My throat is raw from the screaming I unleashed at the men in the alley, and I can’t stop shaking. I don’t know what’s happened to me, and I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet. Logan doesn’t seem inclined to talk either, or maybe he’s realized I’m not going to answer. We walk side by side through Country Low while a breeze plucks at newborn leaves and tangles in my hair, and the shadow of the Wall slowly stretches east.
When we reach his cottage, I leave him standing in the living area while I lock myself in the bathroom, ignite the pitch-coated logs beneath the water pump, and strip out of my garments.
I don’t light a lantern, though there’s no window in this room. The glow from the logs is enough to for me to find my way around. I don’t want to see.
The pump whistles softly to tell me the water is warm enough, and I release the handle to drain its contents into the carved stone tub resting in the center of the room. I slide into the bath and sink beneath its skin. It’s quiet here, the outside noise muffled and distorted by the water around me. I pretend I’m in a cocoon, asleep, the world passing me by, and when I wake, all of this will have been a very bad dream.
The water is cooling when I finally decide to shampoo my hair and attack my skin with soap. I scrub until it hurts, but I’m still convinced the crimson stains me deep within where no soap will ever reach.
The memory of Oliver, holding my hand with icy fingers while his life spilled from his chest, is more than I can bear.
I comb through my water-heavy hair and it hangs down my back, sticking to my skin in damp strands. Pulling on a long yellow tunic and a pair of leggings to match, I open the door just in time to see Logan crumple up a thick piece of paper and throw it down. He slams his fist onto the kitchen table and swears viciously.
I cross my arms over my chest and move to curl up at the end of the couch. He meets my gaze with misery and fury in his eyes.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, and I know he’s asking about more than food and water.
I shake my head, but he stands and brings me a cup of water and a plate of goat cheese, dried apple slices, and a hunk of oat bread as if I never responded. I take a bite of apple to please him, but I can’t taste it.
He eases himself onto the couch, closer to me than to the other end, but still keeping a careful distance between us. He’s moving slowly, as if afraid he’ll spook me at any moment.
I want to tell him about Oliver. I want to open my mouth, let it all come gushing out, and find solace in weeping. But the words I need to rip Logan’s world to pieces won’t come. Instead, I take a tiny bite of cheese and concentrate on chewing.
“I need to talk to you. It’s okay if you don’t want to respond, but I need to know you’re listening,” he says quietly, and waits.
I swallow the cheese, take a sip of water, and set it all on the floor at my feet. I owe him this.
I owed Oliver too.
The thought draws blood, and my eyes slowly fill with tears. I’m tired. So tired. I ache, inside and out, and nothing seems simple anymore. Nothing seems right.
“The Commander put you into the Claiming ceremony tomorrow,” Logan says, waving his hand toward the crumpled up paper. His voice is hard. “You don’t need to worry, Rachel. I’m going to Claim you. I won’t leave your side. He’ll never get a chance to touch you again.”
His expression is haunted, and I know he blames himself for today. I don’t know how to comfort him when nothing soft and conciliatory lives inside me anymore.
Something catches my eye, and I turn to see a deep-blue silk dress encrusted with glittering diamonds hanging beside the fireplace. Logan follows my gaze.
“Along with a letter demanding your presence on the Claiming stage tomorrow, he sent a dress. They were both in the parcel Mrs. Angeles gave me.” His fingers curl into a fist.
Beneath my grief, uncushioned by my shock, a hard kernel of anger takes root and burrows in. I failed Oliver today, yes. But I don’t have to fail him again. A debt is owed for his life, and I intend to pay it.
I glance around the cottage and find my knife, cleaned and polished, lying on the kitchen table, inches from the paper announcing my new status as a participant in the Claiming. I want to hold the weapon, to feel like I have some way to keep the promises I’ve made to myself, but I don’t know how Logan feels about giving it to me.
“You can’t attack everyone who pulls a weapon,” he says when he sees me gazing at my knife.
He’s wrong. If you don’t attack first, you lose everything.
Everything.
“You scared me today,” he says softly, and I look away from the knife. “They’d already demanded our money. The swords were just to intimidate us into giving them a way to buy their next drink. It was a situation you could’ve talked your way out of with your eyes shut. Instead, you tried to kill them.”
I can’t look away from the worry on his face, even though I want to tell him I’ve learned my lesson. The lesson he tried to teach me when he made me promise to strike down the Commander if he ever threatened me. It’s branded deep into the fibers of my being now, and I don’t plan to act like it isn’t.
“How can I trust you to carry your weapons if you don’t know who deserves a death sentence and who doesn’t?” he asks, and slides closer to me, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me against his chest. “Rachel. I should’ve been with you today. I’m so sorry.”
It’s not his fault.
I should’ve killed the Commander.
I should’ve entered the wagon and attacked without hesitation.
I should’ve kept my promise to Logan. If I had, Oliver would still be alive.
A small whimper escapes me, and tears spill down my cheeks. I try to tell him. To make the words come, but sobs choke me instead. My fingers are icy, trembling, as Logan pulls me down beside him on the couch. I stare out his window, watching the sky darken as tiny stars tear holes in its velvet surface until I cry myself to sleep.