“No…” He stared at the bundle, his mind reeling. “No, it can’t be…” Guilt surged through him. Why didn’t we go? Just leave, run away. The answer seemed ridiculous. Loyalty? To Mya? He lurched forward. “Who?” “One of them.” Tika’s voice was strange, as if he was about to be sick. “Wiggen killed him.” Ponce nodded to the front door where Josie was scrubbing at bloodstains. “You should go to her, Lad.” “She’s not…” Injured, lying in a pool of blood… He didn’t wait for an answer, but sprinted up the steps, past Josie, and through the door. The common room was empty, so he went straight to the kitchen. Inside he gaped at the incongruous scene. Beside the table strewn with flour and dough and bowls of fresh berries ready to be made into pies, Forbish sat on a stool, his white apron stained red with the blood that dripped down the side of his face. Wiggen stood over him with a needle and thread, finishing the last stitch in the gash. She looked up, and Lad saw her tear-streaked cheeks, but it was her eyes that paralyzed him. Never had he seen such pain and horror in their depths, even when a thug held a knife to her throat.
