Broken Veil (Harbinger #5)(33)

“That only works,” Mrs. Pullman sneered, squeezing harder, “on some of them.”

Spots began to dance in front of Sera’s eyes, but just when she was certain she’d suffocate, Mrs. Pullman suddenly released her grip. Sera dropped to the floor, gasping for breath. The spots still crowded her vision, but she blinked rapidly, trying not to faint.

Mrs. Pullman dragged the body of Mr. Batewinch into the cell and left it in the middle of the floor.

“Now you have company,” said the old woman with a gleam of malice.

Sera stroked her neck. She could still feel where the old woman’s fingers had dug into her skin. There would be bruises for certain.

Mrs. Pullman slid the crowbar out of the steward’s limp hand. She turned to leave, only to swivel back around when she reached the doorway.

“Who are you to rule over us?” Mrs. Pullman said in a low, callous way. “You’re weak. Powerless. You don’t deserve the gilded palace you live in. What work have you ever done in your whole life? Your luck was to be born. That is all. Any mewling brat can be born. Our queen will soon rule in your place. All will kneel before her, out of dread, out of fear. You’ve had your chance, false empress. Now another comes. You are not worthy to lick the ground at her feet.”

The words were calculated in their malice. Designed to weaken someone’s will, to damage their sense of self. To make them feel unworthy of anything good.

Everything she’d said was a lie.

Sera could not help but think of Cettie as a girl, at the mercy of this cruel old woman. The image made her hate Mrs. Pullman even more.

“Not if I can help it,” Sera vowed, staring at the old woman with a look that promised vengeance. “You won’t kill me, Mrs. Pullman. Without me, that Leering will be closed forever.”

“She knows your weaknesses, child,” said Mrs. Pullman with a smile. “You will open the tomb of Ereshkigal. You’ll have no other choice.”





CHAPTER TWELVE

THE ADMIRAL’S DAUGHTER



The darkness was even more suffocating with a dead body in the room. Poor Mr. Batewinch, Sera thought. Lady Corinne had left so many bodies in her wake. She remembered the day she’d found Mr. Skrelling’s body rotting on the beach below Pavenham Sky. The horror of seeing Lord Fitzroy’s body flung off a balcony to an angry mob below.

Lady Corinne could slice Sera’s body like so many ribbons. She could poison her, torture her, cripple her. But she could not break her will. Only Sera could do that.

She’d learned much from observing people through the Command Leering in Lockhaven. Not all who lived in the City were miserable. Even the most oppressed woman, scrubbing dirty clothes in a stagnant fountain, could still whistle and sing while she worked. Many of her people, no matter how poor, had a resilience that made her heart proud of them. She, too, could be strong. Determined.

But the prophecy says you’re the one who will open it.

Sera huddled in the dark, considering the words Sinia had uttered so long ago. Sera did not want to release such an evil being, but events seemed to be drawing her inexorably toward some fate. Would she be forced to free Ereshkigal in the end? Would they twist her feelings for someone she loved to make her yield?

What had Corinne done to Cettie? Was she also being tortured, or would she be used against Sera in some way?

Would they harm Trevon if she did not fall into line?

Her arm throbbed, her face itched, and her throat craved a drink—sensations that had only grown keener with each passing hour. She leaned back against the wall, struggling to suppress a growing sense of dread.

What would you have me do? Sera thought into the blackness, reaching out to the Mysteries. Guide me, lead my steps. I will do what you wish of me. No matter what it may cost me.

In the quiet stillness of the cellar, she waited, straining for an answer. Some form of direction.

It came, but in a most unexpected form. She had the intuition that perhaps Mr. Batewinch had a flask or a waterskin on his person.

That would mean searching a dead man. She shuddered at the thought, but her thirst insisted she try. She crept forward on her knees, reaching out with one hand. When she touched his body, it was unnaturally cool. The life force within him, the soul that had caused his body to generate heat and breath, was gone. She fumbled in the darkness, using only her right hand. A jacket? Pockets. She searched them, finding a few coins, a silk handkerchief. There was a little box made of metal. When she opened it, the strong sweet odor of peppermint filled her cell.

She had to struggle with the body to turn it over to check the other side, a horrific task. Some papers, which she couldn’t read in the dark. And then, in his pants pocket, she discovered a penknife, something one used to sharpen a quill or a pencil. The blade was folded down and not very long. Excitement thrummed inside her.

Using her teeth, she released the blade, which snicked into place. She instantly thought of the wooden doorframe. She rose and carried the penknife to the door, feeling the edges where the latch fit into place. The blade plunged into the soft wood easily. Sera bit her lip and began scraping away.

She worked at it for hours, digging and twisting, and breaking off little pieces of bark. Time had already lost all sense of meaning to her, but she felt urgency to complete the task. Occasionally, splinters would jab her fingers. She ignored the blood, carving and gouging and prying at the wood until the large piece on the other side of the bolt came free.