My hand approaches his, as if guided by some unseen force that isn’t me. When my fingers brush the sallow skin of his knuckles, it isn’t revulsion I feel.

It is sadness.

“I’m sorry.” There is no one to hear the words but me, but it feels important to say them. “I’m sorry this was done to you.”

I watch his face, as if a part of me is expecting his lips to tick up into that wry grin of his and tell me that it’s okay. That everything will be fine. But that face will never smile again.

“I don’t know what happened, or who did this…”

I hold his hand even though he cannot hold mine back.

“But I swear to you, on all that is holy, on all that I love…”

I tangle my fingers with his one last time.

“I will find out who did it. And I will make them pay.”

CHAPTER 13

Kiki

Something lands on my bed with a heavy thump.

“Get up.”

Ana’s voice is hard. Harder than it’s been in quite some time. For days, she’s been soft, soothing whispers in the dark, a gentle hand brushing the hair off my brow, a calming presence by my side.

But not now.

“Get. Up,” she says again, enunciating each word with enough force to punch a hole through the wall, as if there was even the slightest possibility I—in the absolute silence of my bedroom—hadn’t heard her the first time.

“No.”

I burrow deeper into my pile of blankets. The goose feathers in my pillow tickle my nose. It will need fresh stuffing soon.

“That wasn’t a request.” More hard consonants. More clipped vowels.

Before I can muster a suitable retort, my armor is stripped away. Ana yanks the blankets off me all at once, exposing my legs to the frigid morning air.

“What are you—?” I scramble up to sit, pulling my nightgown over my bare knees. It’s not modesty that compels me to cover up. Ana has seen everything and then some. But I feel naked without the weight of those blankets on me. Naked and vulnerable.

“Come on.” Ana is already dressed, a rarity for her so early in the morning.

The breeches she’s wearing are tight enough to drive a nun to sin. They’re a nice contrast to the flounce in her loose white shirtsleeves. Her copper hair tumbles over one shoulder in a sloppy braid. She did it herself, then. She can never get the plaits quite right. It’s not incompetence on her part. It’s impatience.

Frowning, I glance down to see what the thing was that she tossed on my bed.