He wants me to call out, to repent. I don’t.
Suddenly, Carrick appears in the viewing room. I can see tears in his black eyes, so I know that he has heard it all. He is panting hard, as though he has run a marathon. Sweat and blood are on his brow, and he has a cut lip. Blood drips down onto his T-shirt. Funar, with a busted nose, struggles in the doorframe behind him, doubled over. Mr. Berry rushes in behind Carrick into the room, his phone in his hand. The security guard who had been battling with my dad runs into the room and jumps at Carrick, but Carrick knocks him out with one fierce blow. The security guard falls to the ground, out cold. Completely outnumbered, Funar doesn’t bother to fight any more and slithers from the room, hand over his pumping nose. Mr. Berry pushes the door closed, and I see his face, and he suddenly looks his age. He is holding his phone up in the air, recording. Crevan hasn’t noticed the activity behind him. Neither Bark, June, nor Tina have alerted him to this.
“Do it,” he says, urgency in his voice, sweat above his lip. “Brand her spine.”
Carrick stands right at the window and looks at me intently, forcing me to hold his gaze. He holds one hand up to the glass, presses it flat. Instantly, I zone out of the madness in this chamber and in my head and focus on the stillness in Carrick’s body. I focus on his hand. The hand of friendship he offered me earlier.
I’ll find you.
At least I have one friend. I am exhausted. I am still. I am ready.
“One, two…” Tina counts me in. But nothing happens. I don’t feel a thing.
“Judge, I can’t do it,” Bark says. “I just can’t. This isn’t right.”
“Fine,” Crevan snaps. “If you won’t do it, I will.” He grabs the iron from Bark’s grasp, and he and Bark swap places, Bark standing where Crevan was, so that he blocks Crevan’s view of Carrick. I can’t take my eyes off Carrick; I won’t take my eyes off Carrick. I take a deep breath.
And as the hot iron touches my spine, the noise I make is the loudest, most excruciating, agonizing, animal sound I have ever heard in my life, and it echoes through the corridors of Highland Castle for all to hear, so anyone and everyone knows Crevan’s poster girl has been branded.
TWENTY-NINE
DAY ONE
I’m home, propped up in my bed by a dozen cushions, organized by Mom, who keeps stepping back to take a look at her work before fluffing and punching again, as if it were a piece of art. If she can’t fix me, she can fix the image around me. This is all for the visit of Dr. Smith, our family GP. After inspecting my dressings, he sits in the chair by my bed and looks at Mom as he answers her questions.
“A burn of the tongue will look and feel different, depending on the degree of the burn. A first-degree burn injures the outermost layer of the tongue. This leads to pain and swelling. A second-degree burn is more painful because it injures the outermost and under layers of the tongue. Blisters may form, which is what has happened here, and the tongue, as in her case, appears swollen. A third-degree burn affects the deepest tissue of the tongue. The effect is white or blackened, burnt skin. Numbness or severe pain.”
Or both.
Dr. Smith sighs, his friendly grandfather face clearly finding this difficult.
“She appears to have received the correct medical attention at the castle. Her tongue is not infected. The blistering will eventually go away. Her taste buds have been destroyed—”
“Not that she’s eating anyway,” Mom interrupts.
“That’s to be expected. Celestine has been through an ordeal. Her appetite will eventually return, as will her taste buds, which regenerate every two weeks. The severe untreatable pain that she is experiencing now can sometimes lead to feelings of depression and anxiety.”
You don’t say.
Mom purses her lips and lifts her chin. I watch them talk to each other, over me, across my bed, as if I’m not here.
“Most burns heal within two weeks; however, some can last up to six weeks.”
He looks at me sadly, as if remembering I’m here.
“There is one more thing,” he adds. “There is a … sixth brand.…” He seems uncomfortable mentioning it.
Mom looks at him in panic. He leaves the sentence hanging.