Ash & Bramble by Sarah Prineas Read Free Book Online Page A

around my waist, holding me beside her.
    â€œStop,” she hisses, and I feel her forked tongue flicker against my ear. “Stop. Or you will be punished.” She nods at the wall, and I see what she means—if I protest I will be impaled on the thorns beside Marya.
    Trembling, I stand beside the Overseer. My ears strain, listening for another moan, but I hear nothing. I want to help Marya, to climb the brambles and ease her from the thorns and wrap her in a blanket so she’ll at least be warm as she dies. I want to whisper that her handsome young man is waiting for her. But it is too late for that.
    This lesson, I feel suddenly and coldly sure, is meant for me. A wave of prickling dread washes over my skin. Shoe said that the Godmother would know I was planning to escape, and she does—she must . Even now, her guards are discovering the hidden rope; they are questioning the Jack about the grappling hook. They must know about Shoe, too. I’ve dragged him into more trouble and he can’t bear any more—I know it—and he’ll be broken, the way Marya was broken. Shoe was right. I feel hot and cold at once, and shivery with terror. When we go back to the sewing room, they will be waiting for me.
    My heart is pounding, and my knees are shaking. Thehealing welts on the back of my neck burn. But all I can do is stand silently with the other Seamstresses. I put my hand into my pocket, seeking strength from my thimble, but for the first time, it stays cold.
    Drops of blood from Marya’s bone-white foot fall onto the cobblestones. One drop, two drops, a third, and fourth.
    After a long time, the drops stop falling. Quietly, softly, what was Marya has gone, and she is just a body now, hanging limply from the thorns.
    The Overseer hisses, and the guards lead us back across the cobblestones to the sewing room. I hold my breath, waiting for the accusing finger, for the guards and the screaming, but all is quiet. We settle at the long table. With trembling fingers, we take up our needles, our thread, our damask and velvet.
    My silken rope, undiscovered, is a weight on my lap, under my apron. Now that I have seen the wall, I am sure that my rope is long enough.
    Maybe the Godmother knows.
    It doesn’t matter if she does.
    They will not take Marya’s body down. It will hang there, this lesson.
    But here is the irony: the lesson I am learning is not at all what they intend. Their lesson has made me even more determined to escape.
    T HE WAX CANDLE at my elbow gutters; it’s burned down to a stub. Until this moment, I am not sure how to continueplanning my escape, but as my candle flickers out, I hide the rope under the bench and get to my feet. The Overseer sees and glides over to me.
    â€œWe need more candles,” I explain, bowing my head with false meekness. “I will fetch them, if you like.”
    The Overseer fixes me with a long stare. “Sssahhh,” she breathes. Then she writes out a blue requisition form and leads me to the door, where she tells me how to find the Candlemakers.
    I go straight to the workrooms of the Candlemakers. In exchange for the requisition, they give me a box full of the best wax candles, and, when I ask, a few extra. I start to carry the box back to the sewing room, but on the way I make a few stops, have a few words with the Spinsters of straw into gold, and with the Bakers, and do a little sniffing around. More rags and patches for my plan.
    It’s getting late and I should stay away, but I can’t. If I’m going to escape from here, I at least need to see Shoe again before I go. So I climb the stairs to his workroom and, setting the box of candles on the floor, tap on his door.
    No answer.
    Quietly I open the door. The room is not large, just his shelves of supplies and racks of tools, a work bench, and a table and chair. Shoe is at the table with his head down, resting on one arm. I ease inside the room and close the door behind me,