Nox’s silence as she guarded the door had nothing to do with the fifty-crown value they’d used to label Amaris. She couldn’t have cared less about whatever monetary value had been ascribed to the girl. She’d known from the moment she laid eyes on the vulnerable infant in the wicker basket that she’d never let anyone hurt her. If she had to betray the church and cut every matron in the house with the shards of the oil bottle, she’d do it without a second thought.

They would have to leave the kitchen to draw the bishop’s attention away from the pantry. Amaris was the only friend, the only family, the only person in the world who mattered to Nox. She’d do what she needed to in order to get the man away from her snowflake.

Voice strained, Agnes gave a curt command. “Nox, come.”

Nox pushed away from the door and leveled her chin, keeping her face blank. Her inky braid was in slight disarray, strands tugged out during the brawl floating around her as she moved. The cold drench of adrenaline pumped through her veins. Her heart rate increased in an arrhythmic thunder as she readied herself for punishment.

Nox followed Agnes and the bishop out of the kitchen. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, praying Amaris would stay put. Her feet led her through the corridor as if detached from her body, carrying her without the help of her conscious mind as they walked her past the dining hall, over the threshold, and into the courtyard in front of the manor.

She heard the patter of feet behind her but didn’t see who’d joined them until they were in full view of the orphanage’s exterior. They reached the center of the courtyard and turned to see the house. Mable had followed, shaking her head in a worthless, silent plea.

She thought the weather was rather mild, considering it felt like the end of the world.

The clouds overhead were a flat, depthless shade of gray. Wind moved the bishop’s robes as he grazed the courtyard with speculative eyes. They landed on the Gray Matron, curiously examining her inaction. Her mouth remained pinched as she seemed to fight the urge to speak. His cool curiosity wandered to the still shaking head of Matron Mable. The only sound in the courtyard was that of the leaves rubbing together and the fine, loose gravel that wiggled against the stones. He scanned Nox, from her disheveled hair to the flour smudges on her hands and clothes.

“Where is your whip?” asked the bishop.

Nox heard the word, but a loud buzzing in her ears made it difficult to understand the ensuing conversation.