Page 7 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
The words cascade from my mouth like a flash flood. I wince and twitch, and they laugh harder at that. My face is hot, burning, but it’s not embarrassment. It’s pure, clawing hatred.
“Perhaps your sister will take it, then.” John shrugs. “We always enjoy having pretty maids. We like to try them out.”
A furious ringing in my ears drowns out Dad’s warning, andmy hand moves without thought. I don’t care about being clever; I don’t care about staying safe. Disgust and anger win. John cannot be allowed to say that without punishment.
My fist connects with John’s jaw—not hard enough to do real damage, but certainly hard enough to bruise. He stumbles away from me, clutching his face.
His father is an earl. Mine is a convict. I may as well have taken a blade to his cheek; it would have brought me the same amount of trouble, and I would have ruined his smug face permanently.
The other boys are too stunned to move for a moment, as am I. I stand there staring at my hand. My knuckles have already begun to throb and I’ll no doubt have a matching bruise there come morning.
I can’t lie my way out of this one.
“Lunatic!” John yells, and snaps me from my stupor. “We’ll fetch the constable!”
One of his friends lunges for me. I jump back, turn like a top and run, my feet pelting down the main street as they follow, bellowing my name.
I bound down my street and shoot through our front door, cursing aloud as I realize what I’ve done. I’ve abandoned Ceridwen to save myself. I should be out there searching, not hiding from John Branshaw. That’s what I get, I suppose, for letting my temper off its leash.
When I look back up the street, only one of John’s friends has followed. He’s watching me from the top of the road.
“Coward!” I shout back at him, unable to resist—I cannot make the situation any worse, after all.
I can’t see his expression, but his shoulders hunch. “We’re not done with you!” His voice echoes through the quiet street. “Constable’ll have you like he had your father.”
I make a low noise of disgust and slam the door shut, leaning my forehead against the wood. If they’re bringing the constable I may aswell lead him to where he’s truly needed. A missing girl ought to take priority over a violent one, though I doubt she will.
“Sabrina?”
I whip around, pressing my back to the door. Gran is at the top of the stairs holding a candle, an old blanket wrapped around her nightgown. I take a deep breath, then hurry to help her down the bottom steps.
“Ceridwen’s gone,” I blurt out, leading Gran to a chair at the kitchen table. “I went looking for her, but I ran into John Branshaw instead.”
Gran’s faded brows knit together. “Who were you shouting—”
“Bill Griffiths.” I pace beside the table, tugging at my fingers, my face flushing when I touch Ceridwen’s ring. “I, uh… I hit John Branshaw.”
“Sabrina!”
She doesn’t sound angry, just defeated. Gran told me once that in my worst moments I remind her of her husband. I think that’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to me. I don’t want to be like him, angry and violent and unable to control it, but it’s there in my blood and sometimes it burns right through me.
I throw my arms up in exasperation. “He said something disgusting about Ceridwen! I had to protect her good name if she’s to marry well someday; it’s what Dad would’ve—”
“Yes”—Gran catches my hand as I pass her—“and look where that’s got him.”
I stare down at her in silence, my throat bobbing. Her face is blank, calm, as if I haven’t just told her that her sickly granddaughter has vanished into the night and her stupid granddaughter started a fight she couldn’t finish.
“Why aren’t you scared? Ceridwen ismissing.”
Gran licks her lips, and her grip tightens on my wrist. Her eyes dart to the kitchen window, and the woods beyond.
My foot bounces incessantly. I can’t stand Gran’s composure. “Were you this calm whenyoursister vanished?”
Gran doesn’t deserve my anger, but she’s right in front of me, and the arrow of rage I keep nocked in my chest has horrible aim. Gran flinches, her face tightening beneath the lines and sag of age until there’s only the scared girl beneath. My blood runs cold at the thought that this could be my fate too, if Ceridwen doesn’t return home—carrying a lost name in a hollowed cavity in my heart, unable to force it up my throat.
“Do you want to know where Ceridwen has gone,” Gran says coolly, “or not?”
“What?”
