Corroded

and did not—made everything so much worse. I cleared my throat. “I daresay your illustrious ringmaster is eager to see the back of me.”

“He is.” Such easy acknowledgement.

“Then you may have him to your heart’s content,” I said, a ragged declaration. Stamping my feet shifted my boots into a more comfortable place, and I shrugged into my worn coat when she passed it. I avoided looking at her, and she said nothing. “Help me with my hair, then.”

To my surprise, Zylphia did. If my terse order annoyed her, if she felt inclined to leave me, she did not show it. Instead, her fingers were gentle as she braided my hair, then fished pins from a ream of them tucked into the hem of her skirt.

Soon enough, my distinctively dark red hair, frizzy beyond measure without the care I and my maids had always taken, was wrapped tightly and hidden beneath a street boy’s cap she handed over at the end.

It felt...nice. Familiar. To have her fussing over me was a luxury I did not realize I’d missed until a shaft of grief pierced my heart, ruined the smooth ease of anger with something tragic and painful.

How much I had lost, and for what?

I strode across the chamber, knelt to pick up the discarded knives. As I slid them into the custom sheathes, my hands shook. Such toys, the ghost of Hawke breathed into my ear. As if their dangerous promise was nothing to him.

Of course. I wasn’t dangerous, was I? I was something made less. A kicked dog, collared by her own foolish trust. I had accomplished nothing in too long.

He had known it. He’d mocked me for it so many times.

Enough. I would find a way. There was no more choice.

“Cherry?”

I hesitated at the open door, looking back to find Zylphia standing, her arms full of the soiled sheets. I could not stall my blush; my skin seemed determined to reveal my feelings, no matter what stern demeanor I attempted.

“If you come back,” she said softly, her blue eyes luminous in her dark skin, “your debt will be paid in flesh.”

“The Veil agreed I’d be kept out of the auction rings.”

She shook her head. “You have failed in every task the Karakash Veil set before you, brought midnight sweets to harm and gotten too often in the ringmaster’s way. You’ve failed, Cherry.”

Failed. The word screamed where her lips only shaped emphasis. It drilled through my head, raked venomous claws within my aching throat and bloomed like a bloody stain in my chest.

“If you come back, it’ll be your corpse bearing the burden,” she continued, but I heard it as if from far away.

It hurt to breathe.

Failed. I had failed from the very beginning, hadn’t I? Failed to capture the Ripper when first we assumed it was him carving up girls from the gardens, failed to capture the sweet tooth, failed Zylphia when she’d borne the whip for my interference.

Failed Betsy, who had left my service for it.

Failed Cornelius, whose cold mausoleum had never seen my visit.

Failed, failed, failed.

“Never you mind,” I said hoarsely, looking back into the dreary gray light coloring the sky.

“Cherry—”

“I won’t return again.” Squaring my shoulders, ignoring the wobbly uncertainty of my knees and the ill-used muscles I’d never imagined would ache so, I strode from the chamber that had—for the briefest of moments— been a haven.

It took me only a moment to adjust to the brighter daylight streaming through gray and rain-heavy clouds. If I blinked longer than strictly required, there was no one else to note it.

Hawke had not the strength of character to evict me himself. Claimed his night of flesh and then left me to another to dismiss. Zylphia’s harsh appraisal of my misdeeds only bound my wounds in acid truth; insult to an injury I would not acknowledge.

I could not let it hurt.

Chapter Seventeen

Maddie Ruth was exactly where I’d hoped, hunched over her table in her strange underground work chamber with the fans whirring merrily in the background.

There was less chaos by light of day. I suspected the others had long since retired to bed. It should not have surprised me that the restless child did not follow suit.

God help us both, I saw in her a familiarity that I dared not encourage.

I cleared my throat as I clung to the ladder that lead back from the Menagerie ground. “Maddie Ruth?”

She spun on her narrow stool, a smile already stretching her lips. “Good morning! Or afternoon, really. I’m glad—”

Whatever she was glad for faded as she took a good look at my approach. I touched the ground easily, though with a little more ginger reserve than I usually displayed, and I was sure there were bruises under my eyes from my lack of real sleep.

If my face displayed any of my inner turmoil, I simply did not know.

“You look wrung hard.” A rather definite observation. “Are you all right?”

“Quite.”

My even tone brooked no prying, but Maddie Ruth was not the sort to take such cues, I was learning. She slid off her stool, stripping off the wide gloves protecting her hands from the tools I spied arrayed on her table.

“Give me your hand.”

I had not the inspiration to argue. I offered her my left, palm bared. She studied the rope wound I’d all but forgotten. “You’re healing fast.”

Faster than I’d realized, to be sure. The skin had already pinkened, a ream of shiny flesh rather than the crusted seal I’d expected. “So it seems.”

“But not so fast that you’re, um, walking easy,” she added delicately, a glint in her eye. That such a look would reveal itself on a girl of sixteen did not shock me, not here.

Not anymore.

“I’m fine,” I snapped, twitching my hand away.

She did not back down. “You’re shaking,” she retorted. “And your eyes are dilated. Does your throat hurt?”

What didn’t hurt? I shrugged in nonchalant admission.

“Your head?” she pressed.

Like a boot pressed upon it. “Maddie Ruth—”

“And irritable, besides,” she added, as if she were running down a list. “My pa would show the same, when he went too long without.” Ignoring my attempts to direct her attention, the girl turned and vanished beyond the curtain separating the chamber from her bed.

“Maddie Ruth,” I called, impatience cracking. “I am not here to be smothered!”

“Bear with it,” she called back, voice muffled. I heard the scrape of wood, and small hinges squeak. “I think I’ve also worked out that cameo’s design. It really does look like you, doesn’t it?”

Yes, I was well aware. Many was the Society maven who swore I had my mother’s face, though often admitted to a shame that I had none of her grace or skill.

I would wager my graceful mother would never have allowed a man to take her from behind, her