I will not forget her face. None of the other faces are right. They’re all bad. I hate them, I hate them. CHAPTER 23 Franc comes after the storm, having taken shelter in a nearby home. The blacksmith’s apprentice, who also survived the marauders, lets us load Allemas into his wagon and drive him to the house, where Franc and I haul him up the stairs and lay him in my bed. He hits the thin mattress hard, knocking something off of it. It hits the floor under the bed with a thud. I think it must be a book of mine or some other knickknack, but when I crouch to look in the darkness beneath the bed frame, I only see clumps of dust, a hairpin, and a piece of sketching charcoal. I lift my head and lean on my good leg. “Allemas?” I ask. His eyes are closed, but his breathing is steady. I’ve never seen him sleep before. He looks almost . . . innocent. Almost. “He’s done this before?” Franc asks. I nod. “Not this bad, though.” He huffs. “I’ll pull up the chair and keep an eye on him, case something happens.
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