Page 43 of A Waltz with Lord Death
“You will be executed at first light for your workings against the king. King Armand has sentenced you to death.”
Frigid ice rolled over her body as the guard slammed the steel gate behind him, his footsteps echoing the way they’d come. Shock and disbelief ebbed enough for the winter chill to enter her bones. Shivers raced along each of her limbs, gooseflesh following in their wake. Her teeth chattered as she sat on the lone cot in the corner of the room. The straw bedding was damp with mildew and smelled of some unidentifiable animal carcass.
She heaved a long sigh and placed her face in her hands. Just when she thought she’d cried out all her tears, more escaped her eyes and dripped through the cracks in her fingers. Conversations with Death returned to her as she sat and wept.
If she had been smart, she just might have put the puzzle pieces together. His warning to stay away from the king. His insistence that she take back her promises about the wards. His persistence in trying to get her to agree to become Lady Life. It wasn’t just for Barret—she knew that now. Death had been trying to save her life without breaking some rule of the universe by outright telling her of her impending death.
What a fool she’d been.
Exhaustion pulled her down onto the awful bedding, and despite the cold, despite her hunger, despite the rotten stench, she closed her eyes.
One last whisper broke through her parted lips. “Forgive me, Death. For my unkindness. For my greed. For my selfishness. You deserve far better than someone like me.”
Chapter 18
The square was crowded with rumbling voices, each growing louder than the next as they waited. The cold winter air didn’t deter the people, nor did the panic of the plague keep them away. Scents of sweating bodies and fur coats filled the square, along with the reek of morbid anticipation and a promise of misplaced justice.
While they enjoyed the excitement of the early morning, Death couldn’t tear his gaze away from the executioner and his fingers working slowly to tie the noose together. The bulky man wore all black with a black mask covering his face. He tested the rope’s strength and grunted as if satisfied.
“Death, you shouldn’t be here. Don’t stay to watch this,” Betha said beside him where he stood near a building on the outskirts of the square.
“I cannot…” His voice quivered, and he took a moment to collect himself before he tried again. “I cannot stay away. She will need me. She will be so afraid when…when…” He ran a hand over his chin while he continued to watch the executioner over the heads of the crowd. “I will never see her again.”
“Yes, you will,” she reassured with a squeeze to his arm. “She will be in the afterlife. You can visit as often as you’d like.”
“But I could never touch her. Never kiss her. My work would keep me away for long periods of time. We both know it could never work. Besides, she made her choice.”
Betha said nothing, but rather continued to hold onto his arm as if she was the one who needed strength.
Worry for her flared within him when he glanced over her face. Her skin appeared paler than usual. Her eyes bloodshot. Dark bags beneath her eyes. “Time, you are not looking so good.”
She nodded wearily. “Keeping Barret in the time coffin is draining. I am so tired, D. I fear I am on the brink of collapse. When Meira dies, Barret will die along with her.” A silent, clear tear rolled down her cheek. “I am going to miss him. So very much.”
His breath shook as he let it out slowly in an attempt to steady his emotions. “I will too.”
They both turned their attention back to the platform as a hush settled over the crowd. His heart picked up when he spotted two guards escorting Meira to the scaffold. She wore her usual attire rather than the beautiful white dress the king had gifted to her for the ball.
Her eyes were red, giving away the fact that she’d likely cried all night long. The weary slump in her shoulders spoke of how little rest she’d received in the dungeon. He hadn’t visited her despite how much he wanted to offer her courage and support.
Because she would die today.
His chin trembled again as he watched her trip on the stairs. A soldier wrenched her upright and pushed her toward the waiting noose.
Betha’s grip tightened on his arm. “Death, don’t watch this.”
“I must.”
He clenched and unclenched his fists at the fear shining in Meira’s eyes. He wanted to kill every single person in the vicinity, and he especially wanted to draw out the executioner’s death to prolong the man’s pain. But there were rules. And he would not break them. Besides, saving Meira would not put time back onto her lifespan. Fate would claim her no matter how he intervened.
He’d tried saving lives before, but in the end, his efforts had gone nowhere when they’d died of some other cause anyway right when their death date ticked down to zero. Only by becoming an immortal did fate change for a person.
The executioner slipped the noose over Meira’s head and tightened the knot against her neck. Tears cascaded from her eyes and down her cheeks like a broken waterspout, and he didn’t realize until now that his own eyes mimicked hers. He swiped at his cheeks, willing himself to gain control over his own emotions. But they refused to listen. He was about to lose this woman forever.
“If you have any last words,” a soldier called out over the crowd for their benefit, “then now is the time to make your peace.”
Meira scanned the crowd as if looking for something—or someone—and as if not finding it, she began to cry all over again. Her hands bound behind her back prevented her from wiping her tears away.
“Death,” she started with trembling lips. He took several subconscious steps forward at hearing her address him. “If you can hear me, I am so sorry. Please forgive me. I love you so much.”
