The floor became bare, cold stone, very much like the Aid Society’s. For a moment the feverish thought that it was the Aid Society flittered through her mind, that somehow they were all in on this together, but that didn’t make much sense. And she doubted Lisha was that good an actor. Someone shoved her down into a wooden seat and yanked the sack off her head. Her eyes watered so much she could barely see, and even after several heaving breaths all she could smell and taste was cinnamon. “Stay still,” the man in front of her—the one who’d first approached—commanded. “So this is what killed Jerald?” someone else—the second voice from the carriage—said, tone bitter. “Did a hell of a number on him.” “Time to pay attention,” the first one said, slapping her cheek twice lightly and snapping his fingers in front of her face. “How did you get into Jerald’s room?”
