April 30
The angry red welts and split skin on Emmett’s back were fading to irregular white lines. The last thing Emmett had expected the night of the lashing as he’d lain in his bed, face down and alternating between righteous fury and dismay, praying that Andrewe would at least look in on him, had been Aleyn’s timid footsteps. Aleyn had brought salve and tears; tears that had slipped silently down Aleyn’s cheeks and made Emmett’s heart ache worse than his back. He hadn’t been disturbed otherwise, for either duty or consolation. Nor had Emmett himself slipped past the barrier of the secreted door to find solace. It was strange to him. For the longer Andrewe stayed away, for every day Andrewe didn’t call on him, made it harder to see an end to his own retreat.
The why of it baffled him;
