Darkwood by M. E. Breen Read Free Book Online Page B

until her stomach swelled like a gourd. The water tasted of tin and damp wood and something else, something faintly sweet. She tipped the bucket nearly vertical to drain it.
    â€œOy!” The scarred man knocked the bucket away. “Easy now.”

    Annie was glad he’d tied her facing away from him because she was crying. She’d tried. She’d really tried very hard to avoid this, and it had come to nothing. Annie covered her face. Tears slid down her wrists into the sleeves of her dress. Worse than being bound like an animal, worse than what waited for her, was the fact of her own stupidity. She should have listened to Grandmother Hoop.
    â€œYou cry, if it makes you feel better,” the scarred man said cheerfully. “After today, you won’t have the energy to spare.”

    They drove west past Gorgetown, covering the very ground she had covered the day before. When they reached the cliffs they turned south, and the landmarks Annie recognized from her games with Gregor—the black rock jutting over the gorge like a giant anvil, the cluster of stones ringed with tonsure moss where they had buried the body of a bird—gave way to a flat, unchanging landscape of yellow dirt and scrub brush.
    The first sound she heard was familiar, though out of place: the
thud, swing, thud
of ax against wood. There was a high, whirring noise she couldn’t place, and a soft
tink, tink
that sounded like breaking ice. Then men’s voices, and the unmistakable
gong!
of a dropped iron pot. The wagon rolled past a cluster of tents, then past a cooking area cluttered with dirtypots and pans and water buckets, then on past a group of men repairing baskets made from birch bark. The last thing they passed was a long, low building without windows, set somewhat apart from the rest of the camp. Thick smoke hung over the building, though Annie could see no chimney.
    The wagon shifted as the scarred man got down from his seat. And then he was facing her, smiling.
    â€œWelcome to the Drop.”

    A bald man with a furry mole on his scalp hurried over.
    â€œChopper. He’s here. Just a friendly visit, he says. Just a friendly visit.”
    Annie glanced at the scarred man. Chopper was his name? Well, it fit. He was looking past her, his expression anxious, almost wistful. She followed his gaze. Walking back and forth along the cliff top, his hands clasped behind him and his head tipped forward as though he were composing a poem, was Frank Gibbet.
    The man with the mole glanced at Annie. “New catch? That’s the third this month.”
    Chopper shrugged. “Hard times. Ask him if he wants to have a look at this one, since he’s here.”
    While Chopper untied her, Annie kept her eyes on Gibbet. The man with the mole was a big fellow, taller than Gibbet, but the impression she had watching them was of Gibbet looking down at the other man, like a parent barely tolerating the ignorant questions of a child.
    The men walked toward them. Annie wanted to hide, but Chopper stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. Would Gibbet know her somehow? Would they find the white ringstone hidden in the hem of her skirt along with Gregor’s rock? Or the vial from Grandmother Hoop, buried in a pocket within a pocket so deep it almost reached her knees? What about the lock of Page’s hair, pressed over her heart?
    Gibbet looked her over carefully. Annie looked anywhere but his face. He peered at the top of her head. He inspected the end of her braid. He lifted each of her hands and examined the fingernails. His hands were as rough and cold as granite.
    â€œTurn,” he said to Chopper, and Chopper turned her.
    â€œSearch,” Gibbet said next, and Chopper led her to a sagging canvas tent. A girl with stringy hair and a face like a dinner plate waited inside. She helped Annie undress and handed her clothes out to Chopper, then walked around her in a slow circle while Annie shivered.
    â€œAny