The Nightingale

“What would you do to keep him here with you?”

“Anything,” she said.

He unbuttoned her blouse, slowly, letting each button be teased through its fraying hole. When the bodice gaped open, he slid his hand inside, sliding it over her breast, twisting her nipple hard enough that she cried out in pain. “Anything?” he asked.

She swallowed dryly.

“The bedroom, please,” she said. “My children.”

He stepped back. “After you, Madame.”

“You will let me keep Daniel here?”

“Are you negotiating with me?”

“I am.”

He grabbed her by the hair and yanked hard, pulling her into the bedroom. He kicked the door shut with his booted foot and then shoved her up against the wall. She made an ooph as she hit. He pinned her in place and shoved her skirt up and ripped her knitted underpants away.

She turned her head and closed her eyes, hearing his belt unbuckle with a clatter and his buttons release.

“Look at me,” he said.

She didn’t move, didn’t so much as breathe. Neither did she open her eyes.

He hit her again. Still she stayed where she was, her eyes closed tightly.

“If you look at me, Daniel stays.”

She turned her head and slowly opened her eyes.

“That’s better.”

She gritted her teeth as he yanked down his pants and shoved her legs farther apart and violated both her body and her soul. She did not make a single sound.

Nor did she look away.

THIRTY-FOUR

Isabelle tried to crawl away from … what? Had she just been kicked or burned? Or locked in the refrigerator? She couldn’t remember. She dragged her aching, bloody feet backward across the floor, one pain-filled inch at a time. Everything hurt. Her head, her cheek, her jaw, her wrists and ankles.

Someone grabbed her by the hair, yanked her head back. Blunt, dirty fingers forced her mouth open; brandy splashed into her open mouth, gagging her. She spit it back up.

Her hair was thawing. Ice water streamed down her face.

She opened her eyes slowly.

A man stood in front of her, smoking a cigarette. The smell made her sick to her stomach.

How long had she been here?

Think, Isabelle.

She had been moved to this dank, airless cell. Two mornings had dawned with her able to see the sun, right?

Two? Or just one?

Had she given the network enough time to get people hidden? She couldn’t think.