Stefan turned and saw Elizabeth face-first in the straw, her body slumped over, her arms behind her. She was unconscious. Stefan lifted his eyes to the wooden crossbeams of the ceiling as if to pray here in his squalor.
Outside, wind shook the building, and the night began to build in violence.
Chapter Twenty-two
Bjorn led Mia through the streets to the jail, through steam rising from the ground. The storm had passed by in the night here, too, punishing the town. Green buds littered the streets, torn from trees before they had the chance to bloom. She did not look up at the wounded, bare trees, or to the side to see what faces were in the windows, watching. She had never entered his jail before. She had always stayed clear from it, from Bjorn’s work, wanting to be home with Alma, not wanting to know who was imprisoned or for what crimes.
She watched Bjorn’s boots, still thick with mud and forest leaves. Bjorn had carried Alma for the last mile; it had driven his boots deeper into the sludge. He would be so angry. He hated muddy boots. Mia wondered what to do.
The door opened, and she felt the screech of its twisting hinges in her belly, the heavy wood swinging at her as if to strike her dead for her shame. He pulled on the rope, and she marched forward, struck by the smells inside. She could smell beer on the guard, standing close to Bjorn as he passed by, and she could also smell the salted metal of blood and urine. The jail was nothing more than a long, dirty hallway with horrid, dark cells on each side. Mia avoided looking through the square opening cut into each wood door, afraid to see what or who cried out from the darkness.
“I didn’t know.…” Mia said. She had thought Bjorn’s work, the work of justice, was a good and orderly affair.
Bjorn grunted. “You didn’t want to know. Did you?” He untied her hands and put his hand on her back.
Mia started to close her eyes before being pushed into the dark hole before her. Then a new fear struck her. “Your mother! Who is caring for her?” Mia asked.
“I sent her to another village with a sheriff I know. She is safe there.”
He pushed her through the door into a dark cell. He pushed Alma in after her and stepped back to lock the door.
“Bjorn. Look at me, please.”
Mia clutched Alma to her chest, shrouded in darkness. Bjorn stood in the door, light illuminating him, a frightening angel with a black shadow across his face. He did not seem to be looking at her, though she had called him. His head was bent low, as in prayer. Perhaps his heart had softened at last.
“My boots are filthy.” Bjorn used one foot to pull the other out of one boot, kicking it across the floor, striking Mia in the shin. He pulled off the other and flung it into the darkness. It landed near her.
“I’ve nothing to clean them with.” She meant it as a request.
“The shame you’ve brought me? Visiting a witch? Gossiping about me? Whispering about me to strangers? You should lick them clean.”
“No. You’re wrong. Drink the vial I gave you. Then you will know I am a good wife.”
Bjorn shut the door, leaving her in total darkness. She heard his steps fading away.
Mia heard voices from other cells. They spoke as if she couldn’t hear them, treating her like an enemy. No one was indifferent now, not after Bastion’s kiss on the church steps. Mia was an enemy, even if she was jailed too.
“Mia is here. Bastion must have changed his mind again.”
“What vial did she give him?”
“Where did she get it?”
“Who is there?” Mia called into the darkness. The voices softened into whispers so Mia would not hear.
“Mia? Is that you? Are you safe? Is Alma with you?” Father Stefan’s voice rose above the whispers.
“Yes, Father Stefan. We are together. And we are safe.”
Mia stroked Alma’s hair as she spoke. Alma did not seem afraid, because Mia was always there in the darkness with her.
Her closed, scarred heart broke open as she understood the truth of what she had said. Mia gasped and hugged Alma tighter, mercy and grace exploding in her heart so hardened from fear. Mia saw her past, illuminated at last, the brittle wall around her heart shattering and falling away.
Sitting in the dirty cell, she had never been so free.
As the hours wore on, Mia had nothing to feed Alma and no relatives to supply their meals. Surely, though, Bastion would think of this, even if Bjorn did not. Surely Bastion wouldn’t let Alma starve. He had made promises.
Mia could not be afraid, not for herself, not anymore. But Alma might still be frail. She needed food. Mia would wait. Someone would come, someone to help.
Hilda had not been brought here. Perhaps it had been better for Hilda that way. Perhaps her heart had given out, and no one had touched her. Mia hoped the men buried her. Most criminals were not buried. Their corpses were left out to be despised and abused.