The boat hit the pier with a shudder. Nomi’s legs buckled, but the stiff brocade of her gown held her up. The sailors removed Maris’s shackles, and then Nomi’s. She spit in the closest one’s face. He pushed her toward the gangplank, making her stumble. Maris kept her back mercilessly straight, but her cheeks were streaked with tears. Nomi couldn’t bear it. Maris should never have been a part of this. She shouldn’t be here with Nomi. She’d done nothing to deserve this suffering but witness someone else’s crime.

But Maris was right. It was too late.

The sailors yanked Nomi and Maris onto the dock. A prison guard waited at the edge of the pier, his hat drawn low over his eyes.

“This is a smaller ship than usual,” he said gruffly. “A smaller load too. Only two prisoners?”

The sailor gripping Nomi’s arm shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

“And the rations?” he asked when the sailors deposited Nomi and Maris before him.

The other sailor scratched the back of his neck. “Rations? We were told to bring these girls here. No one said anything about rations.”

“You’ve got their intake papers?” The guard put his hand out, impatience creeping into his voice.

Nomi wondered what would happen if she screamed out the truth—that Asa had killed the Superior and sent them here to keep them quiet. The guard probably wouldn’t care.

“Got no papers,” the sailor next to her said, shrugging. “This lot came from the palazzo. Don’t know how it’s usually done, but we were told very specific to bring ’em here. Which we’ve done.” He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “Now they’re your problem.”

The prison guard stared narrowly at the blood on Nomi’s dress and then at Maris’s white cheeks. Was he worried it was some kind of trap? As if they were a threat.

Finally, with a curt nod and another long glance at the boat, he dismissed the sailors. Nomi’s lungs constricted, bound by her corset and the horror coursing through her. She put her hands on her waist, wishing she could rip herself out of this dress, these mistakes, this life. Her fingers found a hole in the fabric; it took her a moment to remember that Asa had stabbed her too. He would have killed her, just like he killed Malachi—a sob lodged in her throat—but for the corset that was slowly killing her now.

In her mind, the Superior’s icy eyes stared at her, his throat running with blood.

“Come on,” the prison guard said roughly. When he grabbed Maris’s arm, she whimpered.