“There is always a choice in how you behave toward people, Starling,” she said. “Getting angry is not the only response to feeling angry.” She paused expectantly, but Starling’s eyes remained resolutely on the flames. “Do you ever think about forgiving her instead?” she asked quietly. “What would it really cost you?”

Starling’s shoulders hunched and her brows furrowed. “You mean pretend I don’t care. Let her get away with it?”

“Forgiveness is not the same as indifference,” her mother sighed. “In some ways, it’s the opposite.”

“Seems the same to me.”

A sniffing sound alerted them both that Poppy was approaching. She appeared in front of them, clutching her favorite straw doll, Min. Ma had stitched a tunic for it, identical to Poppy’s own.

Starling stared at her little sister’s face and Twelve saw the sudden shame there, the realization that, although she might have been the one wronged, it was Poppy who had been more hurt. By her.

“I . . . I know I did a bad thing,” said Poppy, a tear leaking down her cheek. “I can’t fix Staggy, I tried.” She took a shaky breath. “I ruined him.” Another tear. “But I know how I can make it right.”

With a sob, she threw Min into the flames, covering her face so she didn’t have to see her catch fire.

Their ma leaped up with a cry, but Starling was faster. Snatching the stirring stick from her mother’s hand, she reached into the fire and flicked her sister’s doll out, falling on it and patting out the flames furiously.

“Why did you do that?” she cried, spinning to face Poppy.

Tears were streaming down her little sister’s face again. “So . . . so you’d know for sure that I’m as sad as you,” she wept. “And that I’m sorry. For real sorry.”

“Oh, Poppy,” their ma groaned, pulling her into a hug.

Starling stared at the doll in her hands. Despite her quick reaction, the straw was black and crumbling, the tunic ruined.

Twelve watched as confusion chased guilt across Starling’s face.

“Now do you see, Starling?” her ma sighed.

In the darkness of her cell, Twelve’s eyes opened, a cramp in her leg waking her. She staggered to her feet, sickened and shivering, her ma’s question echoing through her.

Now do you see?

She hadn’t. Not then. The words had been a puzzle. Now, in the darkness of the dungeon, and the deeper darkness of her despair, they whispered themselves over and over.

Forgiveness is not the same as indifference.

There is always a choice. . . .

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

Words warred in Twelve’s aching head. She stood at the front of her cell, fingers wrapped around the bars, eyes fixed on the dwindling candle.

Six was a liar.

Seven was gone.