They didn?t know what to do with her.

She didn?t seem crazy. She was calm and coherent. But there were holes in her story.

She couldn?t or wouldn?t say what happened to the body. She couldn?t or wouldn?t say what happened to the murder weapon. She couldn?t explain why there were no reports of a missing man at any precinct that matched the timing she reported. She was confessing to a crime that, as far as they knew, never actually occurred.

But she presented herself to them as if she were checking into a hotel. As if she expected a long stay. So they accommodated her.

They took her phone. They took her clothes. The 6th Precinct had no separate facilities for women, and they didn?t think it was a good idea to put her in with the men. So they sent a messenger for an urgent transport to a more permanent placement. By nightfall she was being processed at Dragon?s Gate Gaol.

She came with nothing, but they knew she was rich. There were signs. Her perfect teeth. Her manicure. The careful way she stood and sat as if she were afraid that touching things would make her dirty. She looked like a good opportunity. For bribes.

They had no trouble placing her. She was human, and as far as they could tell she did not have a power or skill that would pose a threat or otherwise necessitated magical binding or wards. She was a low-security risk.

She arrived with almost no paperwork. All the file said was ?under investigation by Detective Inspector Jowan Teague.? It didn?t matter to them. They had a prisoner. And they had an empty cell.

At the precinct, DI Teague, shuffled Lucy?s file from one part of his desk to the other. It was low priority. He would look into it when he could.

Dair,

It?s strange how life can change so suddenly and so completely that you can?t even remember what life was before the change. Life before prison already seems so distant. But I?m alright, and you shouldn?t worry about me.

I have settled into a rhythm here that makes the days pass more easily. I?m assigned to work in the laundry. At first, I thought it would be pleasant to spend my days splashing about in warm water. But that isn?t quite how it is. The water is blisteringly hot, the washing is done by hand, and by the time my work is complete, I am a hot sweaty mess, desperate for the cool air of my cell again.

But in the end, you and Antonia were right. There is something strangely satisfying about being useful. No matter how difficult the work.

I also get time to exercise and socialize in the courtyard each day (though I admit to being a bit shy with the other prisoners so far). I have plenty of time alone too. Perhaps too much.

But even though I am alone so much more than I was on the outside, I feel none of the crippling loneliness I did then. I think, maybe, that the person I was most lonely for was myself. The self that I had lost. I think now, finally, I have accepted that that self is gone. And facing my new self, taking responsibility for what I?ve done and who I am now, is maybe the start of something. Forgiveness? Maybe. I don?t know.

All I know is that I can sleep now. So maybe there is hope for me. Maybe there might be something for me, some life after I?ve served my sentence, however long that sentence might be.

None of that, none of what I?ve said, means that I don?t miss you. I miss you more than I can say. In the short time of our friendship(?) I think you have been the most important friendship of my life. Although maybe all this time alone leaves me overly sentimental.

Speaking of friendship, please keep an eye (ha!) on Antonia for me. I know she and I parted on bad terms. But I still think about her. And yes, she?s tough and strong and doesn?t need anything from anyone. But maybe she does a little, or maybe she will someday and I don?t want her to be alone then.

This letter is long---I have too much time on my hands---but I hope you?ll forgive me for it. I hope you?ll write and tell me all about the goings on at the Inn. Give Fin and Gem and Jack kisses for me. Drink a shot with Cris for me. And mess up Cianan?s hair.

They allow visitors on Tuesdays and Sundays. I hope sometime you might come see me. But I understand if you don?t. I promise, at least, that future letters will be shorter.

Yours,
Lucy

P.S. If you do come visit, can you bring me my reading glasses? They said I could have them if someone brought them to me.

Colin,

I should have written this letter long ago. I should have already told you what I?m going to tell you. But I guess it?s never too late for the truth.

Last March, I killed a stranger in an alley. I stabbed him with the knife you gave me, and I left him there to die alone. I was frightened and he was following me. But I was also drunk. I could say it was an accident, but I know that I at least meant to hurt him. I acted without thinking. I acted with little care for the life of another. A life that I took needlessly.

And then I hid it. I was afraid to tell you. Afraid to admit what I?d done. I told myself that you?d be angry and disgusted with me. I told myself that you wouldn?t be able to look at me again.

But that?s not what I was really afraid of. I was afraid it wouldn?t mean anything to you at all. I was afraid you would brush it aside, and that it wouldn?t change anything for you. For me, everything had changed.

I?m not the woman you fell in love with. I think you loved me because I was fun, because I had nothing to worry about, because I was light. But that lightness is gone now. I killed two people in the alley that night.

Keeping all this from you was unfair. I didn?t give you a chance to be there for me the way I needed. But I don?t think I could have done what I needed to do if I was still with you.

I?m sorry for my lies. I?m sorry for the way we ended. I still love you, even though I know it can never be.

Always,
Lucy

A simple white envelope containing a letter is sent to Dragon's Gate Gaol addressed to Miss Lucy Mitford. The letter reads:


Dear Miss Lucy,

I am sorry to hear about what has befallen you. I don?t know what to say, other than write this letter to let you know someone is thinking about you. I know it must be lonely there, so let me tell you about some of the things happening around here.

I saw your friend Candy a few months ago. She seemed as feisty as ever. Didn?t say much about where she had been or what she had been up to after disappearing for eight months. But we were never that close anyway, even though we were teammates. I tried to be a friend to her. It seems I failed. Maybe she?ll return one day.

I recently became Overlord of the Duel of Swords. That?s the top dueler in that particular sport. It?s kept me busy. I?ve been going around the city doing public appearances, charity work, and occasionally helping the Town Watch. I seem to have acquired a ?noble steed? in the form of Alfred, a rather grumpy unicorn. He likes to make fun of me for my particular hobbies, like reading comic books or some of the movies I watch. Hey, I liked ?Point Break?. There?s nothing wrong with Patrick Swayze, is there?

Have you found things to keep you occupied? Maybe I could send you some books to read. Not comic books, don?t worry. I know that?s an acquired taste. Although there is this one character you might like (with her red hair she looks like you) named Black Widow. She?s a super spy and knows all these different forms of martial combat.

Okay, I?ll stop now.

Here?s hoping this letter finds you well and in good spirits.


Sincerely,

Gren Blockman
Overlord of the Duel of Swords

The envelope that arrived to Dragon's Gate Gaol was small and black, a white rectangular sticker centered in the middle of it held the name Lucy Mitford printed in black text. Inside the envelope was a similarly small piece of white paper folded in half once, the text again printed rather than being handwritten. It didn't say much so there was no need to waste paper. It read:

I'm sorry how things were left.
You're a strong, independent woman.
I respect you. I miss you.

- A.S.

Dear Gren,

I can't thank you enough for your kind and thoughtful letter. I really enjoy hearing from my friends, and your letter made me smile.

Congratulations on your achievement in becoming Overlord of the Duel of Swords! I don't know that much about it, but I know from my friendship with Candy that it's not an easy thing to do, let alone to keep. I hope you enjoy it for as long as you have it or hold the position(?).

Also, you have a unicorn!? Even after all the unusual things I've seen here, the idea of a unicorn still seems kind of wacky. Is it really a unicorn? Like with a real horn and everything? Are you sure it's not just a dressed up horse? Is it white? Should I be referring to it as a 'he'? This is confusing.

I have a crow that visits me. He hasn't told me his name yet, though my friend Dair says that I'm supposed to name him myself. He comes to visit me at the window of my cell, and I save some of my breakfast biscuits for him. Eventually, and perhaps soon, they're going to have to shutter the window because of the weather. I don't know when I'll see my crow then, and it makes me a little sad to think about.

I have spent my time in jail mostly meditating and reading. I also work in the laundry, which is hard but satisfying. And the colder it gets in my cell, the more I look forward to the warm relief of the sweltering laundry room. But I do go through books pretty quickly and I would love it if you could send me something. I have never read comic books to be honest, but I am open to anything. And as winter bears down, I have to admit, it might be nice to read something funny.

Anyhow, I hope you're well, and I hope you'll keep writing when you have the time.

Sincerely,
Lucy

P.S. There is nothing wrong with Patrick Swayze. Can I suggest Road House for your next viewing?

A,

I'm sorry how things were left, too. I am strong. Stronger than I realized. My mistake was not admitting when I felt weak, when I needed support, when I needed the strength of my friends to help me. Asking for help is not a weakness.

Please watch over our friends for me. Over the coming years they will need protection, maybe even from themselves. But remember to treat the ones you love with kindness, with a little bit of gentleness. Not everyone has armor as strong as yours around their hearts.

Lucy

She sealed the small envelope and hid it in her cell to await Dair's next visit so that he could deliver it by hand.

?A spell is a prayer?? Lucy struck the match, then lowered the flame to the candlewick.

?Of course it is.? Griselda watched the cold cell fill with the flickering candlelight once more, watching the light play on the younger woman?s red hair. ?What is the purpose of prayer??

Lucy considered a moment, retaking her seat on the bed across from the older woman, pulling the red flannel blanket across her lap. ?I guess--to ask for something? To say--to say thank you??

?Yes. Help me. Thank you. You are greater than I.? Griselda nodded. ?These are the three purposes of prayer. Request. Gratitude. Wonder.?

?And so a spell is a prayer of request??

?Yes.?

?Mm.? Lucy pressed her lips together.

?And who do you pray to??

?I don?t know.?

?But you have done spells??

?Oh. Well the book said to pray to the Great Mother.?

?Who is this Great Mother??

?I guess I don?t know.? Lucy shrugged. ?But the book said to name three women I admired.?

?And you named??

?Jackie, Audrey, and Diana.? At Griselda?s blank look, Lucy elaborated. ?Jackie Kennedy, Audrey Hepburn, and Princess Diana.?

?I do not think I know of these women. But they are important to you??

?Well--?

?I see.?

Lucy was quiet a moment. ?I pray to god sometimes.?

?But you do not believe this god of yours can provide??

?I don?t know.? Lucy struggled with the question, tears rushing to her eyes. ?I feel so--so alone.?

?A god is not a friend. It does not keep your company or answer when you call. A god connects you to the power of the earth. It tells you there are forces greater than yourself. It teaches humility and grace.?

When Lucy could not control her tears, Griselda leaned towards her, stroking a hand through her hair. ?You must humble yourself before your god. Humble yourself, child. Only then will you be open to the power your god can provide.?

The crow hopped a couple paces across the snow, tipped its head, and then hopped once more to land on Lucy?s knee. She sat in the courtyard, her back against the stone wall, trying to pretend that she wasn?t sitting in the snow.

She was alone in the courtyard, but for the guard keeping watch by the gate. Once the snow had come, most of the prisoners had chosen to forgo the hour outdoors. But armed with the hooded sweatshirt that Fin had given her, she decided to see her crow.

She crumbled a hard biscuit into her hand, then held it out. The crow tipped its head again, then bent to snap up the crumbs with its beak, careful not to nip her palm.

?I miss Dair.? Her words were soft. The crow paused its meal and looked at her, raising its beak, observing her one eye at a time.

Jack had insisted that she wasn?t alone. Even though Dair had gone away. ?He is not a true hermit,? Jack had said. ?He is afraid and confused.?

Lucy held her hand out and waited. The crow bent its head. She gently caressed his head with her fingers.

Fin had come. In place of Dair. He had brought gifts that he and Antonia had picked out together. Magazines and books. Helpful things. Thoughtful things. But long after he was gone, she couldn?t stop thinking about the earliest part of his visit. The gentle way he held her. The soft kiss he pressed to her hair. The way he tried to comfort her.

?He was afraid of hurtin? us, he would no? even let me hug him goodbye,? Fin had said. ?He would no? have left if it were no? serious.?

Lucy closed her eyes.

?Ah, sweet lass??

She had visions of fire. Dair on fire, surrounded by flames he could not control. How had they found themselves in such a situation? Each in their own prison. Hers a prison of ice. His a prison of fire. He was so far in so many ways. He was so far. He was gone.

The crow pecked at her hand. She opened her eyes. It tipped its head. She looked at it a moment, then bent her head. The crow pressed its soft feathery head against her chin.

Lucy whispered softly. ?I miss him.?

The crow hopped back from her. It looked at her. And then Lucy's crow took flight.

Shadow. He said his name was Shadow. Lucy made short strokes of her pencil, sketching the shape of the man?s pointed ears from her memory. Then her pencil shifted, and she sketched the shape of his eyes. She couldn?t add color to the crude drawing, but she could picture his warm amber eyes in her mind.

And she could hear his voice too.

?I am a baron of this city. I could probably arrange for you to be held somewhere far less unsanitary. At least, I could get you better food. What say you? Do you prefer to suffer??

Do you prefer to suffer? Lucy looked up from the page and around her cell. There continued to be a steady weeping in one corner of her cell where a leak let water drip down the stone walls. There was a constant draft from the window that was covered only by wooden shutters. And she was fairly certain that she had gone smell-blind to the scent of her chamber pot in the corner.

At least, I could get you better food. Lucy had grown accustomed to the meager food in the prison---flavorless gruels, burnt beans, boiled potatoes, hard crackers, and stale biscuits. She could not remember the last time she had eaten something fresh and green. She could not remember the last time she had eaten something hearty and warm.

But she could not bring herself to trust a stranger. She could not allow herself to hope on the word of a stranger. And Shadow was a stranger.

She had written a letter to Cris the moment she had returned from her meeting with Shadow: ?I?m afraid he?s going to cause trouble for me here at the prison. Do you know him? Can you find out about him for me??

And Cris? response had been less than reassuring. ?I know very little of ?Shadow?... If his presence makes you uncomfortable, simply refuse contact with him. I thought that prisoners at least retained that right.?

But she didn?t think she did have that right. ?I?m not suffering,? she had said to Shadow. I?m not suffering.

?On your feet, Priestess.?

Lucy looked up from her sketch at the sound of the guard at her cell door. She pushed to her feet and moved to stand at the far wall where she was always to wait for the opening of the door. The locks released, and the door swung open, bringing with it the scent of something warm and meaty. The guard carried a dinner tray with him, but instead of the usual cold meal, a bowl of rich stew steamed invitingly. Lucy watched the guard?s progress towards her desk where he set down the tray like usual.

But unlike usual, instead of instantly retreating, the guard let the cell door swing shut behind him, leaving him alone in the room with her. ?It seems you?ve got friends in high places, Priestess.? He pulled the desk chair back, the legs scraping the stone floor, and settled his bulk down on it, angled to face her. ?Someone?s asked us to send you some better meals.?

Lucy eyed the stew from her spot against the wall. Her mouth watered and she wet her lips. There was bread on the tray too. Not the hard, stale biscuits of her normal meals, but a split roll, warm, and spread with melting butter. ?Who--??

?Oh, I believe you know who. Your friend. The baron.?

?The baron.? Lucy repeated the words as if she didn?t know. But she knew. Shadow. He meant Shadow.

The guard followed her eyes to the tray of food. ?Looks nice, don?t it??

She nodded, taking a deep breath of its savory scent.

?Yeah, it looks real nice.? He leered at her. ?And I think I?m gonna enjoy it.? He picked up the warm bread and tore off a piece, dunked it into the thick stew to sop up the meaty juices, and then he took a large bite. ?Mmm. Delicious.?

Lucy stood against the wall of her cell, watching the guard as he tucked into the stew, dribbling it into his beard, the crusty bread leaving crumbs over the front of his shirt. He took his time with the warm meal, savoring the chunks of beef, the soft pieces of potato, the tender carrots, all under Lucy?s watchful, covetous eye.

At first she thought he would just eat some of it, and leave her the leftovers. But after twenty minutes, she watched him wipe the bowl clean with the last piece of bread and swallow it whole.

?Mmm.? He leaned back in the chair and patted his stomach. Then he got to his feet. ?It?s good to have friends like the baron, ain?t it?? He picked up the tray with the now empty bowl. ?He?ll be pleased to know how much you enjoy the better meals he?s sending, won?t he?? Lucy remained silent. ?Won?t he??

The repeated question carried the hint of a threat, and Lucy nodded. ?Yes.?

?Yes, indeed.? He moved for the door of her cell, pulling it open to let himself out. ?Good to have friends. Real good.?

Lucy stood against the wall staring at the closed door while she listened to the sound of the locks sliding home again. I?m not suffering.

There was nothing to do but watch. Day in and day out, he watched the world go on without him.

Mostly he watched her. Lucy. The routine of prison life. Back and forth down the damp stone halls. Sweating in the laundry. Shivering in the courtyard with her crow. Meditating in her cell.

He watched the way she adjusted. The way she learned to hide extra food in a hole in the wall. The way she stole loose pieces of fabric from the laundry to tuck into her socks for extra warmth. The way she tore up the books she had been sent and stuffed the pages into the cracks around the shutters and in the stone walls. The way she secretly traded her meager belongings with other prisoners for things she needed like salve for her cracked and chapped hands and lips.

But Reginald never showed himself to anyone. He hid from the world, even as he watched it, hiding in the narrow space between the land of the living and the land of the dead. He lingered in the shadows, waiting for Lucy?s friends, compelled to go where she could not.

He hid in the dark corners of the Inn watching Jack. He watched the loving way he had with his friends. The way he cradled the pretty little blonde in his arms. The gentle words he used to soothe her. He knew that Jack watched over Lucy too, his crow giving her friendship and comfort daily. And he knew that Lucy need only call for Jack and he would come to her. But she never called. He watched Jack, and he watched Lucy, and he couldn?t understand why Lucy never called.

He followed Cris too. Tailing him from his weekly visits to Lucy?s cell. He watched Cris struggle, not wanting to leave his friend, but leaving her all the same. He watched the toll it took, the stiff way Cris held himself when the guard followed him to the exit, the tension in his arms as he retrieved his weapons, the tightening of his jaw. He knew Lucy need only ask and Cris would take her away with him. But she never asked. He watched Cris, and he watched Lucy, and he couldn?t understand why Lucy never asked.

He followed Cris to Inspector Teague?s office too. And he listened as the two exchanged words. And he watched as Cris left. But he stayed behind. He stayed with the Inspector. And he watched as the Inspector finally looked at her case file. And he watched as the Inspector pulled her photo free of the paper clip. And he followed the Inspector into the Market District, and watched as he showed it to innkeepers and barmaids and beggars. He watched Inspector Teague, and he watched Lucy, and he watched as the investigation of her confession, and his death, finally began.

?Have you been to see Lucy?? Cris looked into the shadows of the porch of the Red Dragon Inn where Lucy?s ghost was trying to hide.

Reginald stayed quiet a moment, like he wasn?t sure if he wanted to answer. When he did, it was almost shy. ?Spend me nights with her. Some of me days.?

Cris offered the ghost the illusion of privacy by looking elsewhere. ?Has she any idea??

?Nah. Course not.?

?Even if she'd very little idea what to say to you, I still think she'd like the opportunity.?

?She don't need me, mate.? He shook his head, and then looked over at Cris. ?She--she don't have to be there.?

?I did not say she did. But I do know that she does not need to be there.?

?Why don't you tell her that?? Reginald looked over at Cris, all accusation and anger. ?Jus'--jus' tell her--tell her anything. Tell her I passed on--tell her it's alright now.?

?Do you not think I have?? Tension came to Cris? expression and did not leave. ?But every individual handles their own burdens differently. Their guilt and their pain affect them, all, in myriad ways. The one she needs to hear these things from, Reginald, is you.?

?You think I should appear to her and--and try to convince her I'm a bloody angel or some shit?? He rolled his eyes at the thought, then mimicked the scene. ?All is well, lovey, I'm in bleeding heaven, you can go home now.?

?No, that is not what I said.?

?I know what you said.?

?From what I understand, the last contact she had with you was the night you disappeared. At her hand, presumably. She's mentioned she hears you, but that she can't be sure.? Cris looked over this time. ?No doubt that the notion your rage at your own demise does nothing but add to the remorse over an action she should not be punished for carrying out in the first place. Do you hate her??

?Aye.? He answered quickly enough, but it wasn?t convincing.

?You lie.?

?Look mate, it ain't my job to make her feel better about what she done.? With the ghost frustrated and angry, the floorboards of the porch started to rattle.

?Then neither is it your duty to instruct her friends on how to handle the situation.? Cris felt the rattling up through his boots, tremors in locked knees. The loops of electrum chain at his right hip whispered against each other. ?You say that you hate her. Explain, then, why it is you are still here. She has voluntarily locked herself away in a dungeon fit only for shitting in. She starves and she freezes, and she deals with the abominable solitude that only guilt can give.?

The more Cris spoke, the more intense the rattling became. Cris had no salt on his person. The closest available supply was behind the bar with some limes. But Cris didn?t stop. ?There is very little chance she will ever be released, and she is doing all of this for you. For what she has done, what she thinks she has done, to you.?

Reginald tried to look impassive, but Cris? words were landing and landing hard. The porch was rattling so violently, snow began sifting through the cracks in the roof. Cris moved his hand closer to the collection of knives on his leg. There was not much they could do against Reginald, but the comfort they provided was not for the ghost to share.

?If you truly despised her, you would spend every second of your existence with your mouth to her ear, whispering to her neverending sonnets of her plight. And yet you've the audacity to moan over it. Whatever feelings you carry for her, they are not hate. Do not lie to me and attempt to make me believe it.?

Snow broke and slid off the porch roof in sheets. Reginald looked over at Cris one last time, and then stalked off without a response, his ghostly form passing right through the rails before he disappeared into the dark.

When the ghost was gone, the porch sighed its relief, and Cris did too.

?You?re looking well.?

Lucy looked up from her washboard, letting the soaked canvas shirt she held rest against the edge of the tub. ?Sorry??

Madge stood in front of her, her brown eyes sharp with accusation. Lucy looked around, searching for a friendly face amongst the other laundry women as they closed around her. But there was none. She had never made friends in the laundry, though she had tried.

?Did you think we wouldn?t notice? Did you think we wouldn?t see it?? Madge backed Lucy up against her washing tub, and Lucy released the shirt she?d been holding, letting it sink back into the cold water.

?I don?t know what you?re talking about.? Lucy looked towards the door, where the guard usually stood. But instead, the youngest of their number, a girl they called Mouse, lingered there keeping watch.

?Did you think it would look like a coincidence? The guard on your hall is replaced, and no one can get anything in or out of here. Except for you. You and the old bag. Suddenly you two are the only ones with something to trade.?

?I didn?t---?

?Cigarettes and apples and magazines and all manner of nicety while all the rest of us got nothing.? Madge edged closer, until Lucy had nowhere to go.

?I don?t know---?

Madge?s palm cracked against Lucy?s cheek as she smacked her. Lucy gasped and reached out for something to hold onto, the surprise of the slap sending her stumbling. But all she got was Madge?s wrist and she was immediately swatted away. ?You gonna try to deny it??

Lucy?s heart pounded in her chest, her eyes darted from face to face, looking for any hint of understanding or kindness, but all she saw was anger.

?You think you?re better than us? Is that it?? Madge shoved her back. Lucy hit the tub, the cold water sloshing. She reached out to try to push Madge back, but the woman grabbed her arm and twisted it, forcing Lucy to turn. Madge held her pinned against the tub, the edge cutting into Lucy?s stomach. ?You think you?re better than us, but you?re just another fucking cunt with nothing to hope for.?

With her free hand, Madge grabbed the back of Lucy?s neck and shoved her down, plunging her head beneath the surface of the water. The icy cold came as a shock, and Lucy screamed, releasing her breath in big heaving bubbles. She grabbed the edge of the tub with her free hand and flailed behind her, trying to pull herself free.

Madge wrapped her hand in Lucy?s braid and yanked her back out of the water. Lucy came up coughing, choking, the cold water pouring down her front.

?Still think you?re special, cunt??

Lucy shook her head, sobbing, her head pulled back. ?I don?t, I don?t---?

Madge shoved her back into the water. Lucy braced with her free hand on the tub. The floor was soaked. Lucy tried to get her footing, but she couldn?t. Madge kept shoving her down, leveraging her body over Lucy?s to keep Lucy beneath the water. Lucy held her breath as long as she could this time, but Madge was determined and before long, she screamed again, releasing the last bit of air in her lungs.

Madge didn?t let up though. Lucy jerked. She clawed at the tub. She was going to drown. In a moment, she would try to take a breath and her lungs would fill with icy cold water. And she would drown. In a laundry tub.

Lucy raised her free hand and clamped it over Madge?s on the back of her braid. She closed her eyes beneath the water. She felt the water around her, she felt the air on the back of her neck, she felt the stone beneath her feet. She felt the barrier between her and the elements. She drew into herself. Her hand tightened on Madge?s. And then Lucy released her power.

An electric spark snapped from Lucy?s hand to Madge?s hand. Blue lightning whipped across the water, from tub to floor and back again, exploding in the small room with a loud crack.

Madge collapsed, her unconscious head hitting the stone floor with a thud. Lucy pulled her head from the water and dragged in a deep breath, coughing and spluttering. Someone was screaming. The laundry women were backing away from Lucy.

As the guards came rushing at Mouse still standing sentry at the door, the young girl shouted at them. ?There was an accident! It was an accident!?

I'm no dream, lass.

Lucy opened her eyes. She could hear Dair?s voice in her mind. The warm grumble. The Scottish lilt. God, how she had missed him. And suddenly, there he had been. Sitting beside her. Holding her hand. His visit so surprising that she thought she?d been dreaming.

Ye dinna mean to die in here, do you?

She stood in her cell watching the fire in her brazier. Flames licked at the edges of the small kettle she had set in the coal to heat. But she could not stop thinking of Dair. Her feelings for him were too tangled to make much sense. She longed for him as much when he was gone as when he was right beside her.

You are the fire.

His final words. An echo of her own. Something she had written to him months before.

Lucy looked down at the mug in her hand. The bottom held the fragrant leaves of tea Fin had brought her. She had been meting it out slowly, using it to soothe herself. But it wasn?t enough. She had been trapped in her cell without break for days, ever since the incident in the laundry. She was stir crazy. And she couldn?t stop thinking about Dair.

Lucy turned the mug over on the table, dropping the leaves to the desk, emptying it. Then she fumbled to the bottom of her stationery box where she had hidden the packet Griselda gave her. Special tea. For when she needed to escape, she had said. Lucy shook the dried leaves into her mug and looked down at it.

You are the fire.

She filled the mug with hot water from the kettle and watched as it began to steep. Water turning a greenish brown. The scent unappealing. Earthy. Dirty. Lucy closed her eyes.

You are the fire.

Then she lifted the mug to her lips, and she drank.

Lucy gasped for breath and opened her eyes. The water was gone. The storm of visions was over.

The hard stone of her prison cell was beneath her body, under her hands, under her head.

She tried to rise. But she wasn?t on the floor. She was on the ceiling. Looking down at her cell below. Cot, table, door, all looking back at her as if suspended from above.

The room flickered in the darkness, lightning crackling around the small space. Electric surges snapped and licked, making every bit of metal hum and sing.

She could feel the power of it surrounding her, her body impervious to the violence of the biting bolts. She was the conductor, her body soaring.

With another gasp she reached out for control, trying to rein in her power, trying to subdue it the way she had taught herself the last several months. But the power was wild, like a genie uncorked from a thousand years in a bottle and unwilling to return. It was free.

Her heart pounded. Her breath coming in pants. She tried to move from the ceiling. Tried to move any part of her body. She couldn?t.

She dragged in a big breath. And then she screamed.

"JACK!"

The flickering candlelight danced over the blank page in front of Lucy. In the darkness, Lucy?s prison cell felt large, so much larger than it had ever felt before. Because the tiny cell somehow had to contain the vast emptiness that Finlay Mackenzie had left behind after his visit.

Lucy closed her eyes and tipped her head. He was always so close to her when he was with her. Always holding her, hugging her, connecting her to him. Making her human again. It made her ache to let him go.

And she worried for him. She worried for his broken heart. For his insistence that he didn?t deserve to be happy. That for the great multitude of his sins, only a few of which he shared, that he deserved the pain that had made a home in his heart.

She had seen herself in him. Seen herself in that certainty. In that absolute certainty. Certainty that his punishment and his pain was deserved. Hadn?t she been saying that, over and over, to Cris and Jack and Dair and anyone who tried to convince her otherwise? That she deserved to be in prison. That she deserved to be punished. That she didn?t deserve happiness. Hadn?t she been saying that, over and over, to herself?

What fools they both were. She and Finlay Mackenzie. Torturing themselves. When life was so beautiful. When life was so forgiving. When there was a whole world of opportunity. To begin again. To try again. To be better.

She had never seen it until she saw it in him. She had never seen it in herself. But Fin held up a mirror to her, in his way, and she couldn?t deny it any longer.

She was done.

Lucy looked down at the blank page before her. She picked up the pen. And she began to write.

Mr. Isaak Ames, Esq.,

I am writing today to seek your help. I have made a terrible mistake, and since you helped me before, I?m hoping you?ll let me engage you once again.

In October of last year, in a moment of confusion and weakness, I confessed to a grave crime...

?I will miss you, child. If you go.?

?I could help you.? Lucy whispered to Griselda, the two women huddled in a snowy corner of the courtyard, a stolen moment between the friends. ?I could ask my lawyer to help you too.?

?Nothing can be done.? Griselda shook her head, stroking her fingers over the younger woman?s hair.

?Of course--of course something can be done.? Lucy shook her head. ?You said it yourself. People are only here if they want to be.?

?People are here if they submit.?

?Then why--?

?Because I submit.?

?But why?? Lucy searched her friend?s face, trying to make sense of her. ?What did you do that you deserve to be here? That you deserve to die here??

Griselda sighed softly. ?So long, you have not asked. But now. Now you ask.?

?Tell me.?

?It is not what I have done--?

?Then tell me.?

?--it is the how that matters.? Griselda drew in a breath. ?I killed my husband for his unfaithfulness. I used a knife to open his belly. Then with my fingers I tore him to pieces. Over the course of many days. Then, when I had finished, I nailed his pieces to our home so that all might see what I had done.?

Lucy gaped at Griselda, her eyes searching her friend?s face as if she wanted to deny the truth of her words.

?Shush, child.? The older woman stroked Lucy?s hair again. ?You have nothing to fear. For here, in this prison, I have no anger. No anger. No fear. Here, I have peace.?

Lucy shook her head. ?I?ll visit you--I?ll come--?

?I will not allow such a thing.? Griselda shook her head firmly. ?You must be strong. Find your peace. With your peace comes your strength.?

?Griselda--?

?Shush, child. Shush. I have peace. I am at peace.?

?Get dressed.?

Lucy looked at the guard in the open doorway of her cell. ?But--? She glanced down at the prison uniform she wore. ?I am dressed.?

The guard tossed a bag of clothes to the floor. ?Put whatever you want to keep in the bag.?

?What I--?

?You have five minutes. Do you want to argue about it or do you want to just do it??

She picked up the bag and opened it. Her heart lurched. Inside was a pair of her jeans, a blouse, a light autumn jacket, a delicate lace bra, and ballet flats. It was the outfit she was wearing when she turned herself in. She looked up from the bag at the guard, but he was standing just outside the open cell door, his back turned to give her the illusion of privacy.

Lucy hurriedly changed into her street clothes. Then she moved around her cell quickly throwing her things into the bag, making snap decisions about what she would take and what she would leave behind. Books and letters and the sketches Fin gave her, all going into the bag. She tried to get to her hidey-hole to get the small amount of cash she had secluded there, but by the time she was packing the guard had turned to watch.

?That?s time, Priestess. Let?s go.?

She wrapped the end of the bag around her fist and carried it out of her cell, following the guard down the hall. He led her through parts of the prison she hadn?t seen since her first day there, the eyes of guards following her everywhere they went. Lucy?s palms grew sweaty as she tightened her hold on the canvas bag that held her belongings.

Detective Inspector Teague met her at the front gate. He looked her over, then nodded to the guard. With a last look, the guard turned, his keys jingling behind her as he went back inside, away from the cold of the outdoors, just beyond the gate.

DI Teague looked down at her. Then he reached over and pushed open the gate.

Lucy looked up at him. ?You?re letting me go??

The detective nodded, watching her. She took a hesitant step forward, treading cautiously over the icy stone in her inappropriate shoes. Then she looked back again. ?I?m free??

DI Teague nodded, watching her. ?You?re free.? He reached out to take hold of the gate. ?But we both know you weren?t crazy.?

The gate clanged shut behind her, and she watched as he turned and disappeared back into the shadows of Dragon?s Gate gaol.

Lucy looked back out at the street. It was quiet and snowy, nearing evening. She had asked Cris, Fin, and Dair to be there when she was released. She had imagined her exit from prison would be difficult, fraught with conflict. But she was released with as little fanfare as when she?d arrived.

There had been no opportunity to reach Cris, Fin, or Dair anyhow. Her phone had been returned along with her clothes, but the battery was long dead. And she had no money on her person.

She stepped forward into the street. It was freezing. But it was crisp and clear. She tipped her head back and looked at the sky overhead. The first stars were just appearing, the sky awash with shades of ever-darkening blue. A quiet flap of wings pulled her back to earth and she smiled at the sight of her crow. Jack?s crow. She took a deep breath. And she smiled faintly.

She was free.