Crane marched across the yard, his white cloak flapping behind him. Glimpses of the silver-gray crown embroidered on the back of it winked at Oliver, catching the starlight. The pit in his stomach deepened.
'I'll never wear a cloak of my own, now. Good Goddess curse me! I was so close!'
He wondered where Crane was taking him. All sorts of unpleasant possibilities jumped into his head. 'The whipping post? The stockade? Or is he just going to shove me out the gate and tell me to go home?' It could be none of them or all of them.
Oliver wished Crane would say something. His imagination was running wilder with each passing second. If he just knew what was going to happen to him, it would not be so torturous.
But Oliver did not dare to break the silence himself. He followed after Crane
