26. The Mighty Fall
THE MIGHTY FALL
Cecily saw herself standing on a brothel doorstep, covered in blood and holding a broken glass bottle. Dread doused her murderous rage as she faced the constables. Part of her wondered if they were here to help her, but she knew they were not.
She blinked, and the brothel, the blood, and the murder weapon disappeared, leaving her standing before the inn, her thoughts suddenly stilted by memory and confusion as she faced the dozen men before her.
“Cecily Shoard?” one of them said.
Her gaze dropped to the red coat in his hand.
That was hers. Morgyn had taken it. And though the past and present blurred together, she knew there was no blood on her hands this time, no crime committed.
She wanted her coat back, so she reached for it and said, “That’s mine—”
Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say. Suddenly she was surrounded, subdued by six men before her mind could catch up, before she had a chance to realize what was happening.
“Cecily Shoard, you’re under arrest,” said the one holding her coat. She gaped at him, her arms pinned to her sides by different constables on a different day in a different place.
Arrest. Under arrest. She’d heard those words before, but a different time, a different place, different, it was different—
“This is a mistake,” she cried, twisting against the constables’ hold. It was the same thing she’d said that night, after the glass had shattered, after she had shattered. “I didn’t—”
“For arson,” the constable continued, reading from a warrant. “Theft, fraud, and public indecency.” He lifted her coat. “A dozen witnesses and more are willing to testify to seeing you last night wearing this distinct coat.”
As the past and present warred within her, she screamed past the noise and fear, “I didn’t do it!”
With a violent jerk, she forced herself free.
She managed to grab a knife from her belt, which she plunged into a man’s arm.
He screamed and hurled himself away, and she cut another, thrust her blade into a third.
She reached for a second blade, but the other constables were too close and descended too quickly to fight them all at once.
They regained their hold, tighter this time, and forced her to her knees.
Shackles clapped around her wrists.
Memory surged again, this time as a cold, dark prison cell, laughing guards, terror, so much terror.
She screamed again, thrashing as hands patted her down, finding every hidden knife and throwing them into a pile. Tears streamed down her face as they clapped a second pair of irons around her ankles.
She couldn’t think. There was no sense in her mind, so she shrieked, cursed, and fought as the constables lifted her to her feet and shoved her down the road, her shackles clanking.
She yelled for Hester and all of her friends. She cried out for Jack again and again—he expected her, but he would not find her.
Cecily might’ve descended into madness then, screeching, hissing, yowling until she tasted blood. There came a shouted command, a grunted affirmation, and then the butt of a gun crashed into her skull.
The world went dark.
Pain lanced through Cecily’s head, then dulled to a terrible throbbing. Wincing, she pushed herself up and opened her eyes.
Stone walls surrounded her, broken only by a door with a grate and a high, barred window that let in fading evening light. Thin patches of dirty straw and a bucket in the corner were an all-too-familiar sight, and her teeth clicked as tremors wracked her body and tears pushed to her eyes.
Not again. She couldn’t be here—not again.
A place like this was the fodder for her nightmares, the very reason she’d needed her little home in her head. She tried to summon it now, but panic swelled so quickly that she couldn’t call anything to mind beyond her own fear.
She threw herself at the door, banging her fists, tearing her nails, screaming for Jack, for anyone.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew it was futile.
They wouldn’t let her out, nor could she claw her way through stone or wood—but the terror told her that if she could make them as afraid as she was, something might change.
Anything. She’d do anything.
Hours had passed, and the Fortuna Royale was supposed to leave at dawn. If Jack had known where she was, he would have come by now. Had he searched for her? Was he looking for her now?
Would he go without her?
No doubt his father would try to force him.
It would be a convenient way to be rid of her, as he was most certainly eager to do now that he knew of their marriage, her talent with a sword be damned.
Even with the information she held about Robin’s map, Copson could find other ways to get his treasure.
Besides, she had already asked to leave once before, so the captain could easily spin lies that she had chosen to go.
Jack had to know she would never leave him, but if he listened to his father, if he thought she took advantage of him to pursue her own ends, that she’d decided a life with him was too much for her…
She could be here for a long time.
The realization shocked her into silence, and she stepped away from the door, her blood pounding in her ears.
At the end of the corridor, guards were speaking in Spanish. Cecily had spent enough time around officers these past weeks to pick up enough.
Lovely…for the governor…likes the pretty ones…
An image of the brothel slipped through her mind. She took the thought, strangled it, and shoved it away.
She had to get hold of herself—think, plan, connive her way out.
This jail wasn’t like Newgate or Bridewell, and they wouldn’t have the kinds of resources those prisons did.
A guard would have to come for her eventually, and even if she didn’t have a knife, she didn’t need one.
If she was prepared this time, if she could keep her bloody head this time, she might manage to fight and escape.
She prowled through her tiny cell, cataloging every detail of her surroundings, the guards’ voices, the length of her nails, the strength in her jaw, whatever she might use as a weapon.
She’d do anything. Anything. If Jack didn’t come—
Keys were shoved in the lock, and Cecily whirled to face the door. The moment it opened, and she flung herself forward, fingers curled into claws.
The officer threw out his arm to stop her before she could tear into his face.
“It’s me!” he hissed.
Dark brown eyes. Black hair. A handsome face and an air of ice and danger that abruptly turned to something else as her mind screeched to a halt.
“Hector?” she panted. She flinched as the door clanged shut, then rushed forward to grab Hein’s arm in a vise grip. “I didn’t do what they said I did.”
Her voice didn’t sound like her own, haggard and worn from screaming. Hein laid his hand over her wrist, and though his hold wasn’t crushing, it was tight enough to suggest that if she tried to fight him, he would fight back.
“The governor’s mansion burned down last night,” he whispered, his voice low so the guards wouldn’t hear.
She shook her head like her life depended on it, and right now it felt like it did. “It wasn’t us. A woman from my crew—Morgyn—she and another, they burned it down. We tried to stop it. I swear.”
Hein’s expression was grim. “They read you your crimes—” he began, but as she raised her voice to argue, he clapped his hand over her mouth.
She bit down on his palm, and he shoved her away with a curse.
Cecily spat his blood on the ground. “Don’t touch me.”
“Dammit, Cecily!” he hissed, cradling his hand. “I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re accusing me of things I didn’t do—”
“Other people have accused you,” he ground out. “Others claim to have seen you at the governor’s house and stealing from a tavern—”
Her voice rose. “I paid! I paid for all the rum!”
His hand slashed through the air, signaling for quiet. “Listen to me, Dios mio!” He stepped closer, and she only just kept herself from punching him in the neck. “They said you were being lewd in public and that you tried to cheat several people—”
“You know I wouldn’t do any of that.”
He swore again. “Yes, I know. But it was your coat—bright red. No one wears anything like that here, and the constables said you claimed it was yours.”
“Morgyn stole it and framed me.” She fought to keep herself controlled even as everything in her screamed at her to grab Hein’s lapels and shove him into the wall. “She paraded around as me, from the governor’s house to wherever the hell she went.”
Irritation made way for an apology in Hein’s gaze. “I believe you,” he whispered. “I do, and I’ll help you however I can. But you’re the governor’s now, and I can’t—”
She grabbed his coat, hauling herself to him. “I am no one’s,” she snarled. “Not yours, not his. I am Jack’s, and he will kill you and everyone here if I don’t do it first.” She was barely holding herself back, waiting for Hein to give her any reason at all as to why she shouldn’t.
“I said I’ll help,” he hissed, but there was fear in his eyes, and the sight of it calmed the edges of her roiling anger. “I’ll make you no promises other than this: I’ll do my best to find Jack. I swear to you I won’t rest until I find him.”
Her hoarse voice turned murderous. “We made it to a church, Hector.”
His eyes dipped to her hand where her ring shone in the low light. “Oh. Well,” he said after a breath of silence. “Mrs. Copson, I’ll do my best to find him quickly and see if we can free you with as little bloodshed as possible.”
She released him. “The Fortuna leaves at dawn.”
Hein set his hands over hers, squeezing lightly. “Give me until daybreak until you seek ways to murder my men.”
“I’ll make you no promises,” she growled, drifting behind him like a shadow as he crossed to the door. “Before dawn, Hector. And I’ll kill anyone who comes into this cell.”
He shut it between them. “I really am sorry for all this,” he muttered through the grate. As he made his way to the front of the jail, he called to the guards, “No one goes into her cell.”
The darkness grew heavier. Daybreak—she could give him until then. In the meantime, she crawled into the corner and wrapped her arms around her shaking body.
And she waited.