Page 110 of The Worst of Them

As they started toward the road, Cecily smirked. “We were drunk. Couldn’t make it that far.”

“Ooooh, I don’t believe that would’ve stopped you.” Hester snickered. “You know, you look at him like he’s a dessert, my ever-so good and pious Cecily. I doubt you even know it. He does, judging by that godawful look he gets in his eye when he sees you. Like you’re a dessert too.”

“I don’t look at him in any sort of way,” she said, as staunchly deadpan as she’d always been with Hester. Though it seemed Jack hadn’t only taken her heart, but also her ability to control her expression.

“You do,” Hester said, “and he’s mad for you.” She pulled Cecily closer, laughing in her ear as she added, “I wish you every happiness, especially later when he finally⁠—”

Cecily shoved Hester away, which only made her cackle louder. They continued down the road, teasing and jeering, then Hester peeled off for the beach while Cecily headed for the inn.

When she reached her door, unease settled over her. At first, she couldn’t place it. The answer nagged at her from the back of her mind like a shifting shadow, eager to shame her the moment it revealed itself.

Then a flash of memory—a red coat on a wicked woman.

Her stomach plunged. Cecily had forgotten all about Morgyn, distracted by witches, forests, rum, and marriage.

But Morgyn had taken her coat. She’d worn it last night after she’d stolen it, and the only way she could have done it was if she’d somehow been in Cecily’s room.

Cecily thought back to the morning before, scrambling for any memory, any sliver of a hint of a clue that she’d ever locked her door…and came up with nothing. She’d been so happy to be with Jack, so safe with her knives and her love that she had never returned to lock her door.

Holding her breath, she reached for the latch. The door was already unlocked, and it swung in.

Cold sweat slicked down her back as she stood on the threshold, waiting for something to jump out at her. The bed was still unmade, just as she’d left it, but her pack—which she’d left hanging on a hook with all her money and few possessions—was gone.

She hadn’t taken it with her yesterday.

She stepped inside, checked under the bed, tore back the blanket on the bed, searched every drawer and nook and cranny. Her new clothes were there, but her coat and her pack—her precious pack—was nowhere to be found.

Her fingers twitched toward her hip. Breath sawed through her nose, growing louder, harsher, as her own folly settled on her.

Foolish. How foolish she’d been. Of course Morgyn would have eyes on her, and of course she’d been robbed. She would not forget Cecily just because they’d left the ship, and she would exact her revenge until she was satisfied.

This wouldn’t end until one of them was dead. But Cecily would end it.

A vengeful curse tore from her throat, burning all the way out. She didn’t care if her vengeance would be right—she wanted her peace.

She only made it as far as the street, for when she tore open the door to the inn and stepped out into the sun, she was met by a swarm of constables.

26

THE MIGHTY FALL

Cecily saw herself standing on a brothel doorstep, covered in blood and holding a broken glass bottle. Dread doused her murderous rage as she faced the constables. Part of her wondered if they were here to help her, but she knew they were not.

She blinked, and the brothel, the blood, and the murder weapon disappeared, leaving her standing before the inn, her thoughts suddenly stilted by memory and confusion as she faced the dozen men before her.

“Cecily Shoard?” one of them said.

Her gaze dropped to the red coat in his hand.

That was hers. Morgyn had taken it. And though the past and present blurred together, she knew there was no blood on her hands this time, no crime committed.

She wanted her coat back, so she reached for it and said, “That’s mine⁠—”

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say. Suddenly she was surrounded, subdued by six men before her mind could catch up, before she had a chance to realize what was happening.

“Cecily Shoard, you’re under arrest,” said the one holding her coat. She gaped at him, her arms pinned to her sides by different constables on a different day in a different place.

Arrest. Under arrest. She’d heard those words before, but a different time, a different place, different, it was different⁠—