She was in the wine cellar again, face pressed against the wall, his hands on her. She tried to scream, but her mouth wouldn't open. Her lips were glued together. He was crushing her. She couldn't breathe.

Layla woke to darkness with a start, sweaty and shaking from the last vestiges of the dream. She sat up and fumbled with the lid on the glowbasket next to her makeshift cot, finally flipping it open. Warm light flooded Miyra's work room, illuminating shelves of healing supplies and drying herbs hung overhead. She inhaled raggedly and rubbed her face to quell her tears. Her racing heart pounded loudly in her ears. She swung her legs over the side of the cot and stood. There were no windows to tell Layla if it was light outside, but it didn't matter. There was no way she could go back sleep.

After a minute of fruitless looking, Layla gave up on her shoes and wrapped her blanket around her shoulders. Miyra had lent her a nightdress, but it barely reached past the taller girl's knees. She didn't know what happened to her clothes.

Layla cracked the door and peeked into the main room. Levine was asleep at the kitchen table, her head pillowed on her arms. A blanket was draped loosely over her. The soft cadence of her breathing filled the early morning stillness. Miyra sat across from her, her back to the work room. At the sound of the door opening, she looked over her shoulder.

"Layla," she said with a weary smile. Her eyes were shadowed with fatigue. "You're awake. Are you all right?"

Layla stepped into the room and shook her head. "I can't sleep."

Miyra pulled a wrapping across her front and draped the end over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, dear. Do you need anything? I'm nearly finished feeding Kara now."

"No. I think I just want some fresh air." She crossed the room and paused in the front doorway. "Th-thank you Miyra. For everything."

Miyra swiveled around slowly. "Of course, Layla. I'll be here. If you need anything, just ask."

Layla quickly stepped outside before her composure shattered. The cold morning air was bracing and stung her lungs. She inhaled deeply anyways, sniffling as her nose began to run. The sky was the hopeful gray of predawn, readying for the arrival of a new day. Residual fog from the mountains clung to the eaves of the neighboring cotholds and hunkered over the fields. Layla closed the door behind her and set off slowly down the path. Her sweat cooled on her skin. She wrapped the blanket securely around her, her mind lapsing unbidden into memory.

She hadn't heard him coming until he was at the top of the stairs. The cellar went suddenly dark as someone blocked the light from the hall. Then the door slammed shut, plunging the room into darkness. A round of hoarse cursing followed. She shrank back against a barrel rack, her hackles rising. With a soft thud, the glowbasket was kicked over. Glows clattered down the steps and across the floor, sputtering dimly at the abuse. The shaky light illuminated a tall figure swaying slightly by the door. His face was flushed and his richly embroidered tunic hung askew on his broad shoulders.

"You there!" he said as he spotted her in the shadows. "Bring me a fresh wineskin." An empty sack slapped wetly to the floor. "No Benden, girl. Only the best Ruathan vintage to celebrate my father's return to health." His voice was bitter and rough.

"Yes, my lord." She left the skin where it lay and quickly ducked between two racks of casks. She didn't want to stay alone in a room with the young lord for long. He made her nervous.

She found the Ruathan barrels in the back of the cellar. Her fingers were shaking badly as she loosened the neck of a new wine skin and filled it with fresh wine from an already opened flagon. The dark liquid splashed on her hand and dripped onto her skirt. She tightened the wineskin and carried it back to where he was waiting.

Layla stopped at the bottom of the path. She sank down on a flat stone in the brown grass and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, wishing the memories away. Her mind refused to obey, scrolling relentlessly through the events of the previous evening. She gritted her teeth as hot tears dripped down her wrists.

He had been leaning indolently against the wall at the base of the steps. All sign of his drunkenness was gone, replaced by cool indifference.

"Your wine, my lord." Her palms were sweaty as she held the full wine skin out.

He took the skin and tipped it back for a long draught. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with a sneer. "They call this shit wine?" He tossed the sack carelessly onto a step. The neck burst open, spilling blood-colored liquid onto the stone. "I can't stand this miserable Thread burrow of a Hold. Your name?" His face was shadowed, but she could feel his eyes on her.

"I should return to the dining hall." She tried to step around him, but he moved to block her way.

"I asked you for your name."

"Layla," she said. "Please let me pass."

"What for, Layla?" Her name became a taunt in his mouth.

"I need to go."

"To the feast? No. We can celebrate my father's health right here." He gestured around the dim cellar. "There's wine a plenty. You're pretty enough." He reached a hand for her face and she jerked away.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped.

"Don't?" His voice went dangerously soft. "I'm the rightful lord of Ruatha. I'll do what I want."

Layla blinked moisture from her eyes and stared around the the misty fields, hoping to focus on something to take her mind off what had happened. Glow- and candlelight shone from gaps in the shutters of the buildings back up the path. The cotholders were rousing and readying for work after a brief respite from the daily routine.

A figure materialized from the fog farther up the path, heading in her direction. Layla stiffened, her mouth suddenly dry. Her mind screamed at her to run, but her body was frozen. A few tense heartbeats passed as the figure grew clearer. The fog lifted slightly and she let out a sigh of relief. She recognized that gait, and as he got nearer, that hair that stuck up all on one side. It was Ransom who was trudging toward her, uninjured hand in his pocket. His boots were unlaced and his shirt hopelessly wrinkled.

"Hullo Layla," he said, coming to a stop five feet away.

"Hullo Ransom," she replied, wiping her eyes. She was suddenly aware that she was only wearing a too short nightdress. She cleared her throat, thankful her voice was steady. "You're up early."

"So are you. What are you doing way out here?"

Layla hunched her shoulders and pulled her blanket tighter around her. "I couldn't sleep. You too?"

Ransom nodded. He pulled off his jacket and offered it to her. "You look cold."

Layla took it gratefully and draped it over her knees, tucking her toes beneath the hem. She wrinkled her nose. "This smells like boy."

Ransom snorted. "It belongs to a boy. What else should it smell like?" He sat next to her, resting his arms on his knees. "Shouldn't you be at Miyra's?"

Layla shrugged and absently fingered the collar on Ransom's jacket. "I wanted some fresh air."

"You're not wearing any shoes."

"Well, your hair is all sticking up in the back," she shot back.

Bewildered, Ransom gave her a look as if she had sprouted wherry feathers.

"Would you stay with me?" she blurted, her throat suddenly tight. "I don't want to be alone right now."

Ransom nodded, his expression softening. "Of course. What happened to Levine and Miyra?"

"They're still at the cot. They're so good to me, but I don't want to take up more of their time." The two women had cared for her late into the night, soothing her tears and helping her get cleaned up. She had scrubbed and scrubbed at her skin, but she couldn't wash away the memory of his touch.

"I'm sure they don't mind. I don't either," he added.

"Thanks." Layla drew in a shuddering breath past her sniffles. She wiped her nose on the blanket and rested her chin on her knees with a sigh. She felt like a half-finished weaving torn from the loom. Parts of her were intact, patches of vibrant pattern still visible, but the in-betweens were filled with snarls and gaping holes. She felt better with Ransom sitting beside her. His presence was like an anchor, steadying her shaking hands as she tried to hold the slivers of herself together. It didn't fix things—pieces still slipped between her fingers, elusive as smoke—but it helped.

Ransom was watching her from the corner of his eye. "Last night," he began hesitantly after a moment, "what happened to you? Daxel didn't just hit you, did he?"

The composure she had so painstakingly assembled scattered and the floodwaters broke through. She shook her head slowly, lowering her face into Ransom's jacket.

She had tried to run, but he was too fast. Fingers caught her wrist and yanked her arm around mercilessly. She yelled at the pain and kicked wildly, catching him in the shin. He swore. She wrested her arm away, but her freedom was short-lived. A back-handed slap across the face sent her stumbling. For an instant, her vision blackened and a ringing sound filled her ears. When she regained her wits, her face was pressed to the wall. He was behind her, twisting her arm up against her back. His grip on her wrist was like an iron vice.

"You can make this easy for yourself, or you can make it difficult, but either way, I will get from you what I want," he hissed, his wine-laden breath hot on her ear.

"Let me go!" she yelled, kicking fruitlessly at him with her heels.

He wrenched her arm and she choked on her cries.

"You forgot 'my lord'," he whispered.

She struggled but he was too strong. He lifted her skirt and she could do nothing but scream as the tears streamed down her face.

Layla scrubbed her hands into her eyes, trying to block the nightmarish memory. "He—he forced himself on me. He raped me."

Ransom let out a low oath. His hand shook as he touched her arm. "Layla, I'm so sorry."

She turned and buried her face in his shoulder, crying uncontrollably. He held her as well as he could. The sky lightened overhead as she wept herself hoarse.

"We should have gone with you, Roe and I," Ransom said once she quieted. "We should have watched out for you!" His voice broke and he slammed a fist into the grass.

"It's not your fault," she whispered. "You brought me to Miyra and Levine."

"I'm going to beat Daxel to a pulp," Ransom said, his voice shaking with anger. "He's not going to get away with this."

"I don't want to talk about him right now."

"Don't you want justice?"

She lifted her head. "Yes, but I don't want to spend my time thinking about him."

Ransom's black eyes flashed and he dropped his arm from around her. For a moment, the distance between them seemed to yawn like a crevasse in the earth. Then he nodded in assent and looked at her with concern in his face. "Are you all right?"

"No, but I'll live, I guess. Sorry I cried on you," she sniffled. "I got your shirt wet."

He shrugged. "I'm a boy. I don't care about my clothes."

She managed a faint glimmer of a smile. "Tell me you at least wash them," she said, pulling at his sleeve. She wanted desperately to feel normal again. Life didn't seem quite so bad if she could tease someone. It was a tiny step towards putting herself back together.

"And risk being mobbed by amorous laundry women?"

"Please, you're not half as good looking as you think you are."

"Then I must be a real eyesore," he said glumly. "Roe inherited all the good looks in the family."

Layla bumped him with her shoulder. "I'm sure you're a sight for someone's sore eyes."

"Thank you Layla," he said. His mouth tilted in the sideways smirk he always wore when he was being sarcastic. "You make me feel so much better."

Layla's smile faded as the moment evaporated. She shivered, feeling herself slide back to holes and snarls. "Would you sing for me?" she asked, pulling his jacket back up over her knees.

"What? Now?"

Layla lifted a shoulder in a listless shrug. "My mother used to sing to me when something was wrong. It always made me feel better. Didn't your mother ever sing to you?"

"No. My mother died when I was born."

"Oh," Layla breathed. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Ransom pressed his lips together in a half-hearted smile. "It's okay." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I think I should tell you something."

Layla waited as he inhaled slowly. He didn't look at her as he spoke.

"My mother was raped before I was born. It was my father that did it. He was drunk and wanted comfort." His gaze met hers for the briefest moment. "That's how I came into the world." He fell silent, plucking loose threads from the wrappings on his left hand. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you that. It doesn't make anything better."

Layla laid her hand over his and squeezed his fingers. "Thank you for telling me. I'm sorry for your mother," she said quietly.

He lifted eyes that looked as lost and searching as she was. "I'm sorry it happened to you too."

Layla hugged her knees to her chest. Sitting with Ransom in the hour before dawn, she felt like a shadow of the carefree girl she was yesterday. But it was a tenuous feeling, sure to break with the day. The girl she was today needed more hands than she had to hold herself together. She couldn't imagine how she would face the demands of normal life. She felt as fragile as the morning mist, as vulnerable as an orphaned hatchling. "So what now?" she asked.

"Make that bastard Daxel pay," he growled. "But you don't want to talk about that." He blew out a breath and raked his fingers through his unruly hair. "I guess we just live. Breathe, cry, get angry. Do what you can to go on."

"You make it sound so easy," Layla said. It would take a long time to undo the tangles and stitch herself back together. Just thinking about it made her feel exhausted.

Ransom let out a humorless chuckle. "I wish it was. But it's not. It's really hard and awful."

"That's not very encouraging."

"It's the truth."

Layla frowned at him over her shoulder. "You're not very good at this."

His eyes narrowed in confusion. "At what?"

"Making a girl feel better."

"Well, sorry," he began hotly, "but that's not exactly a skill they teach in the Harper Hall."

Layla stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't needle you. You're a good friend."

He nodded after a moment. "Everything will be okay, Layla, in time." Despite the brave smile he gave her, a shadow of uncertainty colored his quiet voice.

"After all the really hard and awful?"

"I hope so. At least we don't have to do it alone, right?"

Emotion welled in her chest. She leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. "Thank you, Ransom."

He didn't respond. He didn't have to. They sat like that for a few moments until Layla broke the silence.

"So, how about that song?"

Ransom wrinkled his nose. "I was hoping you had forgotten that. I guess there's no getting out of it now. Let's see…" he let his breath out as he thought. After a moment, he began singing without preamble, his voice quiet and breathy in the still morning air. The song was a simple lullaby, no doubt something from his childhood. She closed her eyes and listened, the melody washing over her as the first rays of sunlight reached over the horizon.