“I said, nothing.” The stallholder moved to start smoothing the remaining ribbons, trying to restore order to the chaos Jill had made. “She never pays anyway. The Master will send someone with gold, will overpay for the next dress he orders in her name. She didn’t threaten me this time. She didn’t show me her teeth or ask if I wanted to look at the skin under her choker. You made her better, not worse.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Leave.” The stallholder finally looked up, finally focused on Jack. When she spoke again, her voice was so soft that it was barely audible. “Everyone knows that children who talk to the Master’s daughter disappear, because he can’t stand to share her. But not you. Because even though you’re not his child, you’re still her sister, and she gets jealous of the people who talk to you. Get away from me before she decides you’re my friend.”

Jack took a step backward. The stallholder went back to sorting through her ribbons, expression grim. She did not speak again, and so Jack turned and walked through the silent village. The sun was down. The huge red moon hung ominously close to the horizon, like it might descend and begin crushing everything in its path.

The door of the inn was closed. A single candle burned in the window. Jack looked at it and kept on walking, out of the village, through the gates, and onto the wild and lonely moor.

*   *   *

THE LIGHT IN THE windmill window made it seem more like a lighthouse, something perfect and pure, calling the lost souls home. Jack started to walk a little faster when she realized that she was almost home. That wasn’t enough. She broke into a run, and would have slammed straight into the door if Dr. Bleak hadn’t opened it a split second before she could. She ran into the hard flesh of his midsection instead, the rough leather of his apron grinding against her cheek.

She dropped the basket, scattering supplies and her small remaining store of coins at her feet.

“Jack, what’s wrong?” asked Dr. Bleak, and his voice was a rope thrown to a drowning girl, his voice was the solid foundation of her world, and she clung to him, pressing her face against his chest, for once not caring about the dirt, and cried and cried, under the eye of the unforgiving moon.

Part IV: Jill and Jack Will Not Come Back

PART IV

JILL AND JACK WILL NOT COME BACK

10. And From Her Grave, a Red, Red Rose …

10

AND FROM HER GRAVE, A RED, RED ROSE …