Page 111 of The Worst of Them

“This is a mistake,” she cried, twisting against the constables’ hold. It was the same thing she’d said that night, after the glass had shattered, after she had shattered. “I didn’t⁠—”

“For arson,” the constable continued, reading from a warrant. “Theft, fraud, and public indecency.” He lifted her coat. “A dozen witnesses and more are willing to testify to seeing you last night wearing this distinct coat.”

As the past and present warred within her, she screamed past the noise and fear, “I didn’t do it!”

With a violent jerk, she forced herself free. She managed to grab a knife from her belt, which she plunged into a man’s arm. He screamed and hurled himself away, and she cut another, thrust her blade into a third. She reached for a second blade, but the other constables were too close and descended too quickly to fight them all at once. They regained their hold, tighter this time, and forced her to her knees.

Shackles clapped around her wrists.

Memory surged again, this time as a cold, dark prison cell, laughing guards, terror, so much terror.

She screamed again, thrashing as hands patted her down, finding every hidden knife and throwing them into a pile. Tears streamed down her face as they clapped a second pair of irons around her ankles.

She couldn’t think. There was no sense in her mind, so she shrieked, cursed, and fought as the constables lifted her to her feet and shoved her down the road, her shackles clanking.

She yelled for Hester and all of her friends. She cried out for Jack again and again—he expected her, but he would not find her.

Cecily might’ve descended into madness then, screeching, hissing, yowling until she tasted blood. There came a shouted command, a grunted affirmation, and then the butt of a gun crashed into her skull.

The world went dark.

Pain lanced through Cecily’s head, then dulled to a terrible throbbing. Wincing, she pushed herself up and opened her eyes.

Stone walls surrounded her, broken only by a door with a grate and a high, barred window that let in fading evening light. Thin patches of dirty straw and a bucket in the corner were an all-too-familiar sight, and her teeth clicked as tremors wracked her body and tears pushed to her eyes.

Not again. She couldn’t be here—not again.

A place like this was the fodder for her nightmares, the very reason she’d needed her little home in her head. She tried to summon it now, but panic swelled so quickly that she couldn’t call anything to mind beyond her own fear.

She threw herself at the door, banging her fists, tearing her nails, screaming for Jack, for anyone. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew it was futile. They wouldn’t let her out, nor could she claw her way through stone or wood—but the terror told her that if she could make them as afraid as she was, something might change.

Anything. She’d do anything.

Hours had passed, and the Fortuna Royale was supposed to leave at dawn. If Jack had known where she was, he would have come by now. Had he searched for her? Was he looking for her now?

Would he go without her?

No doubt his father would try to force him. It would be a convenient way to be rid of her, as he was most certainly eager to do now that he knew of their marriage, her talent with a sword be damned. Even with the information she held about Robin’s map, Copson could find other ways to get his treasure. Besides, she had already asked to leave once before, so the captain could easily spin lies that she had chosen to go.

Jack had to know she would never leave him, but if he listened to his father, if he thought she took advantage of him to pursue her own ends, that she’d decided a life with him was too much for her…

She could be here for a long time.

The realization shocked her into silence, and she stepped away from the door, her blood pounding in her ears.

At the end of the corridor, guards were speaking in Spanish. Cecily had spent enough time around officers these past weeks to pick up enough.

Lovely…for the governor…likes the pretty ones…

An image of the brothel slipped through her mind. She took the thought, strangled it, and shoved it away.

She had to get hold of herself—think, plan, connive her way out. This jail wasn’t like Newgate or Bridewell, and they wouldn’t have the kinds of resources those prisons did. A guard would have to come for her eventually, and even if she didn’t have a knife, she didn’t need one. If she was prepared this time, if she could keep her bloody head this time, she might manage to fight and escape.

She prowled through her tiny cell, cataloging every detail of her surroundings, the guards’ voices, the length of her nails, the strength in her jaw, whatever she might use as a weapon.

She’d do anything. Anything. If Jack didn’t come⁠—

Keys were shoved in the lock, and Cecily whirled to face the door. The moment it opened, and she flung herself forward, fingers curled into claws.