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My stomach drops.

Oh, pox on it.

He knows. Maybe he saw the blue light himself or someone else did. My mind races through Alice, Nell, every impossible thing Iscairn has done since coming to Beswick, and lands on one thoroughly unhelpful image.

A pyre large enough for two.

“I don’t understand.” I look between him and the church doors. “What exactly are you accusing us of?”

Gideon rounds on me again. “Billy Mercer has been weeping in the pews for the last hour. He says the doctor threatened to crush his throat, and that my own sister offered to rid his wife of the child in her womb. You will both cross this threshold and beg forgiveness for what you have done⁠—”

Relief hits me so hard I nearly laugh.

Billy. This is about bloody Billy Mercer.

“I will not cross it,” Iscairn says flatly. “If I require repentance, Brother Gideon, I shall seek it privately.”

I nod and step back. “As will I.”

Gideon lunges and slams his hand down onto my shoulder, bearing down with his full weight. My bad leg folds beneath me, and I go down onto my hands and knees, the pain stealing all my breath.

With excruciating pressure, he pins me to the steps, his cassock hanging in my face as he begins shouting prayers.

“You will not hide from God!” He plants his hand against the crown of my head when I try to lift it. “Lord, forgive this wicked spite. Purge the cruelty from my sister’s heart so that she might show grace to Billy Mercer⁠—”

There’s a sickening creak above me. Gideon’s words break apart on a strangled gasp, and the hand pressing my head down is suddenly torn away.

I lift my face to find Iscairn standing beside us, black-gloved fingers locked around Gideon’s wrist. My brother has gone pale beneath all that fury, his mouth drawn tight around whatever sound pride will not let him make.

Iscairn stays still as a gravestone for another moment, then his hand opens, one finger at a time, and Gideon stumbles back the instant he’s released, clutching his wrist against his chest as he looks between us, eyes bright with outrage.

“You need to show grace, Ophelia,” he rasps. “Both of you.”

I brace both hands against the stone and drag myself up on shaking legs, humiliation boiling under my skin.

“Grace?” I glare at him. “You want me on my knees with this leg, praying over Billy Mercer?”

“He is a man of this parish, Ophi. Whatever petty grudge you have carried all these years⁠—”

“Petty grudge? He crippled me, Gideon,” I snap.

He glances nervously at the watching flagellants, lowering his voice to a desperate hiss. “It was an age ago, Ophelia. They were boys playing a cruel game. You cannot carry this spite in your heart forever.”

“He crippled you?” Iscairn says softly.

I don’t look at him. I can’t. Not whilst Gideon is standing over me with his wounded wrist clutched to his chest, asking me to dress up what happened in gentler words so he can keep pretending forgiveness is a simple thing.

“A game?” I press my back against the church wall. “Billy Mercer and his friends threw me down a well! And when you finally found me, you didn’t fetch a rope. You fetched a priest to pray over the hole as I rotted away!”

Gideon flinches as if I’ve smacked him. “I was praying for your soul to be spared.”

I stare at him, chest heaving. “My soul was fine, Gideon. It was my leg that was rotting. So do not force me to my knees on this leg and demand I scrape together mercy for Billy Mercer. My mercy ran out a long time ago.” I suck in a shaky breath. “As for Billy’s wife—I didn’t harm her or her children. I frightened a man who spent the morning insulting me while I tried to keep his wife alive, and if God objects to that, He may take it up with me when I’m less inclined to argue back.”

“Ophelia—”

“No. I will not be dragged to the altar like a sinner in stocks. I will not kneel because Billy Mercer wept prettily enough to make himself the victim of his own behaviour. If repentance is required, I shall seek it in private, where it belongs.”

As I step down, I don’t look back at Gideon, nor at the penitents still staring from the cobbles with their wide, feverish eyes. I just start walking. Every step sends a fresh wave of agony shooting up my leg, but I would rather drag myself through broken glass on my stomach than stand there for another second.