They’d both said, Aye, out of habit, because he was their da and surely he knew more about such things than they did. But then, because young boys were easily distractable, they’d forgotten all about such serious matters until the night that had changed everything. Ludo had remembered his father’s words again on that night. But he hadn’t thought of them since.

Until now.

I’m a fool.

“Oh gods,” he murmured. “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. You’re slavers, aren’t you?”

“Maybe he’s not as naïve as he seems,” Mister Rose said, sauntering up. Metal clanked from something dangling from one of his hands. As he drew closer, Ludo identified the clasps as shackles, two sets.

“Oh gods,” he said again.

“The gods aren’t listening, Ludo,” Dahlia said.

“Why are you doing this?”

She cocked her head, seeming to consider for a moment. “Because we can,” she said. In a single motion that made him gasp, she clambered off and rolled him over, once more pressing the dagger to him, this time against the back of his neck. Mister Rose’s knee pressed into the small of his back as his arms were yanked forcefully behind him. Metal clinked and snapped once, twice, and then his feet were drawn up, knees bending, as the noises repeated themselves.

Only then did the pressure on his back release. The cold steel on his neck did not.

“Dahlia,” Mister Rose said. “Enough.”

“You’re no fun.” Despite her words, she finally drew the knife away, though the cold line where the blade had rested lingered on his skin.

He felt like a hog that had been tied. A hog that could still taste its captor on its lips.

“Get up.” His voice, not hers.

All he wanted to do was close his eye and lie there. Maybe if he squeezed his eye tight enough, he could turn it all into a nightmare, and when he opened it again, he would be back in some farmer’s hayloft, smelling of manure. Or better yet, back in Last Dawn, in his own bed. He wouldn’t even mind all the lumps and bumps.

It was a lie.

Because despite the awfulness of his current predicament, he realized that even if he could, he wouldn’t go back in time and stay in Last Dawn. He would still take those steps until the only home he’d ever known was far behind him. And he wouldn’t look back, not ever again. The past wasn’t his to reclaim, not anymore.

The crash of a foot into his ribs chased away his meandering thoughts as effectively as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on his head. He groaned, rolling over onto his side. “He said, ‘Get up,’” snapped Dahlia, who’d apparently been the kicker. After what she’d already done to him, he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was, his brain still trying to connect this deranged woman with the sweet, playful young woman who’d kissed him.