Amy stormed into her small bedroom, shoving the door shut with a sharp, heavy thud that rattled the latch in its frame.
How could she say that? How could those words slip past her lips with such effortless, casual cruelty?
She hated Mrs. Fitz for saying it—hated the venom in her voice, hated the cold, unyielding finality of it. But what cut through Amy's chest like a rusted blade was the sickening realization that Mrs. Fitz was right. She couldn't make enough money to pay him back. No matter how many shifts she worked at the tavern, no matter how many heavy trays she carried until her arms went numb, the coppers in her waist pouch would never turn into the silver she needed before the week was out.
Maybe she shouldn't have walked out. Maybe she should have stayed at that scarred oak table and forced herself to listen to whatever else Mrs. Fitz had to say. Maybe she could have pleaded with her, begged her to go back to the man and try to convince him to take his earnest money back.
But how could she? Not after the filthy things she had heard coming through the doorway. She couldn't just sit there on a wooden stool and take it like a dog being scolded for breaking a plate. They did this. They went behind her back, treated her like a piece of livestock, and traded her off for a pouch of coin as if she were nothing more than a spare chair or an old chest of drawers. They were the ones to blame, not her.
Something hot and suffocating bubbled up inside her chest, choking her breath into raspy, uneven gasps. She clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white, her short nails digging painfully into her palms. The bubbling painted every word Mrs. Fitz had spoken in a violent, bloody red. A single, scalding tear broke free, tracking a path down her cheek, but she swiped it away with the back of her forearm before it could fall.
She had trusted them. They were the only family she had ever known, the people who had taken her in when the rest of the world felt cold and vast—and they had betrayed her without a second thought. They had abandoned her, stripping away her choices just like her father had done years ago.
What was it about her that made people so repulsed? What flaw did she carry beneath her skin that made everyone want to push her off onto someone else the very moment a purse of coin was dangled in front of them?
Amy collapsed onto her mattress, burying her face in her hands and rubbing her cheeks raw to chase away the burning sensation behind her eyes.
A quiet knock sounded at her door.
"Are you still awake?"
It was Mrs. Fitz.
"Amy?"
Amy froze on her bed, her breath catching in her throat. There was something wrong with the woman's voice through the thick wood. It had a strange, raspy strain to it, a ragged edge that wasn't usually there. Maybe all the screaming had finally torn her throat up. Amy gritted her teeth and stared at the dark doorframe, determined not to answer. She wasn't going to talk to her—not tonight, not ever again if she could help it.
A second, softer knock echoed through the room, followed by her name called out one last time. When no answer came, the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps slowly receded down the hallway. Just before the noise faded entirely, Mrs. Fitz made a ragged, choked sound—a wet, hitching noise that almost sounded like sobbing.
Amy scoffed under her breath, turning her back to the door. As if Mrs. Fitz could ever cry. As if a woman made of iron and spite had tears to shed.
She tossed and turned on the thin mattress for what felt like hours, but sleep refused to come. Her mind was a chaotic storm of red anger and cold fear. She wanted to go outside, to feel the cool night air and clear the suffocating fog from her lungs, but she wasn't sure if the Fitzgeralds were still sitting out in the common room, waiting to corner her again. She had had more than enough of that conversation for one night.
Creeping off the bed, she moved over to the small, wooden-louvered window. She unlatched it as silently as possible and slithered through the narrow opening, landing in the damp grass outside as light and quick as an alley cat
Standing in the shadow of the cottage, she raised her head, staring up at the vast, indigo sky. The stars above were bright and sharp, glittering like cold ice. Even the heavens seemed to be watching her tonight. They knew she wasn't in the wrong. They knew none of this was her fault. Didn't they?
A sharp wood-on-wood creak sounded from the dark corner of the farmstead behind her.
Amy snapped her head around, her heart jumping straight into her throat. A tall figure emerged from the deep shadow of the grain shed, shrouded in a dark traveler's cloak with a pulled-up hood obscuring their face.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice tight with panic.
She edged backward across the grass, her eyes locked on the shadowy shape. The figure continued walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps, closing the distance she was trying to create.
"S-stop!" she choked out.
The figure froze in place instantly.
"If you take a single step closer, I'll scream," Amy warned, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "The neighbors will be over that fence faster than you can run."
"Now, we can't have that," a low, familiar voice murmured from beneath the cloth.
The figure raised two hands, palms open, and slowly pushed back the woolen hood. Even in the dim starlight, the sharp contours of his face and the calm, steady gaze were unmistakable.
"Cassian?"
"Hello, Amy," he said softly.
She stared at him, her pulse racing. "What are you doing out here?"
"The place I'm staying at isn't that far from here," he replied casually.
"There are no taverns anywhere near this road."
"Are you sure about that?"
Amy frowned, her defensive guard spiking higher. She had lived in this district for as long as she could form memories; she knew every crooked alley, every fence line, and every barn in this neighborhood. There was nowhere for a traveler to sleep within a mile except open fields.
"What do you want?" she asked, stepping back another inch.
"I want to help," he said, taking one small, cautious step forward.
"I said don't move!"
Cassian stopped immediately, letting out a long, quiet sigh that clouded in the night air. "Okay. I heard what you were saying inside. And I can help you."
Amy's eyes widened in disbelief, a cold wave of embarrassment crashing over her. "You were eavesdropping? How long were you sitting under my window?"
"Long enough to know that you need a way out," he said, his voice entirely devoid of pity or mock comfort. It was just a plain, cold statement of fact.
"I don't need your help."
Cassian simply stared at her, his dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made the hair on her arms stand up. For a brief, terrifying second, a primal instinct in the back of Amy's mind screamed at her to run into the dark and lock herself in the barn.
"You're being sold off," Cassian said quietly, laying the words bare between them. "Traded away for coin to a man you despise."
"That's none of your business," she spat, though her voice lacked conviction.
"You're right. It isn't," he conceded smoothly. "So I don't intend to force you into anything. I only wish to offer you freedom."
Amy stood frozen in the cold grass. She had only known this man for three days. She had just caught him spying on her home, listening in on an intimate, private family disgrace that she would have died rather than share with a stranger. By every rule of common sense, she should have screamed for Mr. Fitz, turned on her heel, or told him to rot in the dirt. She shouldn't have listened to another word coming out of his mouth.
And yet, she couldn't move her feet.
"How?" she whispered, the word escaping before she could stop it.
"I leave Solmere soon," Cassian said, stepping back slightly to give her space. "You can leave with me. That way, you don't get married this weekend. I'm not asking you to make a scene or run off right this second. You can stay tonight, think it over, gather your clothes, pack whatever small belongings you care about. But I leave in two days. Make your decision before then. It's as simple as that."
Amy swallowed hard, her throat feeling bone-dry. "And if I refuse?"
"Then I leave anyway," he replied plainly, shifting his weight. "Like I said, I'm not here to carry you off against your will. I have no interest in dragging a crying girl across the southern border."
He turned on his heel, his cloak sweeping around his boots as he began walking away into the darkness of the orchard.
"Think about it," his voice floated back through the trees. "That's all I'm saying."
Amy stood alone in the dark, watching the shadows swallow him whole. He was a complete stranger. She had known him for less than a week, and he was already showing himself to be secretive, dangerous, and entirely untrustworthy. Trusting a man like him was foolish—maybe even suicidal.
But as she looked back at the dark, silent cottage where her future had just been sold for a purse of silver, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she couldn't raise the copper in time. That was an inescapable fact.
Cassian was offering her a path out of Solmere. He was offering her an exit before the trap snapped shut. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and as the cold night wind brushed against her face, Amy realized that trusting a dangerous stranger might be the only weapon she had left.