Shame nipped at her heels as she scuttled over the incline, eyes peeled for any sign of color—a strip of black against the pale, moon-drenched white. She had left the Hawk asleep and alone, at the mercy of whatever else might wander into the ruin. Even out here nursing stiff fingers, sniffing icy snot up her nose, it seemed the essence of cruelty leaving the Hawk alone in the cold and dark.

Anji crossed her arms against the wind and glanced back at the ruins, still visible at the crest of the hill. Maybe I could have started a fire.

But no. The Hawk was better off in the dark. Better to be freezing and unseen than for one of the Menagerie to spot a flicker of flame and come investigating while Anji wasn’t there to stand guard. It felt strange, taking precautions to protect a woman hell-bent on seeing her publicly tortured—but she needed to get into that bag. She had a plan.

I’ll take the bag back, she thought, wake her somehow and make her open it, and swallow the antidote whole.

Then she’d simply take back her things, and be off north; poison-free and unburdened from the brooding bounty hunter. The woman had looked so weak, Anji thought she would have no trouble making her escape. She’d be surprised to find the Hawk still conscious when she returned to the ruin, which was now barely distinguishable in the distance.

Anji couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to her she’d gone farther than the tether had allowed for back in Silverton. A wild thought crossed her mind then, which set her heart racing.

What if the charm has worn off?

If it had, she could run. Take her chances with the poison, find an herbalist to mix an antidote within the week. She had no loyalty to an old drug addict set on seeing her flayed. That Scorphice had attacked them both, hadn’t it? Anji had saved the woman’s life, and the way she looked at it, they were square, regardless of whatever miserable, lonely withdrawal the Hawk was enduring up above. It simply wasn’t Anji’s problem.

But Anji only stomped forward, her fists clenched with cold and bone-beating annoyance at the pitiful, panicky creature she’d become. So eager to flee. When she’d lived on the street, she’d fought other beggars. She’d stolen food and clothes, slept on rooftops, outrun constables. Then she’d been forced into the castle, where she’d grown soft and scared. Where was that urchin now?