“Tell the Sheriff I’m willing to make a bargain,” she told one of them, who raised an eyebrow but agreed. Once he was gone she stretched her arms, her legs, her back, reawakening every muscle that had found new pains since she had been thrown into the cell. She’d need them soon.

The next time footsteps approached her end of the tunnel, it wasn’t for Morg. A new guard who smelled of pork and feet kicked dirt through the bars of Elena’s cell and unlocked it. She’d been at the mercy of men most of her life, men who thought their brute strength made them strong. Sometimes she’d let them threaten her, she’d play meek, she’d choose to let them believe what they wanted. Other times she would correct them. A fellow like this pigfoot wasn’t worth correcting. Still, her heart pumped and her face flushed cold as she was flung out of her cell.

But she could control that fear. When men spoke of bravery they thought that talking about it made it theirs. Thinking when the time would come they could simply decide to be brave. Fear was the same way. You can’t prepare to be afraid, you can only get better at it over time. Elena had been afraid too many times in her life, so she knew what to expect. It was a shocking sensation, fear, how it simultaneously numbs and enhances the world.

She had memorized the pathways. She closed her eyes now as they walked, just to confirm she knew where she was. There would be a set of empty cages at the base of the tunnel upward, locked with a heavy gate. There were sounds, not many, mostly groans and whispers, coming down other tunnelways. She wondered about the others here, imprisoned for too long, what they thought when they saw her.

You’ll end up just like them, the fear scratched. You’ll miss your chance, thinking you can save Will, too. You can’t.

Eventually the pigfoot guard grunted something only pigfeet would understand. With the same amount of respect as earlier, she was thrown to the ground outside the gate that led up to the surface cage, while pigfoot fumbled with his keys. She glanced at the holding cages beside the door, one empty with its door open, the other held a withered bald figure whose piteous fingers she recognized. Baynard.

There was no time for second thoughts. She heaved her chest into a sob, as best she could, and let her body go limp so that he’d have to pick her up. She made the pigfoot stoop to carry her, grabbing her by the armpit, and she whimpered, a wavering sob sound. His hand retracted just a hair, thinking he’d hurt her. She sobbed harder, he pushed the gate open, then nudged her through.