had to be hauled up to the gallows to face her fate, only to bestow a volley of curses on the crowd gathered there. I channel some of Lavinia’s famed defiance, her anger. William’s disdain has piqued me. I’ll not give him the pleasure of seeing my fear.
But no matter how much I will myself forward, my feet remain firmly planted on the threshold, as if encased in ice.
I try to speak, to let the warden know that I cannot move, but I find my jaw is locked, too.
My breath catches in my lungs. This is more than fear.
More than shock. Something else is happening.
Something that has happened only once before—the memory of it faint and hollow.
Cold seeps up my body, through my toes, as if drawn from the wet floor beneath me.
My vision narrows until the world fades from view, taking the light with it, until everything becomes the same dull shade of gray.
I feel Father Donal’s arms go around me as I fall, and then I feel nothing more.