I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. At least my captor hasn’t bound me since I’ve been back. I’m still barefoot, still wearing that white dress although it’s not white anymore. Nothing can stay clean in this place.
Someone tried to kill Santiago. The thought boggles my mind.
And the fact that they think that someone is me? I can’t wrap my brain around it.
But then I get to the next part. The more important part.
He’s alive.
There’s a part of me that feels relief. And, if I’m honest with myself, something else. Something like a spark of hope. And a small bubble of something I don’t want to name that quickens every time the door opens.
I shake my head.
God, what is wrong with me?
When it comes to Santiago and my situation, there is no hope, no spark of some other nameless, ridiculous thing. I can be relieved that he’s alive. But I can only be relieved that he’s alive. That’s just being human. Even if I hate him, it doesn’t mean I want him dead. And the hope I feel is only for my freedom. Hope that when the door opens, it will be him. My husband will come for me.
The devil you know. That's all this is. It’s not that I have feelings for him.
And besides, what would they do to me if he hadn’t survived? If he’d died? The Society and their precious Sovereign Sons. I don’t delude myself into thinking I could ever be precious to anyone but this? Accusing me of attempting to murder my own husband no matter how much I hate him? It’s insane. Unbelievable.
But he’s alive.
And my mind begins its incessant circling again.
I pull at my hair to distract myself. If I could just see him. Talk to him. Explain that I was in the chapel, and when the second gong rang out, I had been hiding in one of the bathrooms. Explain that I couldn’t get out.
Coincidental. Convenient. I can hear him now.
He hates me. He already believes the worst when it comes to me, and this will not alter his feelings. Not in a way that would benefit me.
I tried to explain it to the man who is holding me. I tried to tell him what happened, but he wouldn’t have it either. He threatened to gag me if I wouldn’t keep quiet on the drive back to this horrible place, and when he’s come in to feed me and empty the bucket, he has refused to speak to me.
But Santiago is alive. He’ll come for me. I have to believe that.
I stop, though, because another thought interrupts that never-ending cycle.
What if I’m wrong? What if he doesn’t come? What if he leaves me here to rot until I’m expected to appear before The Tribunal again? What if he’s alive but not himself? Hurt. And what if he’s alive but doesn’t want me back?
At that, I let out a strange, snort-laugh. It’s ugly.
Yes. He’ll want me back. He’ll want to be the one to punish me.
I close my eyes, confused by all this, my own thoughts, my feelings, this isolation, this darkness. I tug the blanket closer, rubbing warmth into my freezing feet. It’s so cold here. My captor must realize it too because he gave me a second blanket. Same as the first one. Rough and terrible but at least it’s something.
Does he think I’m guilty of what they’re accusing me of?
I drift off, snatching sleep when it comes before the cold, and my dreams wake me. Tonight, though, when I startle awake, it’s not either of those things that rouse me. It’s the key in the lock.
I blink my eyes open, my brain in a fog from the lack of sleep, lack of sunlight, and no exercise. Lack of nutrition. A half bowl of cold soup, a wedge of stale bread, and an apple a day are not enough to sustain me.
Whoever it is is carrying a lantern and there it is. That spark of hope inside me. I sit up, but the moment I recognize the cloak, the hood, the spark is extinguished.
He walks in without a word to me. That’s not unusual, though.
I fumble for my blindfold. I forgot to pull it down, but I do now. I wonder if I should ask for a new strip of cloth. This one is disgusting.
“Stand up,” he says.
“What?”
“Up. On your feet.”
This is different. I release the blanket, shuddering as I stand. I’m not sure I’ll ever get warm again.
“Arms.”
“Why? I haven’t done anything.”
“Arms.”
I extend my arms out to him and feel the familiar rope wrap around the healing, scabbed skin. I feel the warmth of tears slide down my face again.
“Are you taking me back? To The Tribunal?”
He doesn’t reply. Weaving the rope around and between my wrists, he pulls me to the center of the room, where I know the ring he has hooked me to on the ceiling is. He turns me to face away from him, my back to the door.