The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(37)
Genny knew the type. She hadn’t transformed from illegally distilling and distributing liquor on the black market to a key player in Winter’s Whiskey of Colnora by attending cordial dinners with dignified aristocrats. In the same way, this wasn’t the first cold, filthy bucket Genny had sat on. Men like Villar were mean, unpredictable, dangerous, and sadly plentiful. Her father had been one. She liked to think she’d tamed the madness out of the man, that the money, power, and respect had quieted the demons unchained by his wife’s death. But she knew quieted wasn’t gone and the mania would always be there, watchful and looking for a reason to return.
What if neither comes back at all?
Genny still didn’t know where she was, couldn’t even be positive how long she’d been there. More than two but less than three weeks was her best estimation. Early on, she hadn’t bothered keeping track of the days. She had expected to die, and that one thought filled her mind to the exclusion of all else. Then, as time went on she had been forced to reevaluate. No sense keeping me alive just to kill me later, she reasoned, but had to admit a bias in her conclusion. The same could be said about her expectation of rescue. Her husband was the duke, and he controlled a full contingent of city guards. With such resources, could a rescue be far away? Apparently it could. As the days dragged on, she began to wonder if something had happened to Leo.
In all that time, Genny learned little about her prison. Didn’t even know what sort of place it was. The stone was marred with pockmarks, lichen, and ivy, which made her suspect she was outside the main gates. She hadn’t seen much beyond the Estate and the Merchant District since her arrival in the city. Parts of Rochelle might be deep in jungles—how would she know? There might even be a ruined quarter that she had yet to discover. Still, her little square of the world was unusually quiet. All she ever heard was birdsong. No sound of carriages, barkers, blows of hammers, or cries of babies. She’d never found a part of her new city—or any city—that was this quiet. Most important, she never heard the chimes of Grom Galimus.
They took me to the surrounding countryside, but where and why?
She tried to remember the night Villar grabbed her. So much of it remained muddled, like a nightmare recalled hours after waking. She’d witnessed Devon’s death. Villar had wanted her to see, but it wasn’t a matter of pride. The man wasn’t a professional, no expertly slit throat or precisely inserted blade. It’d been brutal and bloody. Villar had stabbed Devon repeatedly with a small knife. The violence and gore paralyzed her. Genny was no pampered debutante, and before becoming the newest member of the nobility, she often enjoyed gambling at cards and impressing men with her capacity for holding hard liquor, but she’d never been exposed to anything like that. Watching a man butchered close enough to feel the spray of his blood was more than enough to horrify. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The hood came next, a bag placed over her head and cinched tightly. Then she was shoved into a cart, covered with rough blankets, and off they went.
Too afraid to scream or cry, she cowered, something she hadn’t done since she was eight. At any moment, she was certain she’d be killed. If she’d been thinking, she might have taken note of the trip’s length, turns, bumps, or accompanying sounds, but all she could think of was the way the knife had sounded when plunging over and over into Devon’s chest. That and the gasping gurgle that came from his mouth. He’d been trying to say something, and Genny thought it might have been please stop, but she couldn’t be sure. When the cart had finally halted, she was carried quite a distance before being dropped into the cell. A metal collar was fastened around her neck, and a chain secured her to a wall. A door slammed, and she heard a lock click. A lock, not a bolt. She took note of that. While lying on cold stone with the bag still over her head, she heard her assailants talking, their voices muffled by the door. The memory of the quarrel was so vivid because it had provided hope. Genny could recall it word for word.
“Where did the blood come from?” the woman had asked, her tone full of fear.
“She wasn’t alone,” Villar replied.
“Who did you kill?” The woman’s tone had changed to anger.
“I have no idea, a courtier of some kind.”
“No one was supposed to get hurt!” she shouted.
“No one was supposed to be with her, either. He saw me. Did you want a witness?”
“This is bad.”
“It’s what it is. Deal with it.”
Genny clung to the most important line from that argument: No one was supposed to get hurt. If that was true, her death wasn’t inevitable; it might even be unlikely.
That first night, she had waited for hours, until certain she was alone, before finding the knots, untying the string, and pulling the hood off. She found herself in the small stone room, no window and only one door. Light from a small fire on the far side seeped underneath and around it, as did an awful vinegar odor. The door was new and very sturdy. The freshly cut wood still smelled of the forest, and sap dripped from knotholes. The collar around Genny’s neck was closed and fastened to the chain by a large iron padlock that hung on her chest like the gaudy pendant of a horrid necklace. The other end of the chain was bolted to the wall opposite the door. The restraint granted her full range of the room, but nothing more. There had been a pile of straw, which she assumed was meant to serve as her bed, but it had since been scattered and matted. She scooped it into a pile each night, but each morning it was strewn about, which made her wonder about her dreams. She couldn’t recall them, but was sure they weren’t pleasant. She had the bucket, the straw, and two surprisingly thick wool blankets. She lay on one; the other she wrapped around herself, tucking the corners down under her legs and shoulders. The cell was cold but, thanks to the blankets, not unbearable. She was able to sleep, and that was something.