Page 73 of Feralheart

“That’s reason enough,” Reece said.

Water sloshed, and servants moved through the other side of the room.

“I’m doing this for my granddaughter, Willa,” Reece said. “She’s six years old. Lost both her parents last winter, and she needs me and my wife. I work in the mine and… You know how long miners last.”

I wondered if Willa knew where her grandfather was. If she was scared. If his wife was sitting with her the way Silvie would with Tolross, pretending everything would be fine.

A hollow feeling opened up beneath my ribs.

I focused on the servant dragging a comb through my hair.

“Four of us made it through the trial,” Reece said. “Half is practically a miracle.”

“Why do so few make it?” Lyndie asked, her voice lifted.

“They’re not designed for us to survive,” Reece said. “I was alive for the last race. Watched it from Shaleside.”

“You watched it?” I asked.

“Yes, they put up viewing screens.”

Then Tolross, Silvie, and Father would know I was still alive. It wouldn’t be the same as me going to them, but they knew I lived.

“Three commons entered the trials that year,” Reece said. “One made it through.”

“Orla, right?” I said. “What happened to her?”

“She didn’t finish the Scorching,” he said. “They’ll assign us to teams tomorrow. We’ll probably be grouped together. The last commons were.”

The door opened, and more servants bustled in, their arms laden with fabric. In a short time, we both wore underclothing finer than anything I’d owned in my life.

A servant thrust a bundle of gray-blue cloth at me. “Put this on.”

The gown reminded me of storm clouds. The fabric was decent, better than anything I owned, though not the silk crafted for the elite. The dress had been designed in a simple fashion, with a high neck.

I tugged it over my head and slipped my arms through the long sleeves.

The dress settled around my body, swishing across my bare feet.

It felt like wearing someone else’s skin.

I smoothed my hands down the front, and the gray-blue fabric caught the light. For one moment, I looked like someone who belonged in the elite side of the fortress.

Until I saw my hands. My work-rough palms. Red lines that wouldn’t fade. The trial mark blazing black.

The gown was a costume. Underneath, I was still a commons woman who’d stolen herbs and freed a dragon and probably wouldn’t live to see next week.

Lyndie’s fingers found the back lacing of her dress, tying it off in a knot I couldn’t have managed without a mirror.

“You’ve worn gowns before,” I said. “Was your mother a seamstress?”

Her hands stilled before she finished the knot.

“She was,” she said. “She…hasn’t been able to do that for a very long time.”

“That must be tough. Is she sick?”

“Yes, sick.”