At thirty, her head lolled to the side and her eyes were open and vacant. Gone. Wherever she was, it was far from this square, far from this post, far from the man with the whip and the crowd that watched and the kingdom that had decided this was justice.
At thirty-eight, the man paused. Wiped his brow. Took a drink of water.
The casualness of it made Fin's vision tunnel. The man was hydrating. Between lashes. He was treating this the way a laborer treats a midday break, the refreshment of a man with a physical job whose physical job was destroying a child's back and whose thirst was the only discomfort he was experiencing.
"I will find you." Fin's voice was quiet now. "I will find whatever's left of you and I will make it wish it had never held a whip."
The promise was made to a man who couldn't hear it. Fin meant every word with a conviction that guaranteed he would.
Resumed.
Thirty-nine. Forty.
