Page 105 of Wings of Destruction

I practically sprint the last several feet onto the stone terrace and press my hand to my galloping heart.

Sneaking around is going to get me killed. Note to self—do not take another midnight stroll, alone or otherwise. It’s not a good idea.

My ragged nerves wail like they’ve been flayed. I straighten and lift my chin to the sky, pinpointing several of the constellations I used to mark from home.

There is the scorpion, to the south, with a long bright curve of stars marking the tail.

And to the east a little bit, I catch the brightest star in the sky that marks the point of the warrior’s spear. Eventually, my eyes fully adjust and my lungs calm enough to fill.

I’m close enough to the castle to see the window panes and the mirror reflection of the stars winking on spotless glass. No thanks to me. But the side door I followed Kieran and Astrid out of has snapped shut in the wind.

Numb fingers require extra coercion to wrap around the handle. I pull the door open and slip inside, even the familiar coolness of the hallway almost warm compared to the night. Warmth slicks along my skin.

Tiredness presses me fully against the wall, the press of so much stone on stone caving in around me. For some reason, the ceiling of the main hall which usually soars overhead has been lowered like someone has flicked a lever.

I thought the expanse of open sky was crushing?

Now I’m buried alive.

Everything here tamps me underfoot, bug style, and I’m the roach refusing to die.

“Hurry, you fool,” I mutter.

I wasted enough time on a ridiculous errand. I need to get downstairs quickly. The hours have steadily marched toward dawn while I fooled around with my fear of the dark.

Soon the others will be up and ready to work. Breakfast has to be settled, beds made, laundry washed and monitored.

Cresting the top of the stairs to the basement doesn’t settle me. My skin is too tight and the nerves prickle and remind me with every breath that they aren’t easy to erase.

“Well.” Mrs. Milkin steps up and blocks the base of the staircase before I take my final step to safety.

We stare at each other and only one of us is breathing heavily.

“Isn’t this a surprise,” she whispers.

Caught. Out of chances.

Those two things land like twin slaps before my head fills with staticky white noise. My mouth fills with acid.

I tower over her, the stairs adding several feet to me, but Milkin is the one in control and she always has been. She holds my fate in her pudgy hands.

“I’m aware this isn’t the first time you’ve snuck out, Miss Whyte.” She stares at me with the victory of a cat who knows she’s at last caught the fattest mouse between her paws. “The others tell me you’re rarely in your bed at night. Wilhelmina says you return near dawn most days of the week. Is this why you can’t accomplish your chores?”

There’s nothing for me to say to make this any better. I’m out of excuses.

My breath heaves out of my body but it’s the only thing that can escape. Milkin won’t accept excuses—she’s heard them all already.

“It seems to me there is nothing to do about you, unless we chain you to your bed. And I find myself opposed to the idea. I have enough to do without adding another chore to my list.”

Her glee is a palpable scent in the air when she takes a step forward and draws the edges of her white and blue flowered robe over those heaving bosoms. The fabric belt pulls tight beneath them, the seams straining.

“This was your last chance,” she says a bit louder. “I thought you understood it. We’ve been more than patient with you. At the end of the week, you’ll be sent to the mines.”

It hits me at once. There will be no more training and no more reading. Nothing but manual labor until I die from a tunnel collapse. Or worse.

Milkin must recognize the play of emotions on my face. She takes another step toward me, and her features screw up in a twisted smile, toad-like.

“I’ve heard awful things about what happens to pretty women in the mines. The stories alone would make you beg to stay here scrubbing floors.”