“Free labor,” Buff says. “Servants, young andfresh and moldable.”

That’s the theory we’ve been working under,but even as he says it, I know it’s a weak one. Why would the mostpowerful man in ice country need to kidnap servants when he can buyanyone he wants? “I don’t think that’s it anymore,” I say, wishingI didn’t have to say it. I can’t think about otherpossibilities—not now. Not when I’m so close to finding mysister.

“Then what?” Siena says.

I don’t answer.

No one answers, because we’re all thinkingthe same thing: something sick, something twisted. An addiction ofsorts involving little kids. My throat fills with bile.

“Don’t think about all that,” Skye sayssuddenly. My eyes flick to hers, relieved to hear her speak,although I’m not sure why. “What I wanna know is where myfath—where Roan got the Heater kids.”

“He just took them,” I say. I sense somethingbehind her words, something I’m missing. “Kids go missing and lifemoves on,” I add, knowing full well it doesn’t.

“Yeah, he took ’em alright,” Skye agrees,“but they didn’t just go missin’. We had lots of girls go missin’,but they were always older, like Siena and me when we ran away,fifteen, sixteen years old. Never heard of any disappearin’kids.”

“Skye’s righter’n rain,” Siena says. “Theonly time we ever lost kids was in accidents or early Fire, butthey always died…” Her words hang in the air like a dirty piece oflaundry blown off the clothesline, just before it’s swept away bythe wind.

“How old did you say the kids looked?” Feveasks.

I shrug. “I dunno. Seven, maybe eight.”

Skye curses. What am I missing?

“Oh, sun goddess,” Siena says, her voice awhisper so soft I wouldn’t know she said it if I didn’t see herlips move.

“That sonofablazeshooter,” Skye says, and myeyes dance back to her.

“What?” I say.

Skye looks at Siena. Siena looks at Skye.Siena releases Circ’s hand and reaches out toward Skye, as if justby stretching she might be able to touch her. “Skye?” Sienasays.

“Their younger sister,” Circ says. “She diedwhen she was seven. Her name was Jade.”

My breath catches in my throat.

Chapter Twenny-One

“Did you see herbody?” I ask, saying the wrong thing as usual.

Skye stands up, grabs the bars, tries toshake them, but they don’t so much as quiver. “The baggard. Thefilthy baggard,” she mutters while she yanks at the metal.

“She was taken by a brushfire,” Siena saysslowly. “Father said the flames were so hot that all t’was left wasash.”

“He cried for her, the no-good tug-lovin’baggard,” Skye spouts, pacing across her cell.

“They were real tears,” Siena says.

“No,” Skye says. “No, no, no! There wasnothin’ real ’bout them.” She starts pounding her fist into herhand.

“He didn’t wanna give her up,” Siena says.“He couldn’t. He was forced to. They were real tears.”

Skye just shakes her head, continues pacing.“You can think what you want, but if he was ’ere I’d kill himagin.”

“Your sister might be alive,” I say.

Skye stops short, stops pounding her fist,stops spouting “the baggard.”

“She’s not alive,” Skye says.

“She might be,” I insist. “How long ago wasthe fire that supposedly killed her?”

Skye shakes her head. Siena answers. “Sixyears,” she says.

“It’s a long time,” Feve says. “Don’t gettheir hopes up.” But by the look in Siena’s eyes, I can tell herhopes are already up. Way up.

“There’s always hope,” I say, but it’s for meas much as them.

“Skye?” Siena says. She needs her sister now.My words are just words, but her sister’s, they’re feelings.Beliefs that can become real if she will only speak them.

Everyone looks at Skye.

She’s sort of grimacing, chewing on somethingthat’s not there, like she’s trying to digest the possibility ofwhat a few minutes earlier was impossible.

“I dunno,” she says. “I just dunno. But whatI do know is that we can’t change what’s happened, but we can stopit from happening agin, save those it’s happened to. Your sister.Maybe ours if she’s there too. Jade.” I grab each of Skye’s words,bundle them in my arms, tuck them away somewhere to look at later,when I’m ready to hope again. I can see Siena doing the same, a bigsmile on her face.

Skye’s given us both the gift of hope. Iwonder if she saved any for herself.

~~~

While we’re all energized with Skye’s words,I tell them all about Wes, and how he’s going to get us out, andhow when he does, we’ll get them out too. The Wildes and Heater andMarked are all surprised, but pleased, and it only adds to therising level of excitement.

But then, all of a sudden, it’s as if anotherminute of talking is more than any of us can handle, because we’restill confined, still prisoners, so we retract into our cells andour own individual thoughts. Except for Buff and Wilde, who I hearwhispering to each other long after the rest of us stop listening.I wonder how that’s working out for him—flirting with theunflirtable.

But even they stop eventually, and all goesquiet.

It’s so quiet that I suspect at least a fewof the group have fallen asleep. I peek through the hole and try tosee Skye, but all I see is the cracked and chipped gray blocks ofthe opposite wall, painted shimmering hues of orange and red by theflickering torchlight.

I want to sleep too, to turn off my brain andlet the hours slip by until Wes comes to crack Big on the head andgive us our freedom back.

But I can’t, so I lay there in silence,worrying about Wes and Jolie, and wondering about Skye’s sister,Jade. Could she really be alive after all these years? Somewhere inthis very palace?

I hear a sound, a whispered conversation.Buff and Wilde chatting again? Nay, too close. Circ and Siena.

I slither forward noiselessly, till my ear isright against the bars but I’m still outta sight. It’s a terriblething to do, I know, spying and eavesdropping and all that, but Ijust have to. Everything about the thing Circ and Siena hasintrigues me. They seem younger than me, a year or two perhaps, andyet there’s such certainty in each other, in their togetherness.It’s fascinating and magnetic and I wonder just how rare it is.

I can’t hear their words, but their tonetells me everything. Soft, tender, occasionally broken by laughter.I peek through the bars. They’re holding hands again, and playingsome game with their fingers, trying to trap each other’s thumbs. Ismile, watching them do that simple thing in this impenetrabledungeon.

I don’t know how much time passes as I watchthem. They stop with the thumb fight and just talk and talk andtalk, like they’ve talked this way hundreds of times before, andwill continue hundreds of times after. So easy.

Finally, though, Circ rubs his eyes andscoots back, outta sight, presumably to take a nap. Siena stays bythe bars, however, flicking them lightly with her forefinger,making a soft ting!ing sound.

“Psst!” I hiss, my attention-getter ofchoice.

She turns, sees me, a snake with its headstuck through the bars.

She crawls over.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“For telling us what you did. It’s biggernews’n when good ol’ Veevs got all big with child.”

“Sounds like a big deal,” I joke.

“’Tis for me,” she says. “A year back I hadno sisters, thought Skye’d been taken by the Wildes, maybe killed.And of course, Jade was long gone. Now I might still have both. Ionly wish my mother could’ve known.”

“She passed?” I say.

“No, she’s dead,” Siena says, looking at mestrangely. “You’ve a funny way of talking, you know that?”

“I could say the same about you,” I say.

“’Spect so.” She goes back to ringing herfinger off the metal bars. The conversation fades for a minute as Imuster the courage to ask her what I want to. I feel silly justthinking it, especially since I’m older, probably more experiencedwith relationships, if you could call what I had with any of myexes relationships.