The days passed in a haze of pain and fever.
The old woman—Moira, as Lillian learned—tended to her wounds with rough but practiced hands. The stab wound in her side had nearly killed her, but Moira's strange medicines had sealed it. Her ribs were bruised, her body weak, but she was alive.
Lillian spent hours staring at the ceiling, replaying that night over and over. The fire. William's death. Harrow's face.
Adrian's tear-streaked cheeks as he was dragged away.
Her son was out there, calling another man father.
Lillian forced herself to sit up, ignoring the sharp pain in her ribs.
Moira raised an eyebrow from her chair by the fire. "You're not ready."
"I don't have time." Lillian gritted her teeth. "I need to stand."
Moira didn't argue. She simply watched as Lillian swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to push herself up.
The world spun. Her body screamed in protest.
She collapsed to the floor.
Moira sighed. "Vengeance means nothing if you die before you get it."
Lillian clenched her fists against the dirt. "Then help me."
Moira studied her for a long moment, then stood. She grabbed a wooden staff from the corner and tossed it to Lillian.
"Then learn to stand again."
******