Despite her dramatic declaration, her tone lacks the conviction to make me worry. But there is something else I can't help noticing. She isn't looking directly at me. Instead, she dips her head, trying to hide her face, and it is so unlike her I can’t be certain what to make of it.
"Judge is only doing what he has been instructed to do," I say. "He's protecting you. Don't make his job any harder than it needs to be."
"Harder," she mutters. "He enjoys it when I act out. I think the sick fuck gets off on disciplining me."
My lips flatten, and I try to imagine exactly how Judge might be punishing her. He knows better than to do anything inappropriate. But I wouldn't be fulfilling my duty of protecting her if I didn't ask, regardless.
"He hasn’t… he’s left you untouched, right?”
Mercedes peeks up at me with a strange flush on her cheeks. "As if I would ever let that sadist touch me. God, you must really be drugged up."
"I'm perfectly clear-headed," I answer dryly. "Dr. Rosseau is giving me the all clear to leave tomorrow, in fact."
"So we get to go home?" she asks hopefully. "Things will return to normal?"
"For now. But you are to stay away from Ivy. No exceptions, Mercedes. She is dangerous."
"Ivy?" She dips her head again, wringing her hands together in a peculiar display of nerves.
"Yes." I frown. "Have you seen her?"
I don't know why I ask, and when Mercedes goes rigid, I know it was a stupid thing to do. I expect her to be out for blood, and I’m probably due for another tongue lashing about my plans for my wife. But her ire seems to have fizzled out after her outburst about Judge.
"Judge has kept us separate at his house," she says. "But the Tribunal has asked me to be a witness at her trial."
There is something in her voice I can't make out. I don't think I've ever heard it before, but she seems unnerved by the thought.
"It's standard procedure," I tell her.
She jerks her chin in acknowledgment.
“I need you to write down every location you and Ivy visited together leading up to the event. Anywhere you’ve gone together since she’s been in the house. Every detail, no matter how small. I want them.”
“Okay,” she answers quietly.
Silence lingers between us for a few long moments before she clears her throat.
"Do you believe she is guilty?"
"Undoubtedly." I turn away, jaw hard, hoping she can't see the strain in my eyes. But that doesn't stop me from hearing her next question, whispered low.
"What are you going to do with her?"
"Nothing has changed," I reply coldly. "She will pay for her sins. In blood."
8 Ivy
I sit with my feet up on the cot, arms around my knees and my head resting against the cold stone. I don’t know how many days it’s been since I stood before The Tribunal and heard what I’d been accused of. Four or five? A week? Two? It’s impossible to tell with that small window as my only source of light and the trees too dense for sunlight to filter through properly.
They think I tried to kill him.
They think I smeared poison on my lips and kissed him in order to kill him.
And I’m still in a little bit of shock.
I asked how I could have done that without succumbing myself, but they dismissed that with talk of an antidote. I don’t even know the poison they named. I don’t know what it is. Where I would get it. How I would use it.
But they’d have none of it, then absurdly claimed it was a fact-finding mission. A preliminary and not a proper trial.
I guess I still have that to look forward to.
But I don’t think they were after facts. For someone to be poisoned, they need a poisoner, and I fit the bill. Multiple witnesses, including Mercedes, saw me kiss my husband. And besides, there was other irrefutable evidence even if witness accounts were wrong.
They lied, those “witnesses.” I never kissed him. Not that night.
Not that he’d let me on any night even if I wanted to. Santiago has kissed me twice, maybe three times, but never has it been me kissing him. He must allow it. Don’t they know that?
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. At least my captor hasn’t bound me since I’ve been back. I’m still barefoot, still wearing that white dress although it’s not white anymore. Nothing can stay clean in this place.
Someone tried to kill Santiago. The thought boggles my mind.
And the fact that they think that someone is me? I can’t wrap my brain around it.
But then I get to the next part. The more important part.
He’s alive.
There’s a part of me that feels relief. And, if I’m honest with myself, something else. Something like a spark of hope. And a small bubble of something I don’t want to name that quickens every time the door opens.
I shake my head.
God, what is wrong with me?
When it comes to Santiago and my situation, there is no hope, no spark of some other nameless, ridiculous thing. I can be relieved that he’s alive. But I can only be relieved that he’s alive. That’s just being human. Even if I hate him, it doesn’t mean I want him dead. And the hope I feel is only for my freedom. Hope that when the door opens, it will be him. My husband will come for me.
The devil you know. That's all this is. It’s not that I have feelings for him.
And besides, what would they do to me if he hadn’t survived? If he’d died? The Society and their precious Sovereign Sons. I don’t delude myself into thinking I could ever be precious to anyone
