Chapter 3 #3
“Stupid girl,” she snarls, and kicks my stomach.
I curl inward with a pitiful cry. “Have you heard anything I’ve said these past weeks?
Vanishing night must be added today. Before noon.
If Our Lady of Mercy steeps longer than twenty-one days without the additive, the powder will not bind properly with the solution. ”
She kicks me again, again, again. My stomach throbs; my bones quake in pain. I go limp. If I do not move, then I am not a threat. If I am not a threat, she will grow bored of me and eventually depart.
“Enough!”
The low growl lashes through the steel door. Through the shadows blotting my vision, I watch Lady Clarisse straighten, lips peeling back in a silent snarl. She slams a fist against the door’s metal face. “Quiet, worm!”
There is a heavy thud, and suddenly, her ladyship is plastered against the door, her startling shriek cut short.
I stare, wide-eyed, at the semi-transparent tendril that has coiled itself around her neck. She scrabbles at the noose with sharp fingernails. Her boots kick at the wall. “Min!” It emerges as a fraught wheeze.
I remain motionless, my feet fixed to the floor. No one outmaneuvers Lady Clarisse—no one. What sort of power does this god possess? It seems he can manipulate the air, but if that were so, why not force the door open? Why not fight back? Unless she has weakened him with other insidious brews?
“My… pocket,” she chokes, face purpling to indigo. “Toss it… inside.”
I lunge, searching her pockets. My fingers close around a small metal tin: sleeping powder. Prying open the top, I send it through the slot in the door. Seconds later, the noose vanishes, and her ladyship collapses onto the ground.
I rush to her side. “My lady, are you all right?” When I reach for her arm, she slaps my hand aside.
Sweat dots her upper lip. She wipes it away with the back of her forearm, then shoves to her feet, expression thunderous. “Min.” She glowers down at me as though I am to blame, and within her black eyes, there is the promise of blood. “Come with me.”
I wake to darkness.
I lie on the squeaky cot in my room, blankets having twisted around my bare legs. Any slight shift sends fire rupturing up my back. I muffle a cry, biting my cheek so hard copper coats my tongue. A chill rolls through me, and I shiver, though my skin is feverish to the touch.
Gingerly, I push into a seated position. Beneath my nightgown, a horrific bouquet blossoms across my skin: blue, green, mauve. Along my upper ribs, where Lady Clarisse’s boot made contact, the color has rotted to a mealy gray. I do not want to look at my back. In tatters, like the rest of me.
Her ladyship wields the whip infrequently, yet always lovingly, fervently.
I’d forgotten how excruciating healing is, each brush of air like a thousand lit matches against my pulped flesh.
Falling back asleep will be impossible. Without something to dull the ache, I will lie here in agony until the sun chases back the dark.
It takes long minutes to slip a dress over my shredded back.
Hunching forward, I carefully shove my feet into my tired loafers.
Then I’m up, easing slowly down the stairs.
The bottom step whines as I plant my weight on it.
I wince, holding still. Nothing stirs. Good.
I would not wish to disturb my employer at an hour so late.
After filling the kettle, I place it on the stove.
I build the fire beneath, puffing hard through the pain.
I’m not sure which hurt is worse—my back or my ribs.
As I wait for the water to boil, I collect the necessary ingredients to make a healing tea that will induce restorative sleep.
This, at least, soothes me. My hands fall into motions familiar and safe.
Herbs cut and pressed, sliced and rolled.
The kettle screams. I remove it from the heat, steep the brew in boiling water. It is then that a note catches my eye—her ladyship’s elegant script.
Gone to inspect a few potential flats in town. Will return tonight. Stir Our Lady of Mercy thrice at sunrise.
I stir the fresh batch of poison, though it will take weeks before it is complete. I have erred—badly. If she is inspecting flats in town, is it possible the estate’s sale is already in motion?
Fear of losing my home draws my attention toward the stairs leading to the tower. Time is a luxury I cannot afford. However, if I can find the prisoner’s ax myself, I know Lady Clarisse will give me anything I ask for in exchange—including my home.
Swiftly, I down the healing tea. The relief is immediate, a cool numbness encasing my shoulders, spine, and ribs. I pour a second cup for the prisoner. If I approach this god with kindness and understanding, if I offer him relief, might he grant me the information freely?
Lady Clarisse believes she is the only one who knows where the spare keys to the northern tower are hidden, but she is wrong. Tonight, I retrieve the key ring from one of Nan’s old teapots, tuck it against my palm. Chilled metal, small yet mighty.
It is a laborious ascent up the stairs. My legs shake, and twice I’m forced to rest, my sharp, open-mouthed gasps splintering the quiet of deep night.
By the time I reach the landing, I require the wall for support, sweat drenching my front.
But hesitate I do not. Inserting the key into the lock, I slip inside, quiet as a wraith.