Page 162 of A Heart of Bluestone

Splotches of it cling to my wet cheeks; soaks into my hair; smears up my backside.

The bags are gone. These were bagged fertilisers.

Fucking makut.

The prick vanished the bags. And I was so consumed, distracted by his vicious words that I didn’t even notice.

Now, I notice.

It’s hard not to when I’m caked in shit.

I choke on a defeated cry and slump in the shit pile.

Dray looks down at me, glacier. “You know it, don’t you? That is why you always hide out from his calls. You know your father only tolerates you—his greatest shame.”

My face wobbles before the sobs strike.

“A disappointment,” he adds, a murmur I hardly hear over the raspy sound of my breaths.

He cuts his hand through the air—and the fire in the corner dies, fast. Just smoke now, thick dark smoke swirling up into the hole in the ceiling, then swept away by the winds lashing outside.

His glacier eyes run me over before he draws away and makes for the door. Without a backwards glance, he’s gone through it, and made sure to slam it extra hard.

My heart stops.

The groan of the lock is deafening.

It clangs into place.

My face twists.

I don’t even try to get out of the manure pile and fight the now-locked door.

I just cry.

25

It takes until my lips are blue and shuddering and my fingers are born of ice and frost, before I finally get the door loose enough to spring hope in my chest.

I gave up about half-an-hour ago trying to slam my body weight into it. My shoulder wears the bruises from that idea.

I found a crowbar and a shovel.

Those are the tools I owe my escape to.

Couldn’t jimmy the lock, so I jimmied the hinges. Thank the gods they are old and rusted, they spring free and crumble too easily.

I drop the crowbar with a clang.

Then, with a trembled breath that shudders through my ice-cold body, I boot out at the door with everything I have, once, twice—then that final kick.

The door cracks. Doesn’t fly open like I expected, but it cracks from the side of the hinges, some planks fall away, and it creates a gap wide enough that I can squeeze through.

I do.

And I stagger out the other side, splinters and scratches to show for it. Not to mention covered in shit. Clotted in my hair, lumped into the woollen threads of my sweater, some clumpshave fallen into my boots, and it’s just smeared completely all over the back of my sweatpants.

The stench lingers. It’s a cloud wrapped around me.

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