MARKS- Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

I finish Ward’s tunic - stitched fairly well and without any blood, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see. Saints forbid. I fold it extra carefully and hold on to it, hoping he’ll return and I can present it to him with a flourish and a fake smile like the ones I used to give Scarlett every morning.

But whatever he’s doing drags on and on, and finally I set the tunic on a crate amidst Nolan and Blair’s possessions. Perhaps when Ward comes out he’ll see it and I can smile sweetly and tell him how big and strong he is and bat my eyelashes.

I help Blair with dinner and all the while my brain is picturing stitches and hems. I wonder how often Ward rips his tunic, and how, and if he always expects someone else to stitch it up for him and make good of his mess. He doesn’t contribute to the people here; he’s not around to fish or hunt or bring back food. He doesn’t slice potatoes or boil them, and clearly the sufficient but simple meals we have here aren’t the only meals he’s getting. His tunic is practically a tent. I could’ve made a sail with it and drifted away somewhere flying the King’s colors. I hack off the end of a carrot Blair has me dicing with such fervor that she gasps beside me.

Saints above. What did the poor carrot ever do to me?

My brain blurs with the image of stitches again. I wish I could write a big rip in Ward’s pants while he’s guarding the King’s court or something else important. The idea of him exposing himself in front of the King sends me into a fit of giggles.

Blair pauses from her work and arches her brow at me. I concentrate on the carrots as though slicing them requires more skill than plotting a war, my grin held at bay by the clamping of my teeth on my lip. Eventually Blair’s head drops to her own work. Other women bustle around me, preparing the meal we’ll all eat later. Every day I attempt to help, though the Saints know I hardly know a thing about cooking. But I can stir and chop and do whatever I can to stay out of the way and not sit still.

One of the women bumps into me, and I mumble an apology, her name one that doesn’t jump to mind. I can’t keep a handle on all the people here. Different families. Clarks, Fishers, Allens. Blair and Nolan’s last name is Hancock. Ward’s last name is Green.

A color, of all things, is his last name.

The men are in and out, some hunting, some standing guard. The women and children are all over. Cooking, disappearing down to the spring to bathe, following their way through the tunnel to take care of personal needs outside. Sometimes they go in pairs or groups. And sometimes alone. My own whereabouts don’t seem to be noticed by anyone. But Liddy is my constant shadow. And anyway, as much as the idea of a guard invasion scares me, I have no idea where I’d go.

The men reappear from the tunnel in time for dinner. Ward doesn’t even notice his tunic. Just takes his plate and sits.

I plop beside him and paste on a huge fake smile and nod to the crate. “I finished your tunic.”

“Good.” He shovels a forkful of food into his mouth.

Good? No thanks or appreciation. Well, at least he isn’t going over to scrutinize the size or evenness of the stitches. Good heavens. I don’t bother trying to talk to him again, though I’m dying to know what his story is. I just eat my boiled vegetables and bread in silence. Liddy joins us, wedging herself between Ward’s bulky frame and mine. When she’s done eating, she hands her plate and its remains to Ward. He gobbles the food up without so much as a thank you to her. I finish my food before he can steal mine, too.

Ward wipes his mouth and takes his empty plate to Blair, kissing the top of her head as he does. He towers over her like an ogre over its victim. “That was good,” he tells her. “Thank you.”

Well, at least someone gets a thank you from him. His tunic still sits where I left it, and a sudden twinge of panic that it’s not sewn well enough springs to life inside me. Do guards get beaten for sloppy uniforms? I wait to catch his eye, but he ignores me, instead going over to talk with Reid and Mason. They clabber up his back and he rough-houses with them, their laughter echoing off the walls. They’re as desperate for his attention as Liddy.

After dinner, Ward disappears down the tunnel to the springs, pulling the ribbon of fabric from its place by the entrance. I hadn’t noticed it the first time, but the ribbon is pulled down to indicate the spring is occupied. I haven’t visited the springs again, and wonder if it’s all right to do so even though I’m not that dirty. Ward is obviously filthy from his activities on behalf of our King today. And traipsing through sewage. Though from the look of his boots when he arrived, there’s another route here that doesn’t involve wading through crap. How nice that I got to experience that on my journey here.

Story time starts soon after dinner. Clive isn’t the only one who shares a tale, but so far he’s my favorite. When he stands tonight and a hush settles over the crowd, I sink onto a blanket close to the fire. Liddy crawls into my lap. I snuggle my arms around her and listen as the smooth timbre of Clive’s voice fills the room. From the corner of my eye, I watch for movement coming out of the spring tunnel. But Ward doesn’t emerge. Perhaps he took a back tunnel out.

When the stories are done, everyone scatters to their own sleeping spots across the room. Mine is beside Liddy’s and Reid’s, closer to the wall than the fire. I crawl onto my side and curl up, my eyes closed.

Murmurs and late evening chatter echo off the rocks as everyone settles down, and they’re as jarring to me as yells and screams. For years I’ve grown accustomed to my own silence, nothing but the words in my head to keep me company. It’s not overly loud here, but noises bounce off the walls and stay hemmed in, with nowhere to go but the rock walls above us. Everyone here is thrown together, like different dyes in one pot - a hodgepodge of people all trying to fit on the same cloth. I’m not sure where the color of one person ends and another begins.

Footsteps echo off the rock floor and I snap my eyes open. Ward rolls out a bedroll beside me, closer to the outer wall of the room and the tunnel he and I first came through. His huge frame could no doubt halt any intruder and give me time to run, and I feel a release of tension knowing he’d be able to stop someone from getting me. He plunks down on his blanket without a word. His leg brushes against my knee and I scowl, but he only throws an arm over his eyes. Must be exhausted from all his work for the King. I curl myself tighter so he’s not touching me

I glance over to the expanse of space on the other side of Blair and Nolan. Ward would have much more room to sprawl out his huge frame there. Though I guess I can’t blame him. There isn’t a lot of privacy in the big room. And though I’ve seen more than one couple disappear down to the springs together after evening meal, the gentle writhing underneath bedclothes at night has taught me not to search for the reason behind sounds.

Still, irritation pulses adrenaline through all my muscles and I can’t settle down. I toss and turn and nearly smack Ward’s leg with my foot. The big lug. He’s taken up most of the space without asking, just assuming his big bulky frame is welcome.

I sigh and turn toward him. His chest rises and falls and his mouth hangs open when he sleeps. At least he doesn’t snore.

Not a breath later, a loud rumble bubbles out of him.

You have got to be kidding me.

#

Ward is still here when I wake up in the morning. Must be nice having off work two days in a row. He disappears with Nolan, following some of the men down one of the tunnels. Meanwhile I’m stuck in the cave. Washing dishes. Mending one of the dozens of thick rugs that cover the cavern floor, protecting us from the cold that seems trapped in the rock. All the while, I’m trying not to think about the life I once had, one full of work and steadiness. Not like the one I have now, stuck down here with these people living, quite literally, under a rock.

If they hate the King, why aren’t they doing something instead of hiding here?

Saints help me, I wish I knew if we’re really safe here. I’m a sitting target in this cave. If guards find out we’re here, I might as well skewer myself over the King’s dinner plate and serve myself up to him with a side of corn. I hate staying, but I can’t leave. If I really am being watched by Breck, I can’t go back to the city. Saints curse you, Ward, for bringing me here.

The men return around lunch. They eat and some gather weapons. During the time I’ve been here, they’ve only ventured outside the cave in pairs. Sometimes they return with game they’ve killed. Other times with bundles underneath their clothing. I have no idea what they bring back. Food of course. And cloth and thread and other essential things. But these people hiding out aren’t the only secret this cave holds.

Ward never came out with the men. Blair pushes a plate of food into my hand and nods to the tunnel. “He never rests. Can you take this to him?”

I bite down a smile as I head to the tunnel. Finally, a good reason to see what’s down here. Torches are placed close enough together that I can see well enough. It’s cooler down here, away from the fires. The tunnel spills into a room, not as wide as the big one, but tightly stacked with weapons and barrels of who knows what. Ward sits on a crate, sharpening a dagger.

He looks up as I get closer.

“Blair sent me with food,” I tell him.

He glances at the plate in my hand without missing a stroke on his metal. The dagger practically glistens already. The King’s emblem adorns the top. This is the weapon Ward uses as a guard. I have a vision of a blade coated in blood. My brother’s blood. Only that blade was a Blackfeet sword and not a guard’s dagger. My heart thumps wildly. I wonder if Ward’s ever had to kill someone. Or if he’s ever failed to keep Breck from putting his hands, or more, on a girl.

I put the plate down on a table. “How do you do it?”

Ward stops and looks up at me. “Do what?”

“Work for him and do all those horrid things he makes you do?”

Ward stands and puts the blade down on the table “Do you know what happens to people who refuse their guard draft?”

I do, but that doesn’t matter. He could’ve hidden. Everyone else in his family is here. I tilt my chin up. “Some run away.”

“Well, I don’t run away from things.” He spits the words out through clenched teeth.

“But you’ll do whatever he tells you and take advantage of your position as guard? Why don’t you use it for good?”

Ward takes a step closer to me. “What do you think I did the day Breck dragged you into an alley?”

He towers over me and all I want to do is shove him until he topples to the floor. “Why don’t you find a way to kill the ones who are bad?”

“You’d condone murder?”

Hell yes, I would. “If the person deserved it.”

Ward scoffs in disgust. “Well, hate to burst your bubble, princess, but that’s not what we do.”

Anger pulses through me. “Why’d you save me if I’m so intolerable?”

“Because people are worth saving regardless of their personality.”

“Good thing for you,” I tell him. “You have the personality of a boil or a tiresome wart!” I pick up my skirts and stalk past him.

“Well you’re as likeable as a rash on my backside!”

His words echo off the rock walls, boiling my hot anger into a rage. I turn around and rear back my hand, but before it can fly forward Ward captures it in his.

I jerk my arm away, but he keeps hold of it and steps so that he’s right against me, just a sliver of air between us.

He squeezes my arm, his gaze unflinching. “You’ve got more than just a spark of anger hidden beneath all your accusations. Be careful who you fling those on.”

Ward pins me with a glare and I can’t move, caught in his arms and against his huge frame. Powerless. He drops my hand and strides off. A tremble explodes in my stomach. I ball up my fists. Saints above help you, Ward Green. If I had pen and paper right now, I’d write a rash on your backside the likes of which the world has never known.

Sentences burst in my brain. But they’re not curses on Ward. They’re truth.

The sentence he just spoke, and the words in it and the horrible, awful truth that’s in them.

I don’t run away from things.

It’s as if he knows - running away was all I did.

 

MARKS- Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

I wake not to sunlight, but to a harsh rock ceiling that seems closer each time I open my eyes. Three days I’ve lived within the confines of these walls and not been outside this room except to relieve myself in the bushes outside. Three days of doing nothing, and the tension in my body simmers like water in a pot.

My limbs ache from the rough floor, and my hips throb despite the thick bedroll Blair gave me. I sit and work the kinks out of my neck. The room stirs with movement: children hungry for their breakfast, and women scampering to get everyone up and dressed for the day. The men seem to disappear with the dawn, leaving to do whatever they do as soon as they are awake.

Women put fresh shirts on little boys and wrap little girls in dresses. No marks shine from the children’s, but they wouldn’t. Those that small don’t have powers yet. I roll my shoulders and continue my sweep across the room. A woman pushes up her sleeves before tending a fire. No marks.

No. Marks.

I heave out a sigh and stand. There’s no paper in the cave that I’ve been able to see. There could be some down one of the other tunnels, but so far I haven’t worked up the courage to wander around on my own. Most other than Nolan’s family only speak to me when they have to. I doubt they’d take kindly to the new person snooping around. And what would they do with me if I was no longer welcome? I doubt they’d let me go free now that I know their secret hideout.

Liddy, on the other hand, is anything but silent. In three days she has gone from being shy and reserved to being my new shadow. This morning I scoop oatmeal onto my plate, forgoing the sugar Blair offers and taking a dollop of butter instead. Liddy asks for the same.

After I eat and wash the dishes, I run my fingers through my hair and braid it, the long tail snaking over my shoulder. Liddy watches me, her eyes wide and dancing. She prances across the rock floor to Blair and tugs on her skirts. “Mama, can you braid my hair?”

Blair, elbow deep in plucking a goose Nolan killed yesterday, raises an eyebrow as she peers down at her youngest.

“I can do it,” I offer.

Liddy smiles, her grin swallowing up her button nose.

“Get a ribbon,” Blair tells her.

Liddy scampers to a group of trunks by the wall and throws one open. She rummages inside and I scoot close. Maybe they keep paper in the trunk. But I don’t see any. Saints above. I’ve got to let it go. But I can’t. Because if these people are Lyran, we might as well just slit our wrists now. The King will take us all. Kill us all.

But there’s no marks. No paper. They’re not Lyran. Which means I should be safe. I turn my attention back to Liddy as she pushes aside clothes and grabs a hairbrush and a pale yellow ribbon, fringed on the edges and faded from years of use. She hands it to me with a smile, as though old ribbons are priceless treasures. Then again, the child sleeps on rock and plays inside a cave all day. A yellow ribbon is probably the pinnacle of her little life.

I sit on the floor, and Liddy plops in front of me. I wonder if she’s ever seen the river that flows just yards from the cave’s entrance. If she knows what clouds look like when they gather and stack on top of one another before a storm. If she’s seen birds skim over fields. Was she born in this dark, damp cave? Her whole life lived in hiding because of the King and whatever it is these people are hiding from?

Liddy’s hair is soft and brown like the bark on trees after a heavy spring rain. I lace it through my fingers, weaving it together. I’m halfway through when she jerks forward and her hair pulls away from my hands.

“Ward!” She races across the rocky floor and flies into his arms.

He picks her up and swings her in a circle, then kisses her nose before tucking her on his hip. He’s without his tunic today. Just dark pants and a blue shirt, which makes him seem less paunchy and more solid.

Liddy scrambles down from his arms and takes his hand. “Gretta’s braiding my hair, Ward.”

He glances at me and my cheeks heat up, as though his status of guard instantly makes me guilty of something and him the one to pass judgment and punishment. Liddy scoots into my lap again. When I finish her hair, she races off to where her father and Ward sit around one of the fires. Ward picks Liddy up mid-sentence and sits her on his knee. Such doting for a bullying guard.

“Gretta.”

I snap my head to Blair.

"Can you sew?” she asks.

 "Yes.”

“Good, can you help with this?” She lifts up a blue piece of clothing.

“Sure.” I step toward her. She pushes a heap of blue fabric into my hands. The insignia of the King’s guard stares up at me from the fabric, and it’s like a hand snakes up my throat and chokes me.

“Ward ripped his tunic, and I’ve got to tend to dinner,” Blair says. “Can you take care of it?”

The hand squeezes tighter. I can’t breathe enough to answer, so I nod. Of course I can fix it. I can touch this tunic of the King’s and stitch it back together as though it doesn’t represent everything bad that has happened in my life.

I sit on one of the logs, the fabric rough and well worn. Well used. What has Ward done in this tunic? I study my fingers, stained with dye and with the ink of words written, defying my King. I half want to take this tunic and toss it into the fire. Or better yet, drag it through the sewage tunnel Ward led me through to get here.

The rip isn’t long, thank goodness, but Ward’s tunic is huge and the mass of blue fabric in my lap seems as heavy as an anvil. It’s amazing he’s so big where Blair is just my size - not tiny, but normal. I glance across the way at Ward again. He’s a bit shorter than Nolan, but Nolan is lanky and thin, like a young pine tree. Ward’s more like a docking post or a stone pillar. Large and in the way.

This is the second time he’s been back since he left in a huff the other day. He’s barely spoken more than two words to me. Not that I’d want to talk to him. But he could at least acknowledge me, instead of pretending I wasn’t around because he dragged me through a tunnel of crap to get here.

All because he thought I was up to something. Right. The guard who is doing something against his King - though I have yet to figure out what - thinks I’m up to something. I still don’t know why all these people are here, other than they are in hiding and engaged in something secretive. Maybe their only secret is that they are hiding. And harboring a guard who, on his days off, likes to steal girls and then yell at them for it.

I jam the needle so hard through the last stitch that it shoots straight into my finger. I curse - a nasty word tinted in reds and blues - then suck the blood from my fingertip.

“My father would’ve beat me soundly for using a word like that.”

I snap my head up. Ward stares down at me. Heat leaps to my cheeks. I take my finger out of my mouth. “Mine would have, too.”

His eyes flicker to my finger, then to his tunic. “Don’t get blood on that.” He strides off.

I wish I had a dagger so I could slice my entire arm right now and let it gush all over his precious uniform. I glare at Ward who, unfortunately, is not facing me to see my glorious scowl. The brute. He speaks to his sister, then he and Nolan and the other men disappear down one of the cave’s tunnels.

What is he doing on the inside? There’s no way all of these people are related. Most of them are families, with a few stray people like myself who have attached themselves to the group. And I’ve seen Blair’s arms, and those of most of the kids. No one has the marks. Then again, they could be Lyran and never have killed or saved anyone yet. But what are the chances Lyrans are working together against the King and haven’t killed or saved anyone? His dungeons are never full. But the number of wagons pulling bodies from them is enormous.

What is Ward doing?

And why doesn’t he want me to know?

MARKS - Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Blair and her brother have nothing in common other than their hair.

I think this for about the fifth time today as she hands me a bowl of stew. Blair is sweet and gentle, like a spring wind perfumed with the scent of a hundred flowers. She showed me where she and her family live: a little slice of the big rock room where bedrolls spread across the rocky floor are covered with quilts made of a thousand colors. No furniture sits in the room. Stumps and logs dot the perimeters of fires in lieu of chairs.

Blair dug out bedding for me before she led me around the room, introducing me to people. I was wrong earlier about their being thirty people here. There are forty-seven. Women and children. Babies. Men have spilled into the room now that it’s time for the evening meal. There are nineteen of them. Not counting Ward, who I haven’t seen since he stormed off and returned to the city.

I spoon stew into my mouth, trying to remain civilized, though I’m so hungry I want to tip the bowl up and eat it in one swallow. Meals are shared here. As is everything else evidently, even children. I have yet to determine who are whose, other than Liddy, who alternates between clinging to her mother’s skirts and inching closer and closer to me.

From the corner of my eye, I see her sit down on the end of the log I’m on, her own bowl of stew resting in her lap.

“This is good,” I tell her. “Did you help make it?”

Her wide, solemn eyes take up most of her face. She shakes her head, her pigtails skimming the collar of her dress. “Mama made it.”

“It’s very good.”

She continues starting as I take another bite. A minute later she scoots two inches closer to me, and I take another bite of stew to keep from grinning. After gazing at me for a minute, she picks up her own spoon.

Around the room, everyone else is settling down for their meal. Several fires dance from their places around the room, where different families and groups gather. The rock ceiling hangs high above us. Nothing but cold slabs of rock for walls, and yet this is the coziest place I’ve been in years. The room is large, tall and open. Each family seems to have their own little section they occupy and call their own.

I count five tunnels that branch off this room. One leads to the springs. One to the entrance. The others I haven’t asked about yet.

Nolan sits beside me and points to one. “Take that one if they come.”

I pause mid-chew and stare at the tunnel. Then I swallow and turn to him. “If who comes?”

“Guards or Blackfeet. Anyone, really.”

My spoonful of stew gets stuck in my throat. If the King’s men come here, I’ll be discovered. “Who all knows you’re here?”

“Everyone who needs to.” He spoons stew into his mouth and swallows. “There’s much I cannot tell you yet, Gretta. But I can tell you the King would kill us all if he knew we were here.”

He puts emphasis on the word ‘all.’ Not just the men. The women and children. Something not beneath our King to do.

Nolan finishes his bowl and places it on the floor. Then he scoops Liddy into his lap and kisses her cheek. A sweet pang goes through me. My father used to hold me like that. I look out across the room. “Blair says you have a son?”

“Two,” Nolan says. He points across the room at a blond-haired boy of about ten. “That’s Reid. And the brown-haired boy who will appear shortly with a scowl and a sour disposition is Mason.”

I grin. “The one who got to clean my clothes of sewage?”

“The very one.” Nolan turns to me and smiles. “We all sleep in this room at night, with the men on the perimeter. You’ll be safe, but I want you to stay close to Blair and my children.”

I nod, warmth oozing from somewhere inside me I’ve had locked far too long. I never had an older brother to look out for me. I was the oldest, the one who was supposed to look after my sister and brothers. The thought pushes on me, an unrelenting pressure I wish I could write away and be done with.

Dinner is finished, and I ache for Houghman’s. For cloth and color and something that helps the hours tick by. I stand and walk over to Blair. “Can I clean up?”

Blair is only too eager to let me help. My hands find solace in the soapy water. I scrub at plates and cups, all the while chipping away at the questions in my head. Whatever will Mera think when I don’t show up at home? I have no idea how Ward intends to get word to her, or when. And what about Scarlett? Mr. Houghman will have a fit when I don’t show up to work. And the scowl Scarlett will wear when she’s left to fill orders by herself will surely split her face in two. I almost wish I was there to see it.

I plunge a plate into the soapy water and study the room. Most of the others are ignoring me. Which is fine. I feel as though they can read my secrets just by looking at me. Water sloshes up from the dish pail onto my sleeves, but I don’t dare roll them up past my wrists. Here I am again, in a place where covering who I am will have to be at the forefront of my mind. And Nolan’s words have drawn my stomach up in a knot ever since he spoke them. If guards invade, I need to get out or hide before they find me. If I get taken to the King’s dungeon, I won’t leave it alive.

I pile the clean dishes in a crate, and immediately wish they were dirty again. I need something to do. I’ve not seen any books here, so I have nothing to read. Most everyone else is gathering around one of the fires in the middle of the room. I hover outside the edge of the group. If this is some group meeting, I’m not sure I’m welcome or if they want me privy to more than I already know. But the man who stands up doesn’t give an update.

He starts telling a story.

He’s two sentences in when the story connects to a memory. I’ve heard this tale. It’s an old folktale, one I haven’t heard since I was a little girl. Silence falls over the group, even the children, as all faces tilt toward the storyteller. The man speaking sounds as if he’s told this story a million times. His hair is tinged with grey, and firelight dances off his face as he speaks. Within minutes, I’m lost in the words.

I sink to the ground and lean my back against the cool rock wall, as though my body needs to sit to be transported along with the tale. The words explode in my mind, a picture painted in my head to match his story. When he’s done, I want to both sigh and clap. A voice rings up from the crowd. “Do the bear one, Clive!”

And so our storyteller begins again. I curl my legs to my chest and rest my chin on my knees. My eyes never leave Clive. His face paints the picture of the story as he speaks it. Each furrow of his forehead or pull of his skin, and the story swings through my veins. Everyone is drawn in, from the men to the children. No one speaks; we all listen as Clive weaves us into his tale. I’ve heard this one before, too, but still my heart picks up speed and then crashes in joy when the ending comes.

A thought pricks my brain: stories.

A way with words.

I think back to Nolan’s words: the King would kill them all. Great skies above. Are these people all Lyran?

 

MARKS - Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

My words are caught inside me. Where they should have stayed to start with. I swallow and glance from Ward to the others. His command lingers in my head. Tell them why you’re here.

Why am I here? His face is hardened, his mouth a tight line, and the space between his eyes furrowed. He glares at me, as if I refuse to give him answers.

I narrow my own eyes at him. “You tell me.”

His face doesn’t change. The line, the furrow, the scowl. He could give Scarlett a run for her money. “What?” he asks through clenched teeth.

I tilt my chin up. “You dragged me here. Why?”

“You’ve been followed by the guard for weeks.”

Followed? Oh, heavens. I’ve been past Ashtin’s. And I ran to Meggie’s the other day when those Blackfeet….

Is that what this is about? My fear must show on my face because Ward tilts his head and stares, then yells. “Tell me what you’re doing!”

I flinch so fiercely I nearly topple over the seat backwards.

“Ward.” Nolan rises from his seat.

Ward takes a step to me. “I need to know what she’s hiding!”

“Enough.” Nolan’s voice clips across the entire room, and everyone else goes silent. He lays a hand on Ward’s shoulder. “Sit down. You’re scaring her.”

Ward’s face relaxes, as though Nolan’s words have jarred loose the tightness from his features. But he doesn’t apologize. Just sits down across from me. I wrap my arms around my stomach, which pitches and swirls. My secret, my very life, hangs by a thread he is eager to pluck from the air and strangle me with.

Nolan sits down next to me. “Ward brought you here.” He searches my face. “Do you know why?”

I glance at Ward, hating that I’m shaking so bad he can see it from where he sits. “At first, I thought he was going to take me to the King.”

Ward scowls.

Nolan continues. “And when he didn’t, what did you think?”

“I thought he was going to…” I stare at the ground, the rocky bumps of stone blurring in my vision.

“Going to what?” Ward jumps to his feet again. “Arrest you for something. That’s what you thought. Why? What did you do?”

My head snaps up. Arrogant ass. “I thought you were going to rape me or hurt me.”

Blair gasps. Ward’s eyes widen and redness sweeps over his face. “Why would you think I’d do that?”

“Because you’re a guard. That’s what guards do.”

The hardness is back, this time set in his jaw, and he looks away from me.

Nolan takes my hand. “No one’s going to hurt you, Gretta, least of all Ward.”

I don’t know if I believe that. I bet he’d love to shake me right now, given how I’ve offended his honor in front of these people. “How do you know?”

“Because he’s my wife’s little brother, and I’ve known him all his life. And because even though he’s a guard, he’s not loyal to the King.”

Silence falls, and I’m sure I’ve gone deaf. Not loyal to the King? And freely stating it? Great Saints. A million words and questions dance in my mind. There is a guard not loyal to the King but doing his bidding, and scraps of paper all over the city with my words and my name on them. I swallow and let my eyes find Ward’s. “Why’d you bring me here?”

“You were being followed,” Ward says.

“Why?” My voice croaks when it comes out. Saints above, I need water. And air.

“You were seen by the fire, then Breck had an interest. He’s had you followed.”

He meets my gaze and a shiver runs through me. “Why’d you let him?”

“You think I can stop every bad thing a guard does?”

No. Because one person can’t stop all the bad ones. I know this better than most. But Ward gives me no time to speak.

He sits and rests his forearms on his knees. “Breck followed you to Dunway Street one day, and we know you don’t live there. Then he saw you around another printing shop. That piqued my curiosity, too.”

He stops, his eyes probing mine. Looking for a reaction. For guilt.

“What were you doing at a printing shop?”

The silence hangs heavy, too dense a space for me to fill up. A lie, Gretta. The closest thing to the truth. I pick a place on his face and stare at it. “Looking for work.”

He leans farther forward on his knees. “Why were you at the fire today?

“I heard guards talking about burning Mavery’s shop. I wanted to warn him. So he could save what he could and start over.”

“Why?”

Great Saints, has being a guard tainted his thinking this much? “Because he’s an innocent man!”

Ward pins me with a stare. “John Mavery is a Lyran sympathizer.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

"He’s been hiding words in his paper for months.” He cocks his head to the side. “You sure you don’t know anything about that?”

I sure as Saints don’t. Great skies above. I shake my head. “I just wanted to warn him.”

“Well, you didn’t have to.”

Oh Saints. The King already knows about John, then? “Why not?”

“Because I already had.”

He might as well hang himself right now. He’s so neck deep in disloyalty the King would have a heyday with him.

Ward shakes his head. “Whatever you’re doing, the guards are on to you. You can’t go home. They’re suspicious, and you know too much now, anyway. I won’t have you undoing what we’ve worked so hard for.”

We. Who are we? Who are these people? They know Ward’s not loyal. And they’re hiding out. Which means they’re up to something. But what?

“I don’t know what your story is,” Ward says. “But I don’t trust you.” He scowls at the ground.

Incredible. He’s a guard, hiding out from the King and warning Lyran sympathizers, and he doesn’t trust me? Great skies of heaven, the devil himself would be trustworthy compared to him.

Ward stares at the floor as if searching for answers in the crevices of rock. When he speaks his voice is tinged with irritation, as though my very presence annoys him. “I’ll try and get word to your aunt that you’re safe somewhere.”

“Mera’s not my aunt.”

“No, really?” He glares, victorious in his mocking, then he stands. “I have to get back, or they’ll wonder where I’ve been.” He strides off without a word.

I turn to Nolan. Surely they don’t intend to keep me here. Nolan lays a hand on my knee. “I’m afraid Ward’s right; we can’t let you go back.”

Shaky breaths leak out of me. How soon before the King knows about Ward, before he finds these people? And then finds me? I take another gulp of air. “What if they hurt Mera?”

“Ward won’t let that happen.”

Nolan squeezes my knee. How can they be sure? The King is everywhere. His evil is everywhere. And no one can stop him.

I look over at Blair. She has blonde-brown hair, like Ward. “You’re his sister?” I ask her.

“He’s not all bad, I promise. Though I’ll be honest and tell you a lot of times I want to drag him down to the springs and hold his head under water.”

She and me both.

 

MARKS - Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The woman’s name is Blair. The man is her husband, Nolan. And they live here.

 

This is all I know, and all I seem capable of processing, as she leads me down yet another tunnel. The little girl who hugged the guard runs ahead of us, her feet skipping over the rocky path. Torches held in place against the wall cast dim firelight across the rock, sending shadows dancing that seem to reach for me.

The air hangs heavy and thick. And moist, like the air in Houghman’s when Scarlett and I have multiple pots of dye going. The tunnel opens up to a wide cavern filled with water. A spring.

 

“It’s warm,” Blair says as she sets her armful of things on a stone. “Don’t worry, no one else is here but us.”

A tremor starts in my feet, as though they long for real ground and not rock to stand on. Despite the humid air, I cross my arms over myself and stare at the water, then back to Blair.

She smiles and points to the pile. “There’s soap and a towel.”

Soap. And a towel. My breaths are so heavy they seem to echo in my head. Are my breaths always this loud?

Blair takes a step and moves behind me. I spin, but she presses me forward. I scan the room, but can’t see any other tunnels. No other way out. No way to escape whatever it is she is going to do. But all I feel is a release of my dress as she unbuttons the back. I’m breathing so hard my body practically convulses, and the tremble in my feet has shot upward through my legs.

Blair places a gentle arm on my shoulder. “Do you need help?”

I hug my arms across my chest and shake my head. I don’t think I can move from this spot, but if she stays and makes me get in the water she’ll see my marks. And she’ll know. “No,” I tell her.

She smiles and tucks the little girl to her side. “Come, Liddy. Let’s go find Gretta something clean to wear.”

The little girl stares at me with wide green eyes. Her brown hair is tied into braids hanging from each side of her face. She smiles at me, a tiny smile that doesn’t suit her, as though her face was made for big grins and she’s holding back because she doesn’t know how I’ll react.

“And Nolan is watching the entrance,” Blair says. “So you’ve no need to fear anyone barging in. If someone comes, it’ll just be me and Liddy.”

I smile at Liddy, and her grin broadens. She turns with her mother and I’m alone. The room is wide, and warmth clings to it like a blanket. Already the chill that wrapped around me since we left the city is fading. The torch on the wall casts light on the first few feet of the water. It’s tinged a brownish orange, like tea.

I glance up the tunnel then slip out of my dress. Sewage and filth cling to the folds of fabric. Sweet mercy, it’s disgusting. I’m disgusting. I have to dig my fingers through layers of the-Saints-only-know-what to slip off my shoes. The smell is released once my shoes are off my feet. I gag and dry heave, then fling the rest of my clothes off and practically run into the water.

It’s like a dress made of satin. Warm and silky. I’ve never been in a hot spring before, and now can’t imagine living with this as my only experience. I wade in deep and scrape the muck from my body with my fingernails. When my skin is screaming at me to stop, I dart out and grab the soap, then sink down shoulder deep into the shallow water.

A normal person who’d just been kidnapped would try to escape or figure out a plan. But me? I revel in a warm bath like a woman possessed. I scrub and even wash my hair. When voices bounce off the rock walls, I scramble out of the water and wrap the large toweling around myself, making sure my left arm is completely covered. Blair and Liddy appear.

“This might work.” Blair holds out a pale pink dress. She takes Liddy by the shoulders and turns her around. “Let’s give Gretta some privacy.”

I stare at their backs and step into the dress. I didn’t dry off well enough, so my wet skin catches as I shove my arms into the sleeves. My marks are covered. The dress has buttons on the back. “Can you help me?” I ask.

Blair turns and smiles. “Of course.” She glides across the rock floor without making a sound. I bet she could tame wild horses, she’s so gentle. She buttons up the dress. It’s a bit loose in the chest and the hem is a bit short. But all in all it’s not a bad fit.

My soiled dress and shoes are still in a heap where I lift them. I bend down, but Blair touches my arm.

“Don’t,” she says. “My eldest boy is in trouble with his father. Cleaning it up will make good punishment.” She winks at me.

Maybe she’s not so gentle after all. I follow her and Liddy out to the main area again. The group seems bigger this time. Maybe thirty people. A few stare at me as I follow Blair to the fire. Her husband, Nolan, is talking to the guard. Ward.

He glances at me, and my heart hammers in my chest. He’s a guard, and he brought me here. I still don’t know why. His stare bores through me, as though he can see my marks through the sleeves on this dress. I swear, I could be half naked and not mind, but that four-inch swath of skin on my arm is the most exposing part of my body.

Ward turns from Nolan. Four steps are all it takes, and he’s right in front of me. “Sit,” he commands, and I plunk down on a log pushed close to the fire. Nolan and Blair sit, as well as two other men who have appeared as if out of nowhere, as if the walls themselves are bleeding people. What are all of them doing here? I tug my sleeve further down my arm. They don’t know. If they did, I’d be dead already.

Right?

My lips are dry, my tongue twice its normal size. The walls of the cave seem to constrict, a prison of rock intent on finding out my secrets. I look from my arm to Ward, who’s staring intently at my fingers as they worry the fabric of my sleeve.

He remains standing and crosses his hands over his chest. Then he tips his chin at me. “You need to tell them why you’re here.”