She tried to close her eyes, but her mother was waiting behind her eyelids. If Scratch was to be publicly executed, would Purpose Keyes be brought out to watch her daughter drop? To see her only child’s blond head take leave of her body? Would she weep, or would she stare in that blank way of hers, a closed door shaped like watery blue eyes in a face too miserable for sadness?

The Academy had been Scratch’s freedom, her escape and her promise. God of Days Ahead, she was an idiot. She had thought that if she just kept being exceptional—fighting harder, running faster, strategizing beyond what those useless commanders could dream—the rest wouldn’t matter. Her family, her gender, her size: Scratch could build herself greater than the bricks of her birth.

It was all for nothing in the end.

And this particular end was the real elderflower drizzle on the shit cake: no one could craft a crueler death for Scratch than one she didn’t understand. Were she and James truly the only ones who hadn’t been accounted for last night? Were other members of the Guard out looking for the princess, or would her disappearance be swept away, left to ossify into the brittleness of national tragedy? And if that were the case, who benefitted? At the center of every tangle was the person who had something to gain. If only she could map her way toward who, pull the thread from the snarl until someone with a story popped out.

What she wouldn’t give for a piece of parchment.

James stirred. “There’s someone here.”

“It’s too early, darling. Go back to sleep.”

“No. Scratch.” She could see the deep green of his wide eyes in the scant light. “Listen.”

She listened. Sure enough, the sound of footsteps interrupted the drips of the  mysterious dungeon moisture. Not a guard to bring her to the block—a quick, confirming glance at the tiny window exposed a sky not yet touched by the cool light of dawn. There was a jangling—keys, maybe? And then—

“Get up,” the intruder hissed. “Which key, which key. . . aha!” Metal scraped against metal, the gate screaming as it swung open. “Come on, we don’t have a lot of time.”

Scratch and James scrambled up, using each other’s bodies as leverage. Hells, she was exhausted. Her ribs ached.

“Our hands are still bound.” Scratch turned, exposing the rope at her back that rubbed her wrists raw. “Could you . . .”

“Oh, yes.” The stranger—a woman, from the sound of her voice—pulled a knife from the folds of her skirts and quickly slashed through the ropes. “Not much time. Follow me.”

Scratch met James’s eyes for a brief, silent conversation. A raised eyebrow. Who do you think . . .? A shrug. Does it matter?

One last risk wouldn’t kill them. And if it did, what difference did it make?