Page 35 of Beyond the Cottage

He walked away before his cousin could respond.

Chapter 13

The next morning, Gretta put on her own tub-washed clothing and belt. Since she’d forgotten to ask for her knife back, she pocketed the scissors she’d found in Ansel’s office.

The night before, she’d used the key he’d given her to go snooping. His desk mostly contained dry accounting documents and impersonal correspondence, but she’d also found a ledger detailing his dust buyers. Rather than shady characters with names like Malagrim Darkheart or Gorgozel the Enforcer, his clients were shockingly benign.

He sold to a few underground sports leagues and a high-profile adventurer. His biggest clients, though, were the FWDA—Fairies With Disabilities Association—and a clinic for harpies with broken wings.

Gretta was glad pixie dust didn’t go toward nefarious purposes. If his paperwork was any indication, Ansel wasn’t actually a hardened criminal.

But somehow that made her feel…worse. It made what he’d done to her feel personal. He hadn’t recognized her, but he’dknown all along how devastating captivity could be. She’d begged and fought him, screaming for help. She’dcried. And he hadn’t given a shit.

In this, he was no better than the Eater.

But to hell with rage, to hell with letting him rip her heart out and grind it under his boot heel. She couldn’t bring the real Ansel back, so why bother feeling anything at all?

Gretta tied her boots, nearly ripping the laces, and approached the window. Dawn had come an hour ago, but the sky remained a dark, putrid green. The wind whipped glowing leaves around the yard, and rain pelted the windows like buckshot.

How long did storms in this part of the country last? What should her first step be when it ended?

Since she was already in the swamp, tracking the swamp witch tempted her, but it would probably be best to regroup with Brand first. He and Philip must have messaged Nat about her disappearance by now, and they’d all be worried.

Yet another mark on Ansel’s piss-poor record.

She poked her head from the room. All quiet, except for echoing drips and water trickling in a floor drain. No breakfast tray awaited her, but scrounging up food would at least give her something to do, so she started down the hallway.

Gretta had done her best to keep track of the corridors, but none led to a kitchen. As she wandered, she cursed the sprawling, moldy maze of a prison.

Hushed voices came from ahead. Palming the scissors, she hid behind a corner.

“He told us to lay low,” Seven said.

“What the fuck do you think I plan to do there, run for mayor?” Jonas. “It’s the only place I have connections, and I’m not letting her force us to some other backwater shithole.”

“It’s the first place the police will look!”

So they expected Gretta to rat them out to the cops? The thought hadn’t crossed her mind, since she was as likely to findherselftossed in the clink. Still, she saw no reason to ease their minds.

“I suppose you have a better plan?” Jonas asked. “Some big network of family and friends who are eager to take us in?”

Seven grew quiet.

“Oh, right. I’m all you’ve got. And you sure as shit can’t take care of yourself.”

Gretta narrowed her eyes. Though Seven had a hand in this train wreck of a situation, she found herself rooting for the other woman.

“…Maybe it’s time we found out if that’s true.” Not exactly a savage comeback, but steel threaded Seven’s words.

“Cute.”

“I mean it.”

“You always do. Then you go back to letting me deal with all our problems. I have to doeverything, Sev, and you’re so fucking oblivious to it.”

A long pause. “Perhaps I will find my own way, then. You can stay in Antrelle with your paramours and prostitutes.”

“Grow up already,” Jonas laughed. “I’m sick of explaining how the world really works.”

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