The prisoners had been left standing, their arms pulled back and chained around the crystals. Zoe moved among them as quietly as she could. Their hooded heads hung low. They made no sounds at all. If Zoe hadn’t seen their chests moving, she wouldn’t have known they were breathing. Only two of them were women.
She thought about how far away her own mother was. She pictured her and Jonah on the living room floor, begging Uhura to eat. The pain of missing them was so sudden and sharp that she had to force them into the Do Not Open box in her brain. They didn’t want to go.
The first woman wore a pale green, medieval-looking linen dress that had been embroidered with pearls, though most had fallen off or been stolen.
“I’m a friend,” Zoe whispered.
She went to remove the woman’s hood so she could see her face, but her hands were shaking. She calmed herself, and tried again. The woman’s silver-white hair fell down past her shoulders. She was in her seventies.
She wasn’t X’s mother.
The woman had a soft, round face and gray-blue eyes, which she immediately closed against the light. There was a reason she hadn’t spoken: there was a large gray stone wedged in her mouth.
Zoe wished she could have freed the woman—she wanted to free all of them—but she had no idea what the repercussions would be if she did. She touched the woman’s hair on impulse. She couldn’t imagine what someone like her had been sent to the Lowlands for. Without opening her eyes, the woman tilted her head and rubbed Zoe’s hand, like a cat.
Zoe was close to tears when she walked away. It was partly because she missed her own mother. But it was mostly because there was only one woman left in the Cave of Swords.
Zoe had no doubt that this was the one: she could see her pale hands in the manacles and her black hair trailing down from her hood.
When Zoe got to her, she swept the crystals on the floor aside, making a clearing where she could stand.
“It’s okay,” she told the woman, as if she were calming a frightened horse. “I’ll be gentle.”
She pulled up the hood.
She saw a face so much like X’s that, for a second, she couldn’t breathe.
twenty-four
Zoe eased the stone out of the woman’s mouth. It was scratched and scored all over: tooth marks.
The woman coughed, gulped in air, winced at the light.
“Is your name Versailles?” said Zoe.
She had to speak louder than she’d wanted to because the water was falling again.
The woman looked at Zoe but her eyes didn’t seem to focus. She didn’t answer. Zoe wondered if she could.
Even after 20 years in a hood and chains, the woman was astoundingly beautiful—more beautiful than Ripper. More beautiful than X, even. She looked like a portrait that had been painted to flatter a queen. She had the same hair as X. She had the same dark, questioning eyebrows, the same nearly black eyes. Her clothes were simple. Functional. She wore a frayed, blue-and-white gingham dress and sturdy work boots. Zoe had expected something fancier from a lord, but maybe, like Regent, the woman refused to steal from the weak.
Her lips were cracked. Zoe took off her thin sweater, which was still drenched from the last flood. She went to wipe the woman’s face. The woman jerked her back, suspicious. Zoe reminded herself that the prisoners here hadn’t seen another human being in years—and that the last one had been Dervish, who barely qualified.
She had to show the woman that she wasn’t a threat. She circled behind the crystal column and, without even wondering if she could do it, broke the chains. It gave her a rush to feel the iron come apart in her hands. The woman slid to the ground, rubbing her wrists and staring at her hands like she’d never seen them before. She nodded gratefully to Zoe, then looked at her feet, which were still bound.
Zoe ripped those chains apart, too.
She picked up the damp sweater again. She cooled the woman’s face with it, then pressed it against her dry lips.
Zoe repeated her question: “Is your name Versailles?”
The woman’s voice was raw.
“No,” she said.
Zoe slumped to the floor. A few of the other prisoners had heard voices, and were stirring. Maybe the woman was too far gone to remember her name? Or maybe Zoe had the wrong woman? She thought of X down in the tunnel, waiting. She’d promised him that she could do this.
“Are you sure?” she said.
It was a ridiculous question, but the only one she could think of.
The woman gestured for the wet sweater again, pressed it to her face, and sighed into it.
“Versailles,” she said slowly, “is only what they call me. It’s not my name. My name … is Sylvie.”
Zoe shot forward and hugged her.
Sylvie was shocked, but after a second Zoe could feel her relax into the hug and return it.
“I haven’t had a conversation in a long time,” Sylvie said. “But I don’t remember them being like this.”
“Sorry,” said Zoe. “We’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
Sylvie rubbed her throat.
“Who is ‘we’?” she said.
“I’m—I’m trying to think of a way to tell you,” said Zoe.
“My eyes are weak from wearing the hood,” said Sylvie, “but you seem very young. Just a girl.”
“I’m seventeen,” said Zoe.
“That’s not possible,” said Sylvie. “The Lowlands never take souls that age.”
“I’m only visiting,” said Zoe.
Sylvie shook her head in disbelief.
“My god, you do have a story to tell, don’t you?” she said. She began folding the sweater. “The way you broke the chains … I assumed you were a lord. Now I don’t know what to think.”
After a lifetime of blurting, Zoe truly did not know how to begin.
Sylvie handed back the sweater.
“Thank you for this,” she said. “Why have you been looking for me? Why did you break my chains?”
“Because I’m getting you out of here,” said Zoe.
Sylvie looked at her warily.
“This is some joke of Dervish’s,” she said.
“No,” said Zoe.
“Do you know why I was brought here?” said Sylvie. “Do you know what my ‘crime’ was?”
“You had a baby,” said Zoe.
“That’s right,” said Sylvie. “A boy. Did you know it was a boy?”
“Yes,” said Zoe.
“I gave birth almost a century after I died,” said Sylvie. “Not a bad trick, if you think about it.”
Her smile disappeared. Memories seemed to be crowding in.
“I named my boy before they took him away—just for myself. Just so I’d remember he was real. They couldn’t stop me from doing that, the bastards.”
“What did you name him?”
Sylvie withdrew from her memories, and looked at Zoe, as if she’d just realized she was there.
“You haven’t even told me your name,” she said.
“I’m Zoe Bissell.”
“And the lords know you’re freeing me?”
“Sort of? I’m not great at asking permission.”
“I never was either,” said Sylvie. “Be careful. This is where it landed me.”
“I’m always careful,” said Zoe. “Well, semi-careful.”
“If we only ‘sort of’ have the lords’ permission,” said Sylvie, “how are we going to get out of here?”
“We’re just going to walk out,” said Zoe. “Actually, we’re going to crawl, swim, climb—and then walk. Are you up to it?”
She stood, and reached down to Sylvie.
“Probably not,” said Sylvie, “but fortunately, I’m stubborn—and any cell at all will be paradise compared to this.” She took Zoe’s hand, and stood now, too. “You have to tell me why you came for me. Please. Who are you to me?”
Zoe said it as simply as she could.
“I know your son,” she said.
“My son?” said Sylvie. “My baby survived?”
“He did,” said Zoe. “He’s beautiful.” She paused. “And I’m in love with him.”
Sylvie put her face in her hands.
“This is all so much,” she said. “Promise me again that this isn’t a joke of Dervish’s.”
“I promise,” said Zoe.
“How old is my baby now?” said Sylvie.
“Twenty.”
“Twenty! I want to see him—to meet him.”
“You’re about to.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
Zoe expected her to be ecstatic, but Sylvie’s face darkened.
“He’s here in the Lowlands?” she said. “They kept him prisoner? A little boy?”
Again, Zoe answered plainly because there was no shielding Sylvie from the truth: “They did. I’m sorry. I’m here trying to get him out.”
Sylvie’s jaw tightened with anger. She took Zoe’s arm.