He snorted. “People do not appear in Her Majesty’s prison with no papers, no parish, and a tongue like a demon’s.”
Moab stepped forward, jaw flexed, fists tight. “We’re nobody to you. Let us go, and we disappear.”
The guards raised their guns. I could see the fear in their eyes. Moab smiled, slow and mean, and that just made them more scared.
The officer—must’ve been Hale, from the stories—turned his focus to me, zeroed in on my arms. The sleeves of my shirt had been rolled up, and the tattoos were impossible to miss. Black shamrock, chain links, and the MC patch. Out of place by three centuries.
He pointed. “These marks. Explain.”
I shrugged, tried to look dumb. “They’re just ink. Decoration.”
His lip curled, contempt and curiosity wrestling for space. “Never seen such in all my years. The savages north of here use blue pigment to mark themselves for war. But you—” He stepped closer, close enough I could see the tiny pocks in his skin, the old scar on his jaw. “You’re not from the north. You’re not from anywhere I know.”
He studied my face so long I could almost feel his eyes digging for secrets. I stared back, gave him nothing.
He finally addressed all of us. “You are not English. Not by accent or attitude. Irish, then. Spies. Or perhaps…” He smirked, then flicked his gaze at Celeste. “Witchcraft.”
Scarlette shot up off the ground, hands braced on the floor. “We’re not spies. We’re lost. That’s all.”
He didn’t even dignify it with a reply. “Her Majesty’s orders are clear. Rebels are to be hanged. Witches burned or drowned. Spies tortured until names are given up.” He paused for effect. “But, if you are honest and confess, you may be shown mercy.”
He looked at me. “Confess, and you die clean.”
I shook my head. “Nothing to confess. Just wrong place, wrong time.”
Moab laughed. “Story of our lives.”
Hale signaled the guards. They reached for keys.
Scarlette tensed, then hissed, “He’s going to take you first, Toolie. He thinks you’re the ringleader.”
I shrugged. “Let him.”
Celeste caught my arm as the guards unlocked the cell. Her hand was cold, but her grip was iron. “Hold fast,” she said. “Don’t let them cut your soul out.”
I nodded, pretending I understood.
The door screeched open. The guards aimed their muskets at me. “Come.”
I stepped forward, keeping my eyes on Hale. He looked down his nose, lips pursed in disgust.
“Strip him,” he ordered. “Let’s see what else he’s hiding.”
The guards patted me down, quick and rough, but their technique was all wrong. I could have killed one, maybe both, but not with Moab and Scarlette at my back. They found my lighter—silver, engraved, totally anachronistic. One held it up.
Hale took it, turned it over in his hand. “A trinket,” he mused, flicking the lid open and shut. He handed it to a guard. “Keep it. As evidence.”
He jerked his chin. “Get him to the pit.”
The guards marched me out.
I caught Moab’s eyes—he nodded, just once, slow and sure. Scarlette bared her teeth. Celeste’s voice floated out after me, soft as prayer.
“Hold on, Toolie. Don’t give in.”
The corridor was worse than the cell, every step packed with dread. The other prisoners shrank from me as we passed, eyes wide and white in the torchlight. I tried to walk slow, to buy time, but the guards prodded me on. For the first time, I considered that maybe I’d made a mistake.
Down the hall, into a stone room reeking of burned fat and lye. Chains bolted to the walls, a single chair in the center, stained black with old blood.