Page 37 of The Villains of Winter

Many seemed so certain it was James Wilde that Elliott felt the eyes of the entire audience directly stare at James.

Lucien smiled wolfishly at James himself and James returned his smile with a boyish grin as if he were sixteen years old again. James turned to Elliott. “Promise you’ll read the letter at the end of this? I plan to shake the hand of the provost as a…final gesture of farewell.”

Elliott stepped protectively in front of him, silently ignoring the eyes of thousands. “Farewell won’t be needed. The selection this year will be Lucien.”

Beware the Ides of March. Elliott’s heart thrashed in his chest as Lucien treaded forward to announce the selected name. Lucien gingerly clutched his lower left abdomen, Elliott noticed, and he still couldn’t fully stand straight several weeks after October.

“The trust of electors is privileged to announce…”

Not James Wilde. Elliott formed fists at his sides. Pinpricks of darkness tinted the edges of his eyes with raw anger. Not James Wilde or Finch Hudskin, you swore. I devoured that decomposed pig.

A wicked malignance swirled in Lucien’s falsely solemn voice.

“The winter’s pick of the honorarium will be…”

Keep our agreement. Elliott could still taste the smeared dirt and grist at the back of his throat. He was slowly losing his mind to fury. Keep your word.

Elliott felt James step past him to stand before all of Banebury. James gave a roguish tragedian bow before them all, accepting a chalice of wine, until Lucien declared the name.

“…Elliott Archway.”

James Wilde bit his tongue so hard, it bled through.

​​ CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ELLIOTT LAID HIS SKULL AGAINST the tree stump, his heart pounding.

He hadn’t realized he’d fallen in shock and hit his head on the pyre wood stacks below, until he felt the coarse, muscular hands of the woodsmen lift him to his feet. “The boy collapsed.”

His teeth stung with pain.

His mouth was gorged with blood.

The winter’s pick of the honorarium will be Elliott Archway. He couldn’t have heard that correctly. A stern pair of hands adorned Elliott’s head with rugged buck antlers. His memory refused to recall the true name proclaimed. Who was this year’s winter honorarium?

“There you are, boy, stay on your feet,” one of the heavy voices encouraged him in pity. The stranger held pungent smelling salts under Elliott’s nose, the spiciness and acerbity made his insides coil like pythons. “Keep your chin higher than your fear. My condolences for your fate.”

His fate…?

Slowly, his memory returned. The winter’s pick of the honorarium will be Elliott Archway.

No matter how desperately he tried, Elliott’s weakened knees revolted, refusing to cooperate and hold his weight. He could not stand, stunned. Distantly, he heard a furor of voices climb over each other.

“One of Mrs. Ledgerman’s orphans?”

“An orphan chosen this year…poor child.”

It was only Kitty’s screams that pulled Elliott out of his confusion. “Elliott! Don’t leave with them! Elliott!”

Distress filled him that Mrs. Ledgerman might strike Kitty’s face for shrieking in public and it was as if he was a fifteen year old boy again. He ran to protect her.

He untangled himself from the calloused knuckles of the woodsmen.

He fought through throngs of sympathetic bodies swarming for him, grieving masses that touched his prickling head in teary appreciation, stroked his cheek softly in tender-hearted care, or praisefully pulled him into their embrace for consolation. He struggled out of their all-consuming grasps. He choked on a gasp. “Kitty!”

She sobbed for him in the arms of neighbors. She kicked for freedom. “Elliott! No!”

At the sound of her cry, nothing else mattered. His will was set on her. Thousands of townsmen were overwhelming him, fishermen with mightier strength, and he shouldered past them, thrashing and writhing, until he could center Kitty’s petrified face in his hands.