Chapter 192

The prospect of being the first to publish a story of such magnitude was too good to pass up. It promised not merely sales, but influence: the opportunity to shape public discussion and perception.

Cassandra allowed him to deliberate a while longer before adding, "And I intend to ensure that you receive the greatest possible benefit from the arrangement."

Thornton came to a conclusion but he kept it to himself, not wanting to seem too eager.

"You understand that I will need to examine everything you provide. I cannot publish claims that cannot be substantiated, regardless of how advantageous the story might be."

"Of course. I would expect nothing less. I don’t doubt you will do a good job." Her answer came smoothly. "The more damning the story, the better."

This malicious, vindictive side of her no longer felt foreign to Cassandra. It had always been there, buried deep within her, long before she ever set out to exact revenge on her family. But this quest had awakened and revitalized it, and now, it was in full control.

"Very well, Lady Montague." He said at last. "Bring me the material you mentioned. I will review it and determine how best to proceed. If the evidence supports the account you have described, the Arden Gazette will feature it in further publications."

Thornton needed to proceed with caution, particularly when dealing with a subject that could expose him to retaliation. Cassandra was content to let him do as he pleased, provided he fulfilled his part of the bargain.

"Excellent." Her job here was done. She got to her feet, smoothing her skirts. A faint smile appeared on her lips. "You are a sensible man, Mr. Thornton. I knew we would understand one another."

"I hope this proves beneficial to both of us," he replied.

"I have every confidence that it will. It has been a pleasure doing business with you."

Cassandra moved towards the door without a backward glance.

The newspaper coverage was only one part of the work ahead, but it was an important one. Once the story reached the public, Nathaniel would find it much harder to contain the consequences behind closed doors.

For now, she would allow him to believe he still controlled the situation.

He would learn otherwise soon enough. Soon, he will have nowhere to hide.

***

Nights were the hardest part.

During the day, there was always something to occupy the mind, even if that something consisted of exhausting work, hunger, orders barked by the wardens, or the constant awareness of eyes watching them. At night, there was nothing left but the darkness and whatever thoughts a person had been trying not to think about.

The cell was never truly dark. A narrow opening high in the wall allowed a little moonlight to seep through, though it offered no view of the world beyond. The light was too weak to illuminate much more than the rough stone walls and the three bedrolls scattered across the floor.

There was barely enough room for occupants to move about.

Each woman possessed a small patch of floor for herself, a thin bedroll laid directly over the hard surface. A chamber pot sat against the far wall, shared between them.

Iron shackles circled each of their ankles, connected to chains fixed securely into the stone. The chains permitted enough movement to stand, reach the chamber pot, and return to the bedroll. Nothing more.

The women knew the length of their chains instinctively. They knew how far they could stretch. They knew exactly where to place a foot so the iron would not jerk painfully.

They knew how much movement the space permitted and, more importantly, how much it did not.

Grace lay on her side with her back facing the wall, trying to sleep.

She had learned not to think too much at night. Thinking led to reliving fond memories that always made her current existence more bleak.

So she closed her eyes and listened to the breathing of the other women, mentally trying to separate herself from the room around her.

A feat that proved impossible when Mabel began crying again.

The sound was quiet at first, little more than a little trembling sob. Then another sob followed. Then another.

Grace kept her eyes shut, trying her best to block out the sound.

Across the room, Elsie shifted beneath her thin blanket. Her chain scraped against the floor.

"Will you stop crying?" She snapped harshly. Elsie turned on her bedroll, her face barely visible in the darkness. "Some of us are trying to sleep."

Mabel’s breathing hitched. She made an effort to quiet herself. It lasted perhaps a few minutes before her sobbing resumed.

Annoyed, Elsie pushed herself upright.

"You’re not the only one who’s been brought to this shithole. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and go to sleep."

Her voice carried an irritation that seemed far too large for the little room. Time in captivity had turned her brash and bitter

Mabel curled further into herself. "I didn’t mean—"

"Then stop!" Elsie growled. She angrily muttered something beneath her breath as she lowered herself back onto the bedroll.

Grace slowly peeled her eyes open. She was the oldest inmate in the cell and had seen countless newcomers transferred in over the years. As a result, she had more patience for them than Elsie did.

Mabel was not crying because she wanted attention, like Elsie seemed to think. She was crying because she had not yet learned how to keep the fear inside.

Grace remembered that stage all too well.

She pushed herself upright.

The chain around her ankle gave a soft metallic scrape as she moved. Grace shuffled across the floor, stopping when she was close enough to Mabel that she could see the girl’s face in the faint moonlight.

Mabel looked terribly young. Nineteen, perhaps. Twenty at most.

Her hair was tangled from lack of proper care, and her cheeks were wet with tears. She was curled into herself as though she could somehow make herself disappear.

Grace felt a pang in her chest at the sight of Mabel looking so sad and frightened.

She remembered being that frightened.

"Crying won’t help you," she said gently. "It will only make you tired. You already know the food they give us isn’t enough. Whatever strength you have, you need to preserve it. If you spend it all crying tonight, you won’t have any left for tomorrow."

Mabel sucked in a shaky breath. "What else am I supposed to do?"

"Sleep." Grace replied. "That’s all you can do here."

"I can’t sleep."

"You need to try."

"My parents don’t even know where I am." The words came out broken. It made her chest ache, knowing that her parents were still under the presumption that she was doing well at her new job. "They don’t know where they took me. They don’t even know what happened to me."

Her voice began to tremble again.

"I remember Mr. Crane taking me onto the ship. I remember being frightened. Then he... He knocked me unconscious," Mabel whispered. "When I woke up, I was in a wagon. I couldn’t see anything. They took me somewhere and left me in that place."

"What place?" Grace asked.

"I don’t know." Mabel looked toward the darkness above them. "There were no windows. No lamps. Nothing. I couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. I couldn’t tell how long I was there. I don’t know how many days I spent there."