It’s time, the dark gripped her. Up to the gallows with Elena Gamwell. They’ll make Will watch.

But the door wasn’t hers. It was the cell beside her, which had always been empty. So far as she could tell, there were only the two cells in this finger of the tunnels, probably reserved for exclusive guests like sheriff-killers. “Wait here,” came a man’s voice. “We’ll get it sorted.”

She peeked through her eyelids as the gord closed the door again, and rumbled off down the tunnelway.

“Excuse me,” a ragged voice came from beside her. Before the light vanished, two bony fingers wrapped around the bars between them, then two more. “Are you new?”

Part of Elena wanted to respond coldly. She knew better than to befriend another prisoner down here. That was a trick the gords had used in Sinner Mary’s. They’d put one of their own in the cells, to play the victim and make friends. Captivity had a way of blinding people to danger. Us versus them tastes good. But she could hear the man’s knuckles rattle against the iron. She reached out and touched them, paperthin skin stretched over hard bone. Her heart went out to the old man, and there was no harm in civility.

“I am new,” she said. “How long have you been here?”

“Have you seen my children?”

Her throat was dry now, and it was harder to answer. Maybe there was less air to breathe. She had to move away from him, for some reason she had to. “No, I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” he creaked. It didn’t seem to be the answer he was looking for. She knew it was a terrible thought, but all that rang through her head as she turned away was don’t let that be me.

You’ll have to make that choice.

A minute later, an hour later, a day later, she felt her neighbor shift, startle, and grab at the bars again. “Are you new?” he asked a second time. Curiosity got the better of her, she leaned over again, against the bars, she felt his quivering finger, the crispy callus at its tip brushed her cheek. “Have you seen my children?”

His breath was warm but stank of rot—they were mere inches from each other. She squinted, and could make out the faintest of details. He was bald, his pupils so wide there was no knowing the color of his eyes. White and red milk mixed at their corners, and his skin was wrinkled and spotted.

“They love you,” she whispered for some reason, “and they’re safe.”

When he blinked, his eyes were wetter. “Oh, little El. Tell Norman and Stephen to watch over their mother. Tell Amelia I’ll be a little late.”