Thunk. The baton lands on my shoulder, and the pain surprises me into an even louder scream. She must’ve swung with every bit of strength she had.
My mind short circuits, my mission erased, and I’m left with the bare need to survive. Escape. I have to escape. I’ll take the baton from her and run for it. I steel myself for the assault. Georgia. I snap back to myself. I can’t run. I won’t.
A bell rings again.
She backs away, her animal fury receding.
I peek at her through my hair. She smooths her skirt and tucks a stray hair back into her black habit. Taking a deep breath, she adopts a placid expression, then presses a button under the edge of her desk.
The air in the room shifts and a slight creak from the door opening keys me up to run.
“I heard screams.” Abigail’s voice comes from behind me. “Wanted to make sure everything is all right.”
“We’re fine.” The edge to the Head Spinner’s voice cuts me down even further. “You shouldn’t have interrupted.”
I turn and catch Abigail’s gaze, silently pleading with her to get me out of here.
She folds her hands in front of her skirt. “I think she’s had enough.”
“You don’t tell me when anyone has had enough. I make that decision.”
I crumble inside and wait for Abigail to obey. To my amazement, she doesn’t budge.
“The Prophet has his limits. Even for you. He has twelve girls to help him do God’s will. If you take one away or make her unable to fulfill his wishes, he won’t appreciate it.”
“Don’t you threaten me with the Prophet.” Her eyes narrow and she runs her baton along her palm. “He put me in charge. I’m Head Spinner. You are nothing but a used up old hag. The Prophet was too kind to turn you away, so he sent you here, to be a burden on the rest of us. I have half a mind to ask him to send you somewhere else. Maybe the Rectory.”
“Oh, you could send me there.” Abigail steps closer, and I’m distinctly aware of danger on all sides. “You surely could. But when I got out, I’d come right back here to you. And there would be nothing on heaven or earth that could stop me from repaying you in kind.” She moves closer, her voice steady. “Now, you either let that girl come with me, and we forget this foolishness, or I inform the Prophet about your late-night jaunts.”
The Head Spinners gasps. “What?”
“You heard me.” Abigail reaches me and places a hand on my shoulder.
I whimper from the ache but don’t dare complain.
“Get on up, Delilah. We’re going.”
Grace braces herself with one hand on the desk. “How did you know about—”
“There’s plenty I know.” Abigail helps me up. “Plenty. And a trip to the Rectory would be the quickest way to loosen my tongue.”
I edge away from Grace, refusing to turn my back on her. She switches her focus from Abigail to me, and I can feel the fury oozing from her like crude from a ruptured tanker. This isn’t over. She doesn’t have to say the words—I can feel them deep in my gut.
Once we’ve made it to the hallway, Abigail pulls the door closed. I’m finally able to breathe again. If I’d gone another moment with Grace, I’d have made a mistake. Tried to escape. But that’s what animals do when they’re caught in a snare.
Abigail hurries me out into the main corridor and toward the dorms. Everyone else is still in the training room. A strangled laugh erupts from my throat.
Abigail arches a brow at me.
“It’s just.” I wince as my finger twinges. “I thought ‘at least I didn’t get pissed on.’”
“You’d have been better off. What did she do other than the ear and the finger?” She pushes me through to the dormitory and then into my bedroom.
“She hit me in the shoulder, but I think it’s just bruised.”
“Sit and strip.” She points to my bed, then disappears out my door.
I sink down and glance up at the camera. She’s watching. I can feel it. At least there’s no sound. That’s one thing I discovered in her office of horrors. None of the live feeds had audio. With effort, I pull my dress over my head, being as careful as possible not to aggravate my finger. It’s already swollen to twice its size, the skin tight like a sausage casing. I rock back and forth—anything to distract from the mounting pain in my hand.
Abigail returns with a black bag and hastens to the bed. “Let me see the finger first.”
I hold it out. “It doesn’t look crooked. Maybe she didn’t break it?”
A strand of iron-gray hair falls against her temple. “It’s broken all right. And she managed to bust the blood vessels under your nail.” She digs in her bag and retrieves a needle.