Chapter 30

Islip down the stairwell, checking over my shoulder as I spill into the lobby on silent steps, my chisel tucked in the back pocket of my leather pants. Dashing toward Old Hattie’s room, I frown when I poke my head in and find her stool empty, her weft stick still lodged at an odd angle in her half-finished tapestry.

An uneasy sense of dread roosts upon my chest.

I force myself to continue, dodging from shadow to shadow in case anybody else is roaming the palace at this late hour. But it’s quiet.

Empty.

It’s not until I’m charging down the stairway that leads to the hall of tapestries that I hear the first sounds of life: a faint ping-ping-ping coming from the direction of my hole.

My pulse scatters.

Slipping my hand in my pocket to grip hold of my chisel, I peek over my shoulder, then ensure my wet hair is plastered against my wound as I tiptoe along the dark hall, edging toward frail slivers of fiery light spilling from behind the tapestry that hides my hole-in-progress.

It bumps and swells like somebody’s bunched behind it, that muffled ping-ping—ping chipping apart the silence with relentless force.

Approaching with slow, cautious ease, I keep my steps soft until I hear a muted whimper. Goosebumps burst across my skin.

I know that sound …

I lift the tapestry and release a flood of lantern light, seeing Old Hattie tucked in my hole in her soiled nightgown, her knobbled limbs all torn and grazed.

I gasp.

Startling, she spins. Cheeks tracked with tears, her wide, bloodshot eyes almost spear straight through me. The potent punch of her fear clogs the back of my throat and nearly brings me to my knees, but then her face crumbles with what looks like relief.

Her entire body jerks with deep, silent sobs—her sound somehow managing to stay locked in her chest, more fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. Her beautiful, talented hands are lumped in her lap, gnarled and blistered, one still clutching the hilt of a worn kitchen knife and a scrunched rag she must have been using to muffle the sound.

A bloody bandage covers her right hand, though the shape is … different. Like her middle finger’s—

My other hand slams against the wall to steady myself.

Her finger’s gone.

She continues to convulse, soundless sobs racking her frail form.

I find it hard to believe Cainon would let something like this happen to his governess. Not under his roof.

Unless …

A hideous thought worms to the forefront of my mind, gnashing flesh and bone to get there. “Did Cainon do this to you, Hattie?”

The crush of her face, the silent heave of her chest … It’s all the answer I need.

I remember the pretty story he told me about this poor broken woman, painting himself out to be her hero. Such ugly, rotten lies.

I lift the rattling shell containing my anger, letting it squirm a slashed path up my throat. My jaw hardens, teeth chattering with the power of my untethered rage, this deep ache pushing down into my canines, like they’re trying to pop out of my gums.

Crouching, I remove the knife from her grip, gently catch her trembling hands, and press my forehead against hers—waiting for the tide of her emotions to drop. When the convulsions finally break, I pull back and capture her weary gaze. “I’ve got this,” I whisper, forcing a soft smile when all my edges feel sharp.

Piercing.

“I’m going to make it better, Hattie. I promise.”

A strangled sound whittles out of her, and she cups my cheek, nodding. I help her from the hole, her knobbly limbs unraveling with a gush of stone shards that have me blinking at the mess, wondering if I forgot to dispose of the last lot.

Must have. There’s … too much.

Hattie hands me the lantern and shuffles down the hallway without looking back—her feet bare, hair a loose, wild trail of silver dragging along the floor in her wake.

She disappears into the darkness.

The tapestry bulges the slightest amount, and I ease it back, frowning as I brush more shards into the hallway. Tucking into the hollow, I set the lantern down and run my hand across the deep dents of Hattie’s progress, finding a hole I can almost fit my fist through.

For a moment, all I can do is stare, coasting my fingers around the honed edges, drawing on the musty scent pouring in from behind, tinted with the distant, familiar smell of death.

Of blood.

I shake my head in disbelief …

She broke through to the other side.