Kylo Ren Repository

The Black Swamp did well to merit its name. To pass through the first veil of trees was to discover a world secluded from light. Even as dawn rose it barely needled the canopy’s shield, casting the world into eerie purple hues. Blackwater flooded the earth so high that it consumed the forest of cypress within it, lying in wait to reclaim the untouched patches. Water erupted from the grass with every step. Trees stooped and trawled mossy nets through the mire, as if eager to claim you as well. To wrap you up and hide you away from anyone who might dare follow.

The sun had already struck the iron sky by the time you and Lottie arrived at the encampment nestled into the ruins of an old mission. You were then spotted by a stranger: a man who looked a bit younger than your father and just as self-assured. The worries of war had weathered valleys in his face.

“Hold there,” he commanded, hand held in the air as he approached you. “Identify yourself.”

You gave your name, your father’s name. “And this is Charlotte Goddard. We’ve just ridden here from Fort Carolina. Reverend Oliver sent us.” At this, his eyes widened. “We were told to ask for Colonel Martin?”

“You’re speaking to him,” he said, approaching more quickly. “You spoke to my men? They’re still all right?”

“Yes,” you said, “but could we discuss this on the ground? We are exhausted.”

Martin nodded, then turned to call over his shoulder. “Pearce! Help us out, here!”

While you were certain this could be no other than Christopher Pearce, you could not be bothered to pay him mind while Lottie was barely conscious behind you. By now, her entire body ached, tears had streaked her skin raw in the cold, she trembled from the lack of food and water.

“Get her off, get her onto solid ground.” You winced as you eased yourself from Puck, legs twinging in complaint.

By the time you’d steadied yourself, Pearce had arrived and seemed committed to looking anywhere but at you as he assisted Colonel Martin with guiding Lottie from the pony. Eschewing help, you gathered all of your belongings in silence as Martin introduced you both to Pearce, who did not admit to already knowing you. Once standing, Lottie took a step, and Pearce gasped.

“Careful, Mrs. Goddard,” he said, “the swamp is a bit too forgiving.”

“Oh. It’s Miss Goddard,” she replied. “Benedict is—was my brother.”

Pearce cleared his throat. Both he and Martin glanced at one another. “I—I wasn’t—”

“I don’t wish to speak on it right now.”

“Right,” Pearce sputtered. “My apologies. Let’s get your things, then?”

A bit of pride in her buzzed in your chest. As they shuffled behind you, Puck made himself busy with the marshy grass beneath his hooves while you surveyed the little swatch of swamp for a place where the both of you could potentially rest your heads.

“So, Reverend Oliver sent you?” said Colonel Martin, coming to stand beside you. “How many men were there with him?”

“Father? Who are these women?” said another voice from behind you, and you turned to face a man who could not have been all that much older than Goddard himself. Maybe by a few years. “We’ve just got your horse readied.”

Martin gave your father’s name. “This is his daughter. And that’s Goddard’s sister,” he said. “They just rode in from Fort Carolina.” He gestured to his son. “This is Gabriel.”

You gave a half-effort curtsy and your own name before proceeding to ignore him entirely. “There were eighteen, exactly,” you replied. “Goddard was the only one…” What word should you use? “Murdered.”

“Right. Good.” He flinched at his own words, raising his brow in apology before looking at you. “They hung him?”

“They did,” you said, and then, as if you needed to reaffirm it to yourself, added, “Colonel Tavington did.”

Gabriel huffed. “Of course.”

“Not much that man won’t do,” said Martin.

You tried to keep your face still as possible, as if the reality of what Colonel Tavington would and would not do was a complete mystery to you.

Martin’s boot squished the grass. “But, that’s all right. We were just preparing to depart for Fort Carolina when you arrived.”

“Oh,” you said. “You already knew?”

“One of the others told us,” said Martin, gesturing to the other horses being readied. “We’re heading to free them.”

You laughed in disbelief. “They’re prisoners of war within a British stronghold.”

“We have a plan,” he said, nodding to himself. “It’ll take a couple days. Might be a huge mistake.” A wry grin broke across his face. “I think it’ll work, though.”

“It’ll work,” said Gabriel, grinning with him.

You studied him. So much audacity in stock for his so-called men, and so little for the only man who still mattered to you. “What about my father?” you asked. “He’s been captured for weeks.”

Martin sighed, eyeing you warily. “Your father…” He glanced at the ground, and back at you. “He was put directly on a dragoon horse. He’s almost certainly in a prison ship offshore by now. Or…”

He trailed off, cleared his throat, realizing too late that the alternative possibility already festered in the air between you.

“You didn’t stop them from taking him there?”

“We didn’t know where he went to start,” said Gabriel, stepping forward. “We know where our men are.”

You met Gabriel’s step with your own. “That sounds to me as if you didn’t try.”

“Your father is not the only man fighting in this war,” Gabriel replied, chest puffing.

“He’s certainly one of the only ones worth being rescued!”

“All right,” Martin said, stepping between you both. “Gabriel, finish packing.” His son glared at you before turning on his heel and marching off. Martin met your gaze, his voice soft. “Your father isn’t unimportant. And I promise that I will keep an ear out for him. If I hear anything about him, you’ll be the first to know.”

“But he’s likely on a prison ship. Or dead.”

Martin nodded, face grave. “Likely so.” The unfavorable estimation of his fate remained very blatantly unspoken. “We’re departing now. But Captain Pearce is staying behind. He’ll take care of you both—he’s a good man.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled, because you did feel grateful for the hospitality, despite resenting almost everything else. “Good luck.”

Colonel Martin bid you farewell, and you wandered into the camp. The land squelched beneath your feet, soaked your stockings. For once, you were relieved that it was nearing November. You would at least be spared mosquitoes.

Shuffling nearer inland, you found a flat, dry stretch of ground closer to the campfire. Even if it meant you would be forced to speak with some of these men, Lottie would need the warmth. You heard her behind you, recounting the journey to Pearce. He was leading Lottie toward you, his arm helping her balance before she sank next to you with a sigh. As she relaxed, he glimpsed you, the stiffness in his demeanor suddenly forcing him to speak.

“Your feet’ll get cold,” he said, pointing to the water creeping up your stockings. “Make you sick.”

You stared at him. Said nothing. Wished William were—

Heat flashed over your skin, you looked into the fire. You did not wish William was anything other than dead.

The hours on horseback had done little to dull the edge of that desire. If anything, the cold, the sore pull in your thighs and arse, the stretches of silence had sharpened it, dug it like a trowel into the depths of your chest. Each time you fought to numb it, it wiggled deeper, piercing parts of you that you’d tried to protect. Now they oozed into your insides, a wound you could not even see to staunch its weeping.

William Tavington had betrayed you. There was no use in sweetening it. And you could not decide what was more humiliating—the fact that he’d done it, or the fact that it revealed how deeply you’d come to trust him altogether.

But you would not allow yourself to cry. It was, after all, your own fault. You had ignored all internal protests, all attempted reason in favor of whatever poison that man had used to corrupt your mind. There hadn’t been just a single hint of danger—there had been dozens, possibly hundreds, that might have allowed you to draw a more intelligent conclusion to this situation. Instead of heeding them, though, you had chosen to pursue intimacy, forgo responsibility, shuck everything you’d ever learned like too-small skin. It was only right that you be forced to reap the barren lands of what you’d sown with your own negligence.

Despite that, it was difficult to prevent yourself from peering into your own memory, from recalling the strong breadth of his chest, the scent of his hair, the steadying grip of his hands. Even more difficult was ignoring the involuntary recollections of how his gaze saw through you, how his touch excited you, how your insides glowed when he smiled. Most difficult, though, was how your body itself had been rent asunder, as if your flesh had been ripped from your bones through his deliberate absence.

You did not know it was possible, until now, to feel another person’s breath to be as intrinsic to living as your own. Every intake of air twinged in your lungs when you tried to hold it, and when you exhaled, whistled through a gaping, tattered hole—a hole that, if you allowed yourself to ponder it, would subsume you entirely.

The most frustrating part of it was, really, that you did not want to bother with it at all. The hot dagger-point between your ribs throbbed with a familiar resonance—you’d last felt it when your mother died, had last learned its uselessness when you realized that night that the only person able to put your baby sister to bed was you. Now the person in need of you was Lottie. Bemoaning the boundaries of a reality that you had caused was pointless.

You peeled off your shoes, pushed your feet closer to the fire. Pearce rubbed his forehead and focused on Lottie. “I’ll get you something to eat, then?”

She nodded, offering him a smile that warmed even you. “Thank you, Captain. You are too thoughtful.”

“N-nonsense. It is my pleasure, Miss Goddard.” He gave a slight bow before stepping away.

Lottie watched him go and sighed again, resting her head on your shoulder. She had barely slept through the night—you’d done your best to keep her upright and latched to you, but you imagined it was not only the physical discomfort that had stymied her rest.

“He’s so kind,” she murmured. “Do you know him well?”

“Not well.” Your muscles loosened. “But he is kind. Earnest.”

She sighed and inched closer to you, the both of you watching the fire dance in silence.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “About the colonel.”

“I’m sorry,” you replied. “I think one of us has sustained greater loss due to his behavior.”

“Well…” She hesitated. “You also aren’t sure where your father is yet.”

You winced the reminder. “Regardless. The colonel is no significant loss.”

For the first time in over an entire day, Lottie broke into a laugh, easing off of you. “You’ve an awful sense of humor.”

“I’m not joking. We had a convenient and enjoyable acquaintanceship.” Your throat tightened, the next words squeaking out. “And now it’s over.”

“Do be serious.” Lottie uttered your name like a command. “You are very obviously and egregiously in love with him.”

Your heart clenched to a fist—tears leapt to the corners of your eyes as if summoned, and you sniffled them down. Lottie was the second person in nearly as many days to level this accusation at you, and you supposed you could do nothing now but address its inevitable shadow over your mind.

William Tavington slaughtered your countrymen with the same hands he used to caress your throat—deceived you with the same mind that entertained you, committed himself to war with the same zeal he committed to saving your life. You could not, in good consciousness, have permitted yourself to love him. At some point, however, your permission became irrelevant.

Between the gaps of protest, you had fallen in love with him.

Pearce returned with a canteen and a handful of salted beef and tucked them both into Lottie’s hands. “I know it isn’t much, but—”

She gasped, tore off a piece of beef between her teeth instantly. “It’s plenty,” she blathered through her full mouth.

You bit your lip to keep from giggling, your tears disappearing. Pearce gazed at her with wide eyes. Realizing what she’d done, Lottie swallowed and sat straighter.

“I… Captain, do forgive me, I’ve just been so hungry, and—”

“No, no apologies,” he said, bowing his head, clearly hoping to hide his smile and failing miserably. “Would you—may I sit next to you both?”

“Please do,” she replied sweetly. She looped her arm in yours and allowed her head to rest on your shoulder again as she ate. “Thank you again for receiving us.”

Pearce shrugged. “I consider it a part of my duty.” His eyes met yours again before flicking toward the fire, and he sat on the ground a few arms’ lengths away. As silence crept in again, his gaze traveled to Lottie. “Your brother was a brave man.”

She tensed. “He was not yet a man.”

“He conducted himself as a man.”

“So he deserved to be hanged?” There was an unfamiliar acrimony in her voice. “Because he made decisions that only men should make, he deserved to be upon the noose?”

“Not at all. He behaved with honor,” Pearce insisted. “There is no shame in that.”

Lottie laughed bitterly. “Honor served him well, didn’t it? After he was hanged like a common criminal.”

“No, no,” said Pearce, “you misunderstand me—”

“I think I understand you perfectly well, Captain.”

Pearce’s face crumbled. He had an uncanny inability to speak to a woman without inserting his boot halfway up his own arse.

You squeezed Lottie’s hand. “Captain Pearce is not your brother’s murderer,” you said gently. “He only wishes to remember the good he did.” You glanced at Pearce.

“Yes, exactly that,” he said, nodding gratefully. “Please, Miss Goddard, excuse my phrasing. I am grateful to Benedict Goddard and I deeply regret his loss—I myself lost my younger brother as a boy.” Lottie’s grip untensed in yours. “I could never imply his death was deserved. I…” A frustrated laugh escaped him. “I am not… Words have never been my strength.”

Logs crackled within the flames. Lottie exhaled, took a sip of water, a bite of salted beef. A shiver rippled over her.

“I apologize, Captain,” she said, weary. “I am afraid I need rest. And I’m sorry to hear about your brother.”

He shook his head, about to speak, but you widened your eyes in a bid to shut him up. “Finish your food and water,” you said, squeezing her hand again. “I’ll prepare you a place to sleep.”

She lifted her head from your shoulder. “You’re certain?”

“I’ll—I can assist,” Pearce said, standing. “We have spare bedrolls.”

You nodded as he went to fetch them. It was approaching midday, but you imagined with a comfortable enough spot, Lottie would likely sleep the rest of the day into the next morning. You set about gathering what she’d taken with her and using what Pearce provided to create a flat, even, dry surface, then guided her to settle onto it. After reaching beneath her bodice to loosen her stays, you tucked her into a blanket and pushed her hair from her face. Her dark eyes were hazy and red, already fluttering with the weight of sleep.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. “You’ll sleep soon, too, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

Pearce sat by you as Lottie drifted, as the fire popped. Shackles had attached themselves to your limbs; you would have thought a gorgon had concealed itself in the fire and turned you to stone if your head hadn’t begun to throb in complaint. Food, water—you needed them, too. At some point. When you were worthy of the palliation they offered.

And to sleep would be to admit defeat. To admit your heart was not broken, but destroyed. To enter a world where you had even littler control than the waking one, a world where dreams could wound you more deeply than reality, if that were even possible.

You had begun to mend with Grace, but that mending was perhaps permanently unfinished, left to gather dust until your next meeting. The likelihood of that now seemed as hopeless as a Patriot victory. When the fog of war receded, would she sail across the sea with Ferguson? Would she think of you when she bore her first children? Would they ever wonder what the woman who had raised their mother was like?

Perhaps for the best they never wondered, since that woman was indeed a person who saw fit to lie to everyone she loved. In fact, being loved by you seemed to guarantee being a victim of your deception. It was why you could not bring yourself to resent William as badly as you wished—you had lied to him first. He had known your heart from the moment he met your eyes.

And what if your father had been dead for the past three weeks? What if William killed him in retribution for your betrayal? And if your father were dead, could you return home? Would there be a home to return to?

Would a home ever feel as home to you, now, without your sister, or father, or William in it?

But this was what was owed a miserable, selfish shrew. This was the lot of a woman who could not be tamed. In your desire to stake out your own existence, you had expelled everyone from its perimeter. You had been destined from the beginning to reign over your life entirely alone.

“We’ll find him,” said Pearce. “Don’t despair.”

You shook your head. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your father,” he said. “We won’t abandon him.”

That wasn’t what Martin or what the men at Fort Carolina had seemed to believe. The fatality rate on prison ships was obscenely high—higher still with disease spreading in winter. Your father was not elderly, but he was older than most men serving, and became more vulnerable every year. Each day he spent in British custody was a day he had potentially borrowed.

“Sure,” you said.

“Really,” he said. “I promise.”

You gazed at Pearce. He was not an unhandsome man. There was a buttery curve to his jaw, a softness in his eyes that hinted he would be a thoughtful husband, a gentle lover, an attentive father. Yet no part of you stirred in desire, or even curiosity. You did not want him. You would not want anyone ever again.

“I suppose we’ll see,” you replied, staring into the fire.

A breeze stirred. The trees cast their nets among schools of fireflies.

You sailed down the steps of the main house and out the door.

Outside, the fort grounds swarmed. Officers shouted, men fumbled muskets and cartridge boxes as they scrambled into formation, spines straightening and chins lifting to the autumn sun. The stables burst like a dam, saddles flying upon horses that danced and eddied, snorting geysers of fog.

Someone shouldered past, nearly knocking you off balance. You recovered just in time to hear a bugle float across the fort as the throng paused and every eye turned. The main gates groaned open to reveal the gleaming figure of Lord Cornwallis, mounted at the head of a regiment that trailed behind him like great crimson coattails.

He frowned as he surveyed the scene before him, which teemed back to life when a green-jacketed dragoon—Lieutenant Colonel Hanger, you recognized—approached the general and they began to speak.

Your heart lurched. There was no sign of William, and you knew there was no use in searching for one now. Fate, it seemed, had tired of slavering at your heels and was rearing up to strike, heedless of the defenses you still lacked. You could feel its shadow looming, the buzz of panic that a fox must feel when gone to hole, listening to the hounds bray outside. You turned and half-sprinted to the hospital.

Lottie hovered in the doorway as you approached, wringing her hands and gazing out across the fort. She blinked, the crease between her brows slackening by a fraction when she noticed you.

“What is happening?” she squeaked as you ushered her inside. “This is all very irregular, is it not?”

“Yes,” you said, glancing around the ward.

“Was that Lord Cornwallis who just arrived?” Lottie asked.

Outside, you heard the thunder of the Legion’s departure, the rhythmic march of the Royal Welch Fuzileers following.

“Yes,” you repeated, grimacing.

The hospital was intolerably crowded. Sick men lined the walls, each having taken their fevers too late to avail themselves of what Peruvian bark remained. Most would die. As you, perhaps, should have.

“The general has returned?” This voice peeled your nerves, and you turned to lock eyes with Major Ferguson straining upright in his bed. Grace sat beside him. Though her back remained to you, her shoulders rose fractionally toward her ears.

You scowled. “Yes.”

Snatching Lottie’s hand, you marched toward the rear of the ward, past the store room, and through the back door.

“You are frightening me,” Lottie whimpered as you pulled her out into the chill and along the anterior face of the building. A sweep of your eyes revealed an alcove in the fort wall between a set of abatis, some distance from any structure or tent. You made straight for it. “Are we to be attacked?”

You did not answer. With another glance behind, you drew her into the shadow of the abatis, your insides squirming wretchedly.

“Lottie.” When you finally met her eyes, a knot rose in your throat. You forced it down and drew a breath. “There is much I must tell you.”

The words stumbled out at first, then flowed, then burst forth—all of it, everything you’d concealed from her, from your father’s request to your capitulation to Goddard’s involvement and his stupid, thoughtless, reckless domination of the entire operation that had nothing at all to do with your inability to act yourself.

“Colonel Tavington learned he was missing and he—” You swallowed, unable to consider further. “You may be in danger. You—I could help you, perhaps, slip away—”

“I’m sorry,” Lottie said, her eyes glassy. Distant. You caught one of her hands in yours. It was trembling. “I’m sorry, but… I mean, we still have socks to finish.’

“Lottie,” you replied, squeezing her. “I am utterly serious.”

She stared at you, and suddenly looked very young. “You… you…” her eyes welled and she buried her face into her palms. “Oh, God,” she choked, muffled. “Oh, God, Benedict, what have you done? What have…”

“We haven’t much time. You must prepare.”

“I can’t,” she groaned, shaking her head. She clawed at her hairline. “It’s not possible, I mustn’t.”

“You must.”

Just as you reached out her head snapped up, wild red tendrils wreathing her eyes.

“Come with me,” she gasped, snatching your hand from midair.

Her eyes were clear. The distance in them closed with a speed that struck you where you stood. It was a clarity you knew well. The one thing that remained beyond the erosion of choice.

You blinked. “I cannot.”

“You must.” She squeezed you almost painfully. “If Benny were to be captured—if he knows all you say he knows…”

You imagined William’s reaction when he returned from the field, his room emptied of your presence, shadows lingering where your belongings used to rest, every little tincture gifted in consolation of your escape. You imagined him lying awake by candlelight, staring at the side of his bed you no longer occupied; you imagined him concluding in the lonely dark that everything you’d shared was a lie.

“Well,” you said, “we cannot know with certainty if your brother is currently in danger.”

“So we shouldn’t leave?” Her eyes pooled with hope. “We should wait?”

“Well,” you said again, “yes—I mean, no. No, you shouldn’t wait. You should leave.”

“But I’ve nowhere to go,” she whispered. “And if I should leave, so should you.”

“Well,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time, “do you believe he’d expose me? Is your brother of that character?” When Lottie hesitated, you continued, “Besides, should I leave, that may put Grace in danger, and potentially Ferguson, as well.” You nodded, satisfied with your conclusion. “Come.”

Before she could protest, you hauled her to your shared quarters. It was no complicated task to sort her belongings, meager as they were, for those pertinent to her survival and you completed the job in hurried silence. In the stillness that followed, your eyes drifted to your own bed, unmade and abandoned from the night prior. Lottie sat with her hands folded in her lap, one toe tapping her anxieties out onto the hardwood. You fished Horace’s Odes from beneath your pillow and with aid from a candle flame, burned it to a pile of ash upon a metal tray.

“What was that?” Lottie whispered.

“Evidence,” you replied, and poured the cold ashes through a gap in the floorboards.

Lottie bit her lip. Tore at her fingernail. Your chest squeezed and you drew a breath to tell her it was time, when a commotion outside the house stalled your words. Lottie’s eyes found yours. In silence, you both crept to the front of the house and peered out of the windows to meet the opening gates.

The first to burst through was William astride Phaedra, the cold autumn sun shimmering gold across her, his icy gaze aflame. Behind him, he guided his dragoons, who themselves guided men—men who looked as if they’d crawled up from the ground, men with more nerve than pride, men who reminded you of your father—behind them, each man shackled in doubles to the next in a line.

You gnarled your fingers in your skirts. The colonial militia. You dared not glimpse Lottie, until the back of the line stumbled into the fort, brought up by a single man. Or, really, a boy. You would not have recognized him from this distance, plain-clothed and as dirty as the militiamen he was chained to, if not for his crown of copper hair.

“Benny,” she gasped, staggering toward the front door. You grappled at her back, but she threw you off. “Benedict!”

“Lottie!”

You reached for her again, missed, scrambling with her outside, meeting a gathering bunch as Goddard was marched in behind the series of captured men. Soldiers who had remained behind clumped together, fighting to get a glimpse. Beneath the shuffle, you caught murmurs of is that the young ensign and he was spying, and before you could hear your own pulse in your temple, William’s voice cut across the yard.

“Prepare the gallows,” he said, nodding toward Goddard. “This one’s to be hanged.”

Lottie screamed. “No! Benedict!” She shoved her way forward despite your best efforts to contain her, the men crowding the prisoners eyeing her warily. Grimacing, you wrung her by the back of her bodice and wrenched her toward you.

“Don’t,” you said, “don’t get yourself strung up.”

Lottie ignored you, tried to thrash her way free. “He’s not even had a trial!”

“I’ll talk to the colonel,” you spat, and she stilled, a terrible tremor wracking her. “Let me—just wait here.”

Her stare was glued to the knotting rope, stairs climbing to the platform. Despite his stupidity, you were not sure you could stand by and watch your friend’s brother be summarily hanged before he could even become a man. Steeling your spine, you pushed forward through the men.

Whether it was knowledge of your association to William or fear of assaulting them with some terrible concoction, the soldiers seemed to part more quickly for you—and you sprung on the advantage, your gaze locked on William as he marched up the gallows stairs, willing him to spot you in hopes it would break the spell of fury that had bewitched him.

“Colonel—” you called, but were silenced by two dragoons stepping in front of you, blocking your line of sight, shrouding you in shadow.

“There is to be no interference with the prisoners,” said the one on the left.

You tried to peek over their shoulders, watching as the other men were stored in an outdoor prison, leaving Goddard bound by himself by the bottom of the stairs.

“Please, officers,” you said with as much polite deference as was possible. “I request to speak with Colonel Tavington. I fear he may be making a mistake.”

“No mistake,” said the other dragoon. “Move along, now.” They both stepped forward, ushering you to retreat.

You shouldered them back with a grunt, calling again, “Colonel! Colonel Tavington!”

He did not glance into the crowd—did not even acknowledge if he heard you.

“Miss,” said the left dragoon, gesturing to the group of militia behind bars, “I would very much prefer not to throw you in with their lot.” He and the other dragoon closed rank again, looming over you with far too much importance. “Get back.”

“But—” As you attempted to look over their shoulders, Goddard caught your eyes. He mouthed a single word.

Don’t.

So you relented, offering an indignant fine before slowly returning to Lottie. Goddard had accepted his fate—and seemed intent on doing so—therefore preventing any collateral damage. You did not think his sister would agree with his decision.

Swallowing, you met her in the crowd, her gaze round and wet, and shook your head. She immediately tried to shove past you.

“Lottie,” you said, snatching her by the arms. “Lottie, stop. Stop.”

She whimpered. “Let me go,” she said, “I have to do something. I have to stop them. I have to—he didn’t know any better—”

“He knows exactly what he did,” you muttered in her ear. “He wants this.”

Swallowing, she leaned back, searching your face. “What?”

Still in her ear, you said, “He signaled me not to interfere. He’s made his decision.”

“I don’t care what his decision is,” she replied, voice tight and hoarse. “He’s not even eighteen!”

Before you could argue, a murmuring rustled through the crowd, and you turned to see General Cornwallis emerging from between the soldiers and wandering his way toward the gallows.

“Colonel Tavington,” he said, taking the steps to the platform, “I imagine you have prepared a statement to inform me as to why we are gathered here with a noose being readied.”

William had never looked more irritatingly smug. “The boy is a spy,” he replied coolly. “He aided these men in orchestrating an ambush against a supply caravan bound for Camden this morning on the King’s Highway.”

“Such an accusation must—”

“Fortunately,” William continued, silencing Cornwallis, “I intercepted with a counter-attack of my own and apprehended the boy personally. You may observe further incriminating documents taken off his person here, written in code—” he extended a stack of papers toward the general “—and his compatriots in the cell there.”

Cornwallis eyed William, taking the stack and scanning them. “These are—this is—”

“And do we really wish, General,” continued William, circling Cornwallis like a hawk, “to offer leniency in return for seditious behavior, considering how Washington handles our men accused of espionage? Should a traitor be given quarter and live to tell other men tales of the fracture in your resolve?”

You held your breath. The general surveyed his men, exhaled, and finally studied Goddard. He stuffed the papers in his pocket.

“Hang him,” he said.

Lottie collapsed in a sob, and you gripped her, wrapped her in your arms to hold her upright. “Let’s go,” you said, “we needn’t—”

“No, no, I cannot, he will look for me!”

Despite your insistence, she would not move, choosing to cling to you instead, watching as William snatched Goddard by the wrists and yanked him onto the trapdoor. With dispassionate precision, William collared Goddard with the noose. There was nothing but the reflection of daylight in his eyes—no one there beyond the Butcher. But as he stepped toward the trapdoor lever, William hesitated.

“You do have one more opportunity to name any conspirators,” he said, a near-mocking lilt to his voice. “And a satisfactory revelation may result in mercy.”

Your stomach twisted. Goddard’s jaw visibly tightened. His gaze swept the onlookers, and your fingers dug into Lottie’s sides. He could spare himself, now, reveal your complicity, perhaps have you put in his place. Would the assembled company stand idly by and allow a woman to be executed? You thought of poor Mary Hutchens, reduced to a stain on the meadow. You recalled William’s pistol resting against your forehead that same night. Were you foolish enough to believe anything had truly changed in him to spare you that fate now?

Goddard eyes found you and lingered—and then found Lottie, trembling in your arms. He swallowed.

“I worked alone,” he replied.

William stared. You swore you could see the hint of a smirk on his mouth. “Very well.”

Then, without even fitting Goddard with a hood or blindfold, William crossed to the lever. Goddard straightened, crying out,

“Liberty or—”

The floor opened beneath his feet. He dropped.

You did not feel Lottie’s knees buckle, hear her wail, or sense the weight of her body, crumbling into your own. You did not notice the stare of soldiers peering over shoulders, you did not catch the chill of the wind on your cheeks, you did not squint into the sunlight. Instead, you watched as a seventeen-year-old boy dangled, red-faced and thrashing, above the dirt.

He flailed at the end of the rope, seeking purchase, finding nothing but unforgiving air. Blood gathered in his cheeks, in his temples, in his eyes, and rotted to purple under the pressure, his body twisting like a fish on the line. Veins bulged in swollen rivers from his forehead, his throttled gurgling echoing in the yard.

It was only when two soldiers marched forward and wrapped around Goddard’s legs to yank him down that his neck snapped. And then you remembered to breathe.

Around you, the crowd began to disperse. Lottie was dead weight in your arms, wailing miserably. You could only hoist her inside, tip her into bed, lie with her as she sobbed and sobbed.

You could find no wound here to mend. No bone to bind. No fever to quell that would stop her cries. Hers was a pure hemorrhage. It was the same kind of bleeding that had left Papa empty behind the eyes, though his, perhaps, had been slower. It had bade his hand to seek the bottle. This was the kind of bleeding you dared not soothe with opium, for it would grasp upon it and never let go.

It was impossible to imagine that fate for Lottie. Even now. You gripped her tighter, unwilling to meet her eyes, to see something hardened and dull where there had always lived such warmth. What kind of God, you wondered, had determined that Charlotte Goddard—a woman far, far kinder, gentler, and more loving than you—should endure one tragedy after another? The same God that had spared your own wretched life and left you even the mercy of a living sister?

You tried to imagine the face of God as He cast His will upon the earth. As He watched you hold your bitterly weeping friend. Would He smile? Laugh? Weep with her? You could not say. The picture would not come. All you could conjure was William’s face, cold as the cloudless sky, seared bright in your memory.

He had dispatched Goddard without a breath of sentimentality—and though you’d always known the risk of subterfuge, you could not help the roil of disgust knowing he’d done it with glee. He knew you to be close with Lottie, knew it would hurt her, knew too that you’d feel the ripple of that pain. Had he thought of you once—or even at all—when he’d paraded upon the gallows?

And would he have conducted himself with such delight had it been your neck inside the noose?

The reality that you had to even ask yourself the question unsettled you. In the safe boundary of his bed you’d toyed with the fantasy of your future. The same thoughts which had come so sweetly this morning now soured to bile. The children dropped dead in the grass. Your womb decayed around the unborn swell. The ruddy glow of the sunset congealed, sloughed into a clot, took the shape of a boy upon a noose.

Goddard was dead. There was nothing you could do to remedy that. You could, however, speak with the militia he’d worked with, find out the status of your father, and how you could somehow help.

The longer you spent holding Lottie, waiting for her to cry herself dry, the more resolute you felt. When at length her sobs faded to hiccups, and hiccups to labored breathing, you peeled yourself away to fetch her water. She allowed you to tip some into her mouth, though she stared straight through the food you offered. The best you could do was to give her a dry pillow and tuck her into bed.

As night descended, you bundled yourself in a shawl—the militia must have been freezing in the open-air jail—and made to leave your quarters, only to open the door and come face-to-face with Grace.

“Oh,” you said, cheeks warm. “Good evening.”

She blinked away what little emotion flitted across her face. “Good evening.”

Your beloved colonel murdered a boy, the twitch of her mouth said.

I am sorry, replied your swallow.

You pushed past her and into the hall, and she slipped into your room, cooing over Lottie’s bed as you closed the door.

The jail itself was really more of a cage, constructed entirely of twisted wooden beams and rusted iron—it was clear its stay was temporary, much like the jail you’d been stuffed in so many months ago. You couldn’t decide if their next destination would be better or worse than their current lodgings.

Only two soldiers stood by the entrance of the jail, so it was simple enough to meander your way to the back and remain relatively hidden by the guise of night and the bodies of men underneath torchlight. Those that spotted you watched warily from beyond the bars as you tried to arrange yourself in a position that would prevent you from being spotted.

“Good evening,” you whispered, and then instantly felt stupid for offering any sort of cheery salutation. “Well…”

“What do you want?” asked one of the men, his voice ragged. “Since you can tell it’s not any kind of good evening.”

You inched closer, lowered your voice. “I worked with the ensign who was hanged earlier,” you said. “I was one of his correspondents.” You did not add how few your contributions had become.

“You were helping him?” said the man with the ragged voice. “What, were you his wife?”

“No!” you bleated, and were immediately shushed by the men’s rising voices and the guards admonishing the men.

“Keep it down in there!” said one of the guards.

You shrank. “Sorry. No, no. Nothing like that.”

“Then why help him?”

You gave your father’s full name. “He is a captain in the Continental Army, but he’s been involved with militia efforts around here. Do you know of him?”

A few of the men grumbled encouragingly. “Of course we know him,” Ragged Voice said. “How do you know him?”

“I’m his daughter.”

“His daughter!” He folded his arms, nodding to his compatriots. The firelight sunk shadows into the haggard lines on their faces, glinted off the dirt stained on their skin. “Figures he’d have a woman doing this sort of work.”

“What was it he always called himself,” said one of the other men, “e-gally-tarian?”

You set your jaw. “Yes, well, can you—”

“Didn’t stop him from being captured.”

You stopped. Your heart flipped somewhere into the sky. “I’m sorry?” you managed. “Captured?”

“You didn’t know?” asked the other man. You shook your head. “About three weeks ago, was it? He was cornered by the colonel there and the rest of his lot. Taken off in manacles.”

The air around you thinned. “The… the colonel?” Your mouth was dry. “You mean Colonel Tavington.”

He nodded. “The very same.”

You laughed. “That’s—that’s not possible.” There was no way—no way William had captured your father and kept it from you.

“I saw it,” said a third man, taller and older than most of the others. “He chased your father down and knocked him clear off his horse. Nothing we could do before the rest of the dragoons swarmed us.”

“Barely escaped,” said Ragged Voice.

“Where—where is he, then?” Sweat slipped down your neck despite the cold. “I can… I’ll have to find him.”

The taller man shook his head. “No one knows where he was taken,” he said. “It would be a fool’s errand.”

“He’s probably dead by now, anyhow.”

“Don’t—”

“It’s fine.” You didn’t have time to debate it. “I’ll figure it out.”

One of the men in the dark muttered, “Tell her about Black Swamp.”

“Black Swamp?” you said, gripping the bars.

“Yes,” said the taller man, “about a day’s ride east of here. That’s where our colonel is stationed. If you can make it there, you can alert him of where we are.”

“Oh.” You hadn’t even considered leaving until this second.

“Colonel Martin is a good man. He would help you too, I’m sure. Tell him Reverend Oliver sent you.”

You nodded. “I… yes. Thank you. I will…” The words lingered. Sat like a brick in your guts. Could you promise them anything? “I can do that.”

Bidding them farewell, you turned from the jail and slunk back into the yard, heat building in your stomach, rising to your cheeks. Your feet guided you toward the main house and climbed the stairs, your body moving like an automaton.

Three weeks.

Three weeks during which William claimed to have missed you, to have needed you, weeks during which you’d possessed his body and surrendered your own, weeks during which you had regrettably, irritatingly shucked all responsibility in favor of his bed.

If you had not hesitated, had been more persistent in assisting Goddard, would he have been caught? Would your father have been captured? Would Grace have found you with a hand up your skirts?

Would you have cultivated this massive, festering yield of guilt that William, apparently, did not feel?

His office door was open and he was seated at his desk. You stepped inside and shut the door behind you.

“Where is he?”

William’s gaze flicked to the window and back to you. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do not feign ignorance with me,” you said, advancing on his desk. “Where is my father?”

He sighed. “You were speaking with the prisoners.”

“What does that matter?”

“To casually confer with the enemy after they have been apprehended for treason—”

“Answer the question, William.”

“—is within itself an explicit enough demonstration of disobedience—”

“Tell me where my father is!” You pounced on his desk, rattling the ink wells. “Tell me where you sent him after you detained him and didn’t inform me!”

William paused and leveled the full focus of his attention on you. A long breath left his nose.

“If you believe through sheer ire you can free him,” he said, “you are mistaken.”

“Damn you,” you hissed. “Damn you and the entire British army to Hell. Tell me where he is.”

His brow twitched. “Your father failed to-–”

“Tell me!”

You gripped his desk and shook it, and William followed suit, his superior strength steadying it. He stared at you, light dead in his gaze.

“Lower your volume.”

“Shut up. I don’t give one single holy damn about my volume.” Your face felt as if it would erupt in embers. “Tell me. Now. It’s the least you owe me after—after taking advantage of my—of—”

“Perhaps the reality has slipped your mind,” William said, biting off your name, “but the Crown is at war. A war in which your father chose to participate.”

You sneered. “I see. The war is your first mistress,” you said. “So you obey her in everything. Betraying your bedmates, summarily executing boys—”

“Traitors. Spies.”

“In front of his sister, William? Are you so bloody obtuse?” Words felt loose in your mouth, you laughed. “You could justify anything if it served the purpose of serving Madame War.” You shoved his desk again, knocking over an ink well.

Tension rippled in William’s jaw. “I seem to recall a very surly woman once reciting the phrase exitus acta probat,” he said, righting the well. “If only she were here to bestow some of her wisdom upon you.”

“My father could be dead!” Your fists slammed the desk. “You don’t know where he is, do you? You captured him and shipped him off like a sheep to the slaughter.”

“War requires choices.” His voice was tight, between his teeth. “Every choice begets a consequence. Ensign Goddard received his, as did your father. And as will you—”

“And what does that mean?”

“And,” he said, gesturing to the piles of paperwork before him, “as will you, should you continue to heap this nonsense upon me.”

“What does that mean, William?” you growled. “You intend to kill me as well? Bind me up, wrap a noose around my neck?”

A tiny smirk. “Only if you beg for it.”

You howled, swiped an arm across his desk and sent paperwork and pens and ink pots alike flying. How utterly, plainly, and monumentally stupid you had been. In some ways, it was a relief. You were even, now. You no longer had a reason to hide it. With an exhale, you leered at him.

“Then I think you should,” you replied, “because I have been lying to you since the day we met. I never stopped.” William was stilled, staring at you. “I helped the supply line attacks. I coordinated with Goddard to provide intelligence. Every moment I spent here was at my father’s behest, in service of the Patriot cause.” Your lip furled. “All while you licked the boots of your mistress like the dog you are.”

Fury flashed across his face. He leapt to his feet, had only made it a few strides around his desk before the door opened and you both turned to see Cornwallis step through.

“Ah, good evening, my dear,” said the general, looking between the both of you in some confusion, then to scattered desk implements on the ground. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

William paused, stiffer than iron. “An accident, my Lord.”

“Well,” Cornwallis said, unfazed, “Colonel, I require a moment of your time.”

You glanced at William. He could not insist you were a spy to Cornwallis again. He’d lost that battle months ago. William trembled, his jaw so tight you imagined he could snap a saber between his teeth.

“Of course, my Lord,” he replied.

With a grin, you added, “In fact, Colonel Tavington was simply escorting me to the door. But I will see myself out.” You curtsied to Cornwallis. “A fine evening to the both of you.”

Cornwallis nodded with a placating grin, and you forced yourself to approach the threshold, cross it, and close the door as if you were returning to bed.

Then hardwood and stairs blurred beneath your feet, your heart pounding in your throat, in your cheeks. You heard him, you swore you heard him behind you, regardless of how little it made sense—you fled through the front door, hiked your skirt to your ankles as you sprinted from the house.

You had to make it to Grace and Lottie. You needed to leave now.

Soldiers would struggle to see you in the dark, and that you were thankful for; you careened toward the hospital and made a sharp turn toward the back of the house, hoping the misdirection would buy you enough time. It had to. As you arrived at the back door, you heard William’s voice shouting something furious into the night. Tremors racked your hands while you turned the knob, but you managed, and ran on your tiptoes to your quarters.

You entered, paused when you noticed Grace still there. She frowned, but you pushed forward, beginning to toss whatever you could see into your satchel.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m…” You bit your lip. “I’m leaving.”

Lottie croaked, turning around in bed, her eyes bleary. “Leaving?”

You turned to face her. “Colonel Tavington captured my father.”

Grace stood. “He has Papa?”

“Yes,” you said, and looked between them. “And he knows everything.”

Wincing, Lottie began to clamber out of bed, clearly weakened from not eating. “Wait.”

“Lottie, get back—”

“Take me with you,” she said. “Please.”

There was no time to gather much of anything, let alone have this conversation. “I…” You gazed at her. “It will be arduous.”

“I must go, you said it yourself earlier.” She reached for her bag, and you were suddenly grateful you’d forced her to prepare earlier in the day. “I cannot stand crossing the yard knowing my brother was hanged in it. I cannot even bear to leave the house knowing he will not return.” Color rose in her cheeks. Her voice tightened. “I cannot tend to another man in that hospital knowing they stood by and let him die like that.” She shoved a tincture from her bedside table into her bag. “I cannot bear to look that beastly man Tavington in the face ever agai—”

She froze, a box of tea leaves half-slipped into her pack, wide eyes finding you. Beside her, Grace stiffened. Swallowing, you returned to stuffing your own belongings in your bag.

“I’m sorry,” Lottie gasped, “It’s just that I… He—”

“No,” you said, glancing at her. “You are right. We must go. Quickly.”

Grace whispered your name. Lottie sniffled and turned to her. “Will you come, Grace?”

You glanced at your sister. She stood, cheeks pink, her eyes fixed upon you. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and swallowed. You stood.

“You’re not safe here,” you said. “You should come.”

She blinked, eyes wet. Shook her head. “I am protected,” she gasped. “With Patrick. But perhaps I could… I could help buy you some time, or… Or…”

“Grace?” You took a single step toward her.

Grace burst forward and flung her arms around you, burying her face into your shoulder. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” she said, her voice quavering. “I should have listened to Patrick, he told me to ease up on you. I was so angry, I thought… I thought there would be more time, and…”

“Gracie.” You wrapped your arms around her and exhaled as you held her close. In your embrace, she was still the baby you’d cradled and hushed to sleep after Papa had knocked out a bottle of whiskey. But she had become a woman.

“I just thought there would be more time,” she repeated, and clung to you tighter.

“If I don’t see you again—”

“Don’t say that.”

“—if I don’t see you again,” you said into her ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Find Papa.” Grace kissed your cheek. “And please be safe.”

You let her go, squeezed her hand as you and Lottie left your quarters for the last time. Guiding her toward the back, your mind flashed between all the places you’d slept since arriving at Fort Carolina—and stopped at William’s bed. You paused at the door.

“Go ahead of me,” you said. “They’re looking for me, not you. Meet me by Puck. I’ll be right behind you.”

Lottie’s face paled. “Oh, but—”

You shoved her forward. “Go.”

She slunk through the exit and you eased the door shut before creeping up the back staircase, head on a swivel, ears catching even the quiet sighs of the house as you made your way toward William’s quarters. Holding your breath, you cracked open his door, exhaling when you found his room empty, your eyes landing on the physician’s notebook he’d gifted you. Still on the nightstand where you’d left it.

Peering into the hall to ensure you were alone, you dipped into the room, shoved it in your satchel, and escaped down the stairs. As your feet hit the floor, the door opened at the other end of the home, male voices streaming through the halls. Heart flying, you darted outside.

Out in the yard, the soldiers had apparently abandoned searching the stables and the hospital entirely, leaving it free. You met Lottie there by your trusted horse. She’d begun dragging a saddle from the rack, but you waved her away.

“No time,” you said. “We’ve got to go.” You popped open his stall door and led him into the aisle, fashioning his lead rope into reins before climbing astride.

Lottie balked. “What? But—”

“Now.” You tapped your heels on his side to urge him forward. Lottie grimaced, but took your hand, whimpering as you pulled her behind you on the little pony. You were thankful that he’d gotten a bit more fit since you’d unwittingly adopted him. “Hope you’re ready for a ride, friend.”

Puck snorted into the cold air. You clicked your tongue, and you trotted from the stables, straining to see the gate. It had been closed as a precaution. Opening it would be a huge giveaway that you’d left—would reduce your lead. But you had no other choice.

Just as you gritted your teeth and made for the gate across open ground, a loud whooping arose from the direction of the makeshift prison. It rose to a clamor, drawing the attention of every soldier standing guard. A torch lit the tall silhouette of Reverend Oliver.

You exhaled. He’d given you a window.