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Shaking my head of it, I lay back down, chiding myself for being so irrationally ridiculous.
Stop being paranoid.
The baby wailed again, and again, I found myself staring at the circle.
Was it so farfetched to think the woman stole babies in Purgatory?
Groaning, I turned into my pillow, burying my face. “You’re not even far enough along,” I muttered into the cotton. “Stop it.”
What the hell was wrong with me? Where were these thoughts even coming from?
Blowing out an exasperated breath, I closed my eyes, figuring I needed the sleep. Didn’t matter that I had felt better for a short jaunt there, something still didn’t feel right inside of me. I forced myself to relent the thoughts of Jericho and Vaszhago, and to allow myself to slip into dreams.
The baby cried again.
37
THE BARON
The baron trembled as he lay stretched over a bench in one of the undercroft cells, his back bloodied and torn apart by the whipping he’d endured. His arms lay limp at his sides, useless and weak from having hung from chains for hours. When the bishop could no longer prod him to reveal his ability to heal, he’d resigned himself to keeping the baron in line, performingnecessaryexorcisms, which had included whippings, burnings, whatever pain he’d deemed vital to cleansing his soul.
He would’ve given anything to place his hand on his skin, to feel the tickle of energy as the wounds sealed themselves. Instead, he focused on breathing and ignoring the searing agony every time he stretched too far.
“You are in pain,” a familiar voice spoke softly, and he turned his head to find the light-haired woman from before staring back at him. Blood stained her lip, which appeared to have been split open, and she’d had twice the bruises of before. Her shins bore the telling gashes of fire clamps, metallic clamps fixed to a part of the skin and heated until burning hot. They were then cranked to pull the skin apart, tearing it open like a ripe fig.
“Seems you suffer quite a bit, as well.”
Her lips stretched to a smile, and she crawled across the floor, her ragged gown dragging behind her as she made her way toward the barred window. There, she pushed up on tiptoes, only just fitting her small hand through the bars to gather what looked like mud. Carrying it on her fingers, she shuffled toward him. “I’ve learned ways to soothe the pain. Let me show you.”
The baron shifted away from her, but winced at the flare of a wound. “Does it heal?”
“Well, no. It only cools the burn of it.”
He settled back over the bench and allowed her to spread the mud over the worst of his wounds, judging by their pain. His skin practically sizzled as she painted his back, and he let out a sigh of relief when the ache lessened there.
“Better?”
He gave a nod, breathing easier than before. “Why are you here?”
“Did we not discuss this matter the last time, Baron? When you effectively cast me out?” Her tone carried a bitter bite, as if he’d hurt her feelings.
“Where did you go? I saw no entrance. No means of exit.”
“You were looking for the obvious.”
“Do not toy with me. Bishop Venable has branded you a witch. Why haven’t they executed you?”
She snorted, sitting back in a way that wasn’t like that of a lady, at all, with her elbows resting atop spread thighs, between which her gown draped to hide her privates. “Why haven’t they executedyou?”
“It is obviously because I am the son of Lord Praecepsia.”
“Well, it is obvious that I harbor a secret.”
“What secret?”
Eyes narrowed on his, she tipped her head. “Now, why would I tell the son of Lord Praecepsia?”
“I have neither patience, nor care, for your games.”
