Maybe that’s the only way I’ll be able to live.
As a well-kept secret.
Well, it’s a little late for that now.
And besides, living just feels like an ugly, messy, thankless job I never want to do again.
Once it’s evident that I can stand up on my own again, the guards release my arms and walk ahead, pulling me behind them. Most people won’t meet my eye as I pass—probably afraid that I will cast some kind of spell on them and cause their livestock to die or their children to grow third arms—but some of the braver bystanders lock eyes with me. I’m surprised to see not all of their faces exhibit fear or anger. A few show flashes of pity. Some even compassion.
These are the stares that are hardest to return.
The ones I want to shut out completely.
And then suddenly, without warning, something unbelievable catches my eye. I blink to refocus my vision but there’s no mistake. Far off in the distance, rising over the heads of hundreds of people, I see it.
I see … me.
It’s not like looking into a mirror. The likeness isn’t crisp and reflective. It’s grainy and pixilated and not quite real. But there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s my face. Long hair. Small, heart-shaped mouth. A slender nose. The only detail that’s missing is my purple eyes.
In fact, all the color is missing from my face. Every feature is in black-and-white.
It takes me a moment to realize exactly what I’m staring at. And once I do, everything—what I’m feeling, what I’m afraid of, what I anticipate—completely shifts.
The rules have been rewritten.
The game is over. And a new one has begun.
Because high in the sky, secured to a tall wooden post, under big block letters spelling out the words WITCH TRIAL, is a hand-drawn sketch of my face on thick parchment. And directly below it is a date:
THE 6TH OF OCTOBER, SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND NINE.
Today’s date.
An official document. A public record. Proof of where I am at this precise moment in time.
My heart hammers in my chest as I hastily peer into the crowd, this time with a new purpose, a new resolve.
They’re here. They have to be here. There’s no way they would miss an opportunity like this. An opportunity to pinpoint my exact location.
I admit, the timing would be perfect. Zen is gone. There is no one left to protect me. And in my current state—hungry, tired, weak, beaten down, hopeless, chained—they could take me easily. I can’t see myself putting up much of a fight.
Fight.
The word punches me in the chest and I instantly think of Zen. I hear him screaming it in the street. Echoes from days ago. When the townspeople were trying to take me. When he could barely breathe. His cries reverberate through my memory.
“Fight, Sera!”
“Don’t let them win!”
“You’re stronger than they are!”
But how can I fight? I can’t win. Not when my gene is dormant and my necklace is gone—probably destroyed. Not when the only thing I’ve ever had to fight for is dead.
I’m tired of fighting. Tired of running. Tired of having to.
Maybe Diotech appearing and taking me away isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least then I wouldn’t have to run anymore. They could erase all of this from my mind. I could forget any of it happened. That I ever loved him. That he ever died to be with me.
I could just be the submissive, emotionless machine they always wanted.
It would be easy. So very easy.
I feel pressure on the chains around my wrists and realize I’ve stopped walking and the guard is yanking me back to the present moment.
I continue to scan the crowd, searching for evidence of them. But I soon realize that I don’t even know what I’m looking for. They could be anywhere. Anyone.
Would they send the same two agents they sent last time? The frightening man with the creepy scar slicing down his face? Would Alixter himself appear to bring me back?
If they sent someone new, there’s no way I would ever recognize him. Or her. Plus, they would be smart about it. Diligent. The agent would blend in completely. Disguised in seventeenth-century clothing and a seventeenth-century hairstyle.
Which means the only way I’ll know them is when they make their move to apprehend me.
But so far, no one has.
We’re almost halfway through the crowd now, on the way back to the prison, and there has been no sign of anything unusual. Perhaps they’re waiting for me to be alone. Surely that would be simpler. Create less of a commotion.
An arm juts out in front of me and I release an involuntary shriek, momentarily quieting the crowd in the near vicinity.
I glance down and see that the arm belongs to a small body, fighting its way through the swarm of larger people blocking its view. When it finally makes its way through, I breathe out a sigh. The first tingle of sensation to make its way into my limbs since I was carried from the courtroom climbs tenaciously up my arms and legs.