He lets go of my chin and runs his palm across my cheek, tangling his fingers in my hair. “Do I make myself clear?”

I nod, a wobbly, uncertain movement, and watch the blood slide down his blade.

“Until tomorrow,” he says, and then he’s gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

RACHEL

The wagon lurches forward again, and it takes a moment to realize I’m not alone in the back. One of the guards is sitting on the bench behind me, holding a paper-wrapped package in one hand and a damp cloth in the other.

I scoot as far away from him as I can without touching the puddle of Oliver’s blood seeping slowly into the floorboards. When he ignores me, I wrap my arms around my knees and try not to let the agonized wailing I hear inside my head leave my lips.

Oliver is dead.

Dead.

He’ll never be a great-granddaddy. He’ll never hand me another sticky bun, or call me Rachel-girl, or see me clear my father’s name.

The truth is too harsh to touch, and I shy away from it before it sears itself into my brain and becomes real. Instead, I find a quiet place within myself where the Commander doesn’t exist, my family is still intact, and I’m not covered in anyone’s blood.

The harsh keening inside my head becomes muted—the grief of some other girl. Not mine.

I rock, holding myself as if I’ll fly into a million little pieces if I let go.

The guard says something, but I can’t hear him. If I listen to him, I might hear the grief-stricken wail of the girl who just lost something precious.

He slaps me, but I can’t feel it. He says something else, then crouches down in front of me and scrubs my face with rough persistence. When he pulls back, the damp cloth in his hand is covered in bright red patches, like little crimson flowers decorating the fabric.

Bile rises at the back of my throat, and I tear my eyes away from the cloth.

He removes the string on the package he carries and tears off the paper. I don’t look to see what he has. It might be covered in red too.

He’s talking again, louder this time. His boots dig into the hard wooden floor beneath us as he stands. I catch a glimpse of crimson staining the edge of his right sole, and tuck my head toward my chest.

My chest is covered in rust-scented crimson.

Covered.

I beat at it. Tear at it with frantic fingers. I have to get it off me. I have to.

The guard helps. Rough hands unlace my tunic, and I claw my way free. I’m panting, harsh bursts of air that fill the wagon.

He attacks my skin with his red-flowered cloth again, and I twist my body, trying to get away. I don’t want him to touch me with that thing. I can’t stand to have it touch me for another second.

He drops the cloth. In its place, he holds a new tunic that looks just like my old one used to look. Pure white. Crimson-free.

I let him slide it over my head. Let the rough linen threads scrape against my skin. Maybe if they scrape hard enough, I’ll forget. About the crimson. About the awful wailing I still hear inside me.

About what I just lost.

The guard pulls me to my feet and fumbles with the laces on my skirt, but I don’t help him. How can I? I’m not really there. I’m home, on our back porch, sipping lemonade while my family is close by, just out of sight.

He says something, but I don’t hear him. I’m too busy listening to the deep rumble of men’s voices coming from somewhere behind my back porch.

My skirt puddles around my feet, and he lifts me out of it.

The lemonade I sip is the perfect combination of tart and sweet. I want to share it with my family, but they stay just out of reach.

He pulls a new skirt over my head. Light blue, just like the one he removed.

Light blue like the summer sky I see from my porch.

I’m sitting on the wagon’s bench.

No, I’m sitting on our rocker.

My shoes are gone.

It’s summer. I don’t need shoes.

Now, they’re back again. A stranger is tying them. Which is silly, because I can tie my own shoes. If I want to. Which I don’t, because the summer sun is hot, and I’m too tired.

I’m so tired.

I stop rocking on the porch. Or maybe the wagon stops.

I’m not in a wagon. I never was.

Hands lift me up and set me down on a cobblestone street. I stare at my boots. They’re the same color and design as always, but the scuffs and creases are gone as if they never were.

Behind me, a wagon clip-clops away. I don’t turn. I don’t know where my porch is. Where the summer sun went. It’s cold now. Cold and gray and the air feels damp against my skin.

Someone calls my name, and I look up to see Sylph, her dark eyes full of fear, beckoning from the doorway to my right. As I turn and walk toward her, I hear the faint wailing of the grief-stricken girl grow louder, and clamp my lips tight to hold it in.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

LOGAN

I’ve met with contacts at the butcher’s, the blacksmith’s, and a corner table at Thom’s Tankard. No one knows anything more about Rowansmark or Jared than Oliver already told me.

I need to know what Jared took from Rowansmark, who gave it to him, and why. I need to understand why he hid it instead of bringing it into Baalboden. Most of all, I need a clear picture of the Commander’s role in all of this.

I might not be able to gain more information on what is happening outside our Wall, but I know how to get information on the Commander’s activities. Wrapping my cloak around myself, I walk through South Edge in circuitous routes, ducking through alleys and backyards, making sure I lose my followers. Approaching my destination with caution, I knock and wait to be allowed entrance.