My other option is to break down part of the walls that hold me in, something I’ve already tried to do and failed. My first night here, I kicked the wall between my cell and the empty one on my right until part of a board splintered, but by then my back was a mess of blood and pain and weakness, and I couldn’t make enough headway to do any good. I’ve tried again and again, but the rough boards are stronger than they look, and every hour I go without food weakens my efforts further.

Besides, even if I could break out of my cell, where would I go? The pipe is out—I need to be inside Rowansmark disabling tech or, failing that, lighting all of the barracks, armories, and tech labs on fire. The stairs are out, too. I have no doubt that at least one guard is posted on the other side of the dungeon’s door. I’m weaponless and weak. Fighting my way to freedom isn’t an option.

That leaves the window beside Marcus’s cell, but it’s barred. I’m trapped, growing weaker by the day, and I’m no closer to saving Logan than I was when I first decided to remain Ian’s prisoner instead of let Quinn take me into the Wasteland—a decision I’m trying hard not to regret.

The door at the top of the stairs creaks open, and footsteps stomp down the stairs. Quickly, I lean against the wall beside my door, where I have the best chance of seeing the window once the butler enters my room, and wait.

In seconds, the chain across my door rattles, and he comes in carrying a mug of water. Seeing that I’m beside the door frame, he grabs my left arm with his free hand and pulls me away from the door. Spinning me toward my bunk, he propels me forward and then shoves me forcibly onto the bed.

“Think you’re going to just walk out of here, do you?” he asks, his tone brisk and impatient.

I close my eyes to stop the room from spinning and to keep him from seeing the tears that threaten to fall. “No,” I say quietly. “I know I’m going to die here.”

Something skitters along the wall between my cell and Marcus’s, like fingernails dragging along the wood. The butler turns his head and snaps, “Stop that!”

Marcus hums loudly, a wild, discordant tune that sounds worse than his fingernails did.

The butler mutters something under his breath and then gives me the mug of water. “Here. Drink.”

“Why bother?”

There is no way out. I’m going to die in here, and then Logan is going to be killed on a fool’s errand to rescue me, and no one will be left to stand up for those who have no power to fight back.

“Giving up already?” the butler asks in a voice that says he really doesn’t care. “Took that one five times as long to lose hope.” He nods toward Marcus’s cell, where he is muttering what sounds like a complicated math equation over and over again.

“Did it take him that long to lose his sanity, too? Or did he snap when his own son was forced to whip him almost to death?” My words are bitter, but it isn’t just for Marcus’s sake. Every loss, starting with my father and ending with Sylph, every sacrifice, and every promise I swore to keep was all for what? So that the men who started this nineteen years ago could survive to rule the world at the expense of everyone else?

The silence within me shivers, tempting me to seal up the cracks I made in it when I grieved for Sylph. When I held Melkin’s baby girl. I could shove the desperation and the crushing sense of failure into that black hole inside of me and feel nothing at all as I slowly starve to death.

Or I could take a drink of water, move my back before my wounds stiffen up, and keep thinking of another way out of this.

Another way to make the losses and the sacrifices count for something.

The butler shrugs and starts to take the mug away, but at the last second I snatch it from him with shaky hands and drain it dry.

Maybe I am trapped. Maybe I’ll die here. But it won’t be because I gave up. Oliver once told me that hope is precious, and that it’s worth hanging on to even when all seems lost. I’m going to take him at his word.

Quinn is inside Rowansmark looking for me. Logan is smart enough to realize there’s an ambush here even though he has no idea how dangerous it really is. I’m a fighter, both by nature and by choice.

And I am getting out of this dungeon.

An idea hits me just as the butler is closing the door of my cell.

“Do you know Samuel?” I ask, keeping my voice breathy and faint. Not difficult, since the water sloshing around in my empty stomach makes me painfully aware that I need food badly.

“I know several Samuels.” He shuts the door and begins lacing the chain through the lock.

“The Samuel who brought me here. Who whipped me. The one who arrived on the boat with Ian. He’s a tracker, dark skin and gray hair. Do you know him?”

The chain links clank together as he finishes securing my door. “I know him, girl, but that isn’t going to help you any. You’re a prisoner because you’ve wronged Rowansmark. No loyal citizen is going to want anything to do with you.”

“I know. I . . . please, wait.” My voice rises as he moves toward Marcus’s cell. “I’m dying. We both know it. I can’t go without food for much longer. Samuel is a good man. He respected my father. I want to tell him where my father is buried. That’s all.”

The man snorts. “And why would you do that?”

“Because I want to be buried beside him.” My throat closes and my eyes sting as I remember that cold, ash-coated plot of dirt. The white cross Quinn carved. The way everything in me emptied out while I lay across Dad’s grave and the way a shell of the girl I once was rose in my place.