The Winterians around her are not so certain. Most look like Conall, dark and angry, curious about this new visitor but not wasting energy on any hope of escape.
The woman pushes forward. “There were originally twenty-five of you, yes? Last we heard, the number was ten.”
She waits, and I know she wants news of the outside world, of the survivors and how many are left to lead the charge against Spring. Eight, I almost say. But no, it’s seven now. And who knows how many others died in the battle for Bithai? Dendera, maybe. Finn. Greer or Henn. Maybe Spring reached the city and even Alysson is—
My chin falls. “Seven. Maybe fewer.”
Quiet muttering ripples through the crowd. The number makes their frowns deepen, and I can feel their blame flare higher. How we all let them down.
The woman lifts my chin, smiling like nothing’s changed. “The prince?”
A bolt of agony hits me. Mather. I’ve managed not to think about him too much since I got here. His final, parting scream echoes through my mind, desperate and petrified, as he was dragged back into Bithai while Herod stood over me….
“Alive,” I whisper. “Running for his life, but alive.”
The woman nods. She hooks her arm through mine and turns me toward the crowd, my back to Nessa and a grumbling Conall.
“I’m Deborah,” the woman says, leading me to the center of the room. We’re surrounded by Winterians on all sides, a sea of white hair, blue eyes, and wariness mixed with some small spurts of hope. “I was the city master of Jannuari. Of the Abril Winterians left, I’m the highest-ranking.” Deborah pauses like she’s waiting for me to respond.
I adjust my arm still hooked in hers, fingers stretching through the air. It’s warm down here, too warm, and I can feel all those eyes watching me. So I ask the only question I can. “What do you expect me to do?”
Tell me how to save you. I don’t know what to do.
Deborah is quiet for a moment, her face distant like she’s working through a plan in her head. She looks away from me, toward the crowd, and squeezes my hand.
“This is Meira,” she announces. “She is one of the twenty-five who escaped Angra the night Winter fell. Living proof that his evil is not as absolute as he would have us believe.”
I stifle a moan. It’s exactly what Sir told us. That our lives matter simply because we exist—living, breathing evidence that Winter survived. Sir would love to see this cave they built and know they created some small freedom in Angra’s prison. He’d find a way to turn their hatred into adoration and, better still, find a way to get them out of here.
He should be with them. Him or Mather. Not me.
“She has come to us as a beacon, like the others who passed through Abril—”
Gregg and Crystalla probably stood in this exact spot, probably toiled at the wall. And they died. No one here knows more than that they left—that Angra took them from the camp and they never came back.
“—a light to shine hope into our misery,” Deborah continues. “Her presence signifies an awakening, a reminder we so desperately need that we are more than Angra’s slaves!”
The crowd murmurs to themselves. Those who look at me with hope start to smile, start to nod, but the rest simply shrug off Deborah’s speech like they’ve heard it all before. Like her words are as empty as this room, some hollow and forgotten place buried in the earth. Just another trembling sword raised against the greater might of Spring.
Deborah lifts my hand into the air, her old face ten years younger just in her joy. I can feel her words coming, bubbling up with her hope, Nessa’s hope, all those fragile faces waiting for her outburst to come.
“We are Winter!” Deborah shouts.
The same phrase Conall said moments ago. Its meaning stokes the hopeful ones into cheers, a handful of voices against the doubtful scorn of the others. Deborah has to see them, the ones who glower and whisper while their countrymen cheer. She has to know the danger of false hope by now. It’s cruel of her to give them this; it’s cruel of her to tell me I will meet any other fate than death here.
I yank my hand down and Deborah faces me. “No.” My response is instant, thoughtless, urged by something cowering in a corner of my soul. “No. I’m just—I’m only one girl. What do you even think I can do? It isn’t fair of you to let them—”
Deborah cocks an eyebrow. “Fair would be none of this ever happening to begin with. Fair would be you living out a carefree existence in Jannuari, with a warm bed and a loving family. Nothing is fair, Meira.”
I step back. All of this reminds me so much of Sir that my chest aches. I don’t want that life as much as I should. I want….