Chapter 3

A thin sheet of ice covered the gravel road, crunching beneath every step.

I pushed Zenobia along it.

Each time my knees bent, the old, broken-open wounds seeped fresh blood.

For three years now, the injuries they'd inflicted on me had split open, scabbed over, and split again.

My skin had long since lost its normal elasticity.

Jerome followed two paces behind.

He had someone bring me a pair of knee pads.

"Don't push yourself. I didn't tell you to push her on your knees."

Someone hooted from behind. "Jerome's gone soft. If it were me, I'd have made her crawl while she pushed."

Jerome shot him a glance and replied, his tone neither sharp nor mild.

"This is punishment, not torture. The point is to make her remember what she did wrong."

Remember what I did wrong.

I'd been hearing those words for three years.

The wind picked up at the bend, and I lowered my head, putting more weight into pushing the chair.

Zenobia didn't turn around. She lowered her voice.

"That parka of yours—the fabric's pretty thick. How many times did your brother have to sell his blood to afford it?"

My step faltered for a beat.

Her tone stayed casual. "Enough to cover a pair of my shoes?"

I stopped.

It wasn't anger. My fingers were spasming. I couldn't keep a grip on the handles.

Jerome came up beside me.

"Why'd you stop?"

Zenobia's eyes reddened, her voice fragile.

"Jerome, it's my fault. I was just trying to comfort Leona, and I said it wrong, and now I've upset her…"

Jerome looked between us and said evenly, "Leona, apologize to Zenobia."

Apologize to her? For what?

The words caught in my throat. I didn't say them.

Not because I didn't want to. Because saying them wouldn't matter.

For three years, Zenobia would always strike first, then play the wounded victim in front of Jerome, and the ending was always the same.

The one apologizing was always me.

"And if I don't?"

Jerome was silent for a few seconds, as if seriously weighing some fair solution.

"Then I'll have to reconsider next month's winter supplies for the orphanage."

His tone carried a reprimand.

Winter on the plateau dropped to thirty below. The orphanage had twenty-seven children. The youngest was only four.

The blankets weren't thick enough. There weren't enough medicines. The coal they used for heating wouldn't last till spring.

Over the years, in the name of atonement, Jerome had taken control of every resource connected to me.

When he chose to loosen his grip depended entirely on his mood.

I lowered my head. "I'm sorry."

Zenobia tilted her head.

"Leona, you're too quiet. The wind's loud—I didn't catch that."

"I'm. So. Sorry!"

I said it again, louder.

Zenobia smiled, satisfied, as if she'd finally gotten me to bow my head.

When she'd first arrived in New York, she hadn't even owned a decent coat. I was the one who'd given her my clothes, my contacts, every resource I had.

But now—what she loved most was watching me kneel and apologize to her.

She tucked the blanket closer and said softly,

"Leona, if you'd only been this obedient from the start, wouldn't life have been easier?"

Jerome's friends behind us were murmuring that I clearly still loved him, otherwise I wouldn't be this compliant.

I pushed the chair forward another two steps.

"Jerome."

He gave a noncommittal hum.

"All these years, all those apologies—did you ever, even once, actually hear them?"

The wind howled.

He didn't answer.

"Forget it. It doesn't matter."

I turned my head and kept pushing.

By four in the afternoon, the light was already fading fast.

The moment the high-altitude sun dipped below the horizon, the temperature plunged toward forty below.

I wheeled Zenobia back to her tent.

Just as she was about to go inside, she turned and looked at me, about to say something—but Jerome got there first.

He stood at the tent's entrance, his tone as imperious as ever.

"Leona."

His gaze swept over my hands, blue with cold, and my scab-covered knees, as if doling out the last of his patience.

"Stop throwing tantrums. If you behave, I'll let the matter with Zenobia drop, and you won't have to worry about your brother's medical bills anymore."

My fingertips clenched tight at my sides.

But he took it for hesitation, and his voice softened.

"I'll send people to handle the hospital end of things. The best doctors, the best medication—we can even discuss treatment options abroad."

"But only if you stop upsetting Zenobia."

Snow blew into my throat, and I almost tasted blood.

He said it so easily.

He didn't know. Duncan didn't need doctors anymore. He didn't need medication.

Zenobia, in her wheelchair, gave Jerome's sleeve a small tug.

"Jerome, I'm a little cold. Let's go inside."

The tent flap fell shut.

I stood where I was, the snow pouring into my throat, like a dull blade slowly slicing open my chest.

The phone in my pocket buzzed.

The number for the funeral home at the foot of the mountain.

"Hello, ma'am. Please come to collect your brother Duncan's ashes on time."

I clutched the phone, my knuckles white.

"He left instructions before he passed—that the ashes be handed to you personally. He said he still owed you a trip home."

The line went dead.

I looked out into the storm and whispered to myself:

Duncan, wait for me. I'm coming to bring you home.