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Wake from this nightmare, you stupid girl. Wake up!
She beat her face with balled fingers, the tears falling silently, willing herself awake, willing the nightmare to fade into shadow.
But the room remained before her. She stilled her fists in midair.
Then she traced the bandage on her cheek, and Blanchette Winslowe knew she hadn’t slept.
* * *
The din of approaching footsteps roused her from the depths of a nightmare. They clanked lightly against the floorboards, yet the mere presence of sound made her head throb. Every bit of her body pulled taut like an arrow preparing to be loosed.
She couldn’t remember any details of the siege, couldn’t recall those moments that would forever scar her, yet one memory remained loud and solid and sure.
My promise.
Now, someone was coming.
She had to escape this place… wherever she was. Fight or flight instinct kicked in. She could barely move, let alone run, so she looked around the room for something to protect herself with. The memories continued to return, slowly at first, like water pressing against a dam.
The dagger.
Blanchette fumbled at her clothing. She noticed the dress was two sizes too large and made from threadbare wool. She searched the room again, the reality of the situation coming into focus with each movement, each breath, and each thought. Someone had draped her red riding cloak over a chair that she didn’t notice at first. It hung next to her bed and up against the wall.
My red cloak.
My grandmother.
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she winced, remembering it all with a sudden clarity.
God, help me…
Help us all.
Footsteps again.
Blanchette sucked in a shaky breath, her gaze on the closed door. I must be safe. I have been cared for… but for how long and by whom?
The footsteps halted outside the chamber. Blanchette nearly collapsed as she fumbled from the bed. Her leg ached terribly. She snatched the dagger from her riding cloak and filled her hand with the cool metal. Her palm was bandaged too.
The door pushed open. A bright-eyed, redheaded child poked his face inside. Blanchette relaxed and felt some of the tension leave her body.
He was a little boy, his hair a mass of unruly crimson locks that framed a dirty, freckled face. The child, who looked eight or nine, raised an equally dirty and freckled hand to his cheek and rubbed his eyes.
“Hello,” he greeted with a very point-blank tone and stare.
Blanchette studied his inquisitive features. “Where… where am I? Who else is here?” Each word grated. Her throat was a raw wound, and her voice a strained whisper.
His slim, reed-like shoulders dropped, and his chin lowered several inches. “Just me and my pa. The soldiers should be here soon with food from the big castle.”
Plunder and loot stolen from my home.
The tension returned at full force. Blanchette braced against her grip, her hand unconsciously tightening around the dagger’s hilt.
He eyed the dagger and shuffled back a step. “Are you going to hurt me?”
Blanchette felt her hand shaking in midair. She slowly lowered the dagger and set it out of sight. “No-no, of course not. I’m sorry. I’m just confused. Confused and lost. I…” She glanced around, her head spinning, her fitful thoughts crashing into one another.
She watched as the boy wandered farther inside the room, curiosity outweighing his fear. “Pa fished you out of the river. Like a trout or something, I suppose. I didn’t know that’s where ladies come from.”
