Chapter 95

Sloane

The stick was the worst part.

Not the leg, although the leg was bad enough. Not the locked door, or the men outside it, or the way the whole cabin smelled of pine smoke and him. I had gotten used to all of that in the way you get used to a stone in your shoe.

It was the stick.

Malachi had made it himself. I had watched him through the gaps in the shutters three days ago, sitting on a stump in the clearing with a length of ash across his knees and a knife in his hand, shaving it down with the same patience he used for everything. When he brought it in, it had been cut to exactly the right height, the top sanded smooth and wrapped in strips of leather so it wouldn’t blister my palm.

He had leaned it against the bed and walked out without a word.

I