Voices rise in a bustle of shock and confusion. My insides freeze and shatter. I have tried to be brave, I have tried to be strong and good, but there’s nothing left. I can hear my mum’s voice screaming and my torso shakes in sobs, heaving against my pinioned arms. I gasp in air and hold it, telling myself I only need to hold on a little longer. I will not let them win; I can’t let them break me – even if they take my skin, they will not take my honour. I clench my teeth – they will not hear me scream.

In my peripheral vision a figure to my right steps forward. The light from the fire catches on something in his hand and a metallic flash sears my eyes. I blink and look again. I know those marks – it is Connor. It’s a final blow that the man who tried to save my father is being made to destroy me.

Longsight’s voice rings out. “As your leader and your judge, it falls to me – this great honour – to be the one to make the first incision.”

I hear someone in the first row cry out, “No!” I hear voices raised in surprise and horror. This isn’t what the crowd want, I think; he has misjudged things yet again. And as the knife is passed to Mayor Longsight I hear my mum calling out to me in a voice desperate and pure, “Be strong, my little light.” But skin is not strong – if it were we would not be able to force ink beneath its surface; our hairs would not raise in delight at the touch of a person we’ve longed for; we would not laugh when tickled or cry when bruised. Here I am with my skin on display, throat bare, stomach vulnerable. My skin will be cut and peeled from me like it was from Saint, but I will not weep with joy at the releasing of my soul. I will only bleed.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-eight

Connor Drew is coaching the mayor quietly, so only I can hear.

“A shallow cut, or the skin will be tainted and void. A steady hand, yes. Do you see here where the skin beneath the breastplate is very smooth? It requires a cut that just barely curves upward, like a smile.” I feel him trace a line on my body with his fingernail and my breath shudders. “Follow that course, or the tanning will not be true, and the edges will have to be trimmed.”

He sounds like Obel when he taught me about ink and marks, the calm focus of a master at work.

“Connor,” I whimper, and his eyes meet mine. “Don’t do this. Help me.” He could save me. He could do something. He wouldn’t collude with Longsight, not after everything he’s fought for.