The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) Read Free Page B

the snap of whips cracking at oxen. I pick up my skirts as I dart forward, dashing into the fields, heading toward the city wall. I run, but the space between us narrows. Father hollers after me again, his furious voice growing louder, closer. My legs burn, but fear churns them harder, faster. I look to either side, scanning the fields for Ivo’s silhouette, unable to find it.
    ”Ivo!” I cry. ”Ivo!”
    But it isn’t Ivo I see. It is his father, Erik. His red hair beams like a lantern a few furlongs ahead.
    “Erik!” I call, pushing my legs harder.
    I feel the breeze of Papa’s hand as it swipes past my shoulder, and I cry out. I open my mouth to yell out for Erik again, but my toe catches on a jagged rock, and I gasp instead.
    I catch the sight of the stone just as the ground comes up to meet me. I shield my face, bracing for the fall. The crack of my skull against the rock sounds before the searing pain registers. I roll to my side with a moan. The cold ground embraces me as the darkness takes me away.

    A great crowd swarms Hay Market.
    Why? Why are so many people here?
    Smoke slinks heavily between their feet, and the fumes fill my nose. I put my hand to my face and cough.
    It is a dark, starless night, but a rich fiery light flickers off the sides of the throng of blank faces, each staring in the same direction.
    “What’s happening?” I nudge the moon–faced boy beside me, but he does not move. His eyes do not flinch at my touch.
    What is everyone looking at? I push up on the tops of my toes. A thousand heads block the view, fading into the smoke.
    A thought warns me: Turn around. Go home. I shake the words from my head and surge forward.
    I shimmy through the crowd, gently at first, excusing myself. No one moves aside. No one complains. No one acknowledges me at all. They are as stubborn and stupid as cattle. I push harder, shoving old ladies and burghers’ wives. And strangely, no one chides my ill manners.
    Smoke thickens, and I put my sleeve to my mouth and nose to filter the stench. The rich smoke reeks of burning flesh—like a hundred pigs cooked far too long over the spit. A gag rises in the back of my throat, and I turn my back to the cloud, hoping to catch clean air.
    I expect to look upon a sea of faces, but all I see are the backs of heads again. I whirl around, and the same sight is before me. Fear and foreboding push the hairs up on my arms and neck.
    I push on—faster now—making my way through the crowd, jumping up to see my progress. The throng extends into the horizon still, as far as my eyes can see, vanishing into a wall of smoke. I charge through the throng at a run, shouldering through them, holding one hand to my mouth to muffle the smoke. The silence is menacing. I run faster and harder until I unexpectedly, suddenly break through. I am falling.
    I land in the downy plume with a swoosh . It puffs up in a large splash, shooting up a thousand fireflies with it. They scatter into the darkness as the feathery substance snows down. I hold out my hand and capture a few flakes, rubbing the warm snow between my fingers, turning it to powder. I place the powder to my nose, inhaling its smoky odor.
    Ashes.
    I am swimming in ashes.
    The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils again. A chill rides up my spine, and I jump up, brushing the ashes from the bottoms of my sleeve, my chainse. These aren’t the cinders of timbers. They are the cinders of people.
    The roar of fire, and the flicker of flames forces my gaze up.
    I see a boy, almost a man, tied to a stake. His head bows. His legs are withered, wrinkled, black. I hope the smoke has killed him, that he no longer suffers. A breeze blows the smoke toward me. I keel over, gagging at the stench. The wind turns, and I compose myself, drinking clean air in gulps.
    “Addie,” someone whispers, and I look up. The boy on the stake is still. “Addie,” it hisses again menacingly. I turn in every direction, looking for the whisperer. A firefly