Page 172 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“That’s where I met Ryan. We watched hundreds, if not thousands, of kids pass through her house during the years we were there. He almost got sold by her a few times, but he was too good at making money for her to bear to part with him in the end. When I was around eleven, I realised that I stood a chance at making it longer if I proved myself just as useful. That’s when I learnt photography. One of Sayana’s creditors threw an old camera at me, showed me how to use it, and I started to make money by taking photos and selling postcards of them.

“It was hard. Outside of tourist season, there weren’t many ways to make money. She was an abusive drunk, and we were often left to look after the little kids. I can’t tell you how many terrified little ones we comforted over the years knowing their fate. There was nothing else we could do. We had no communication with anyone off the island, and even if we’d told anyone who we were and what was happening, there was no guarantee anything would happen. We learnt that the first time we tried. People just don’t care.”

Finn squeezes my hand tightly.

“Even Valentina’s family didn’t. I don’t know how her dad found her out there, but he had a chance to save us, and he didn’t. He could have stopped the whole thing and blown it apart, but he took her and ran. We knew she was rescued because Sayana taunted us with it—saying if our families really cared, they’d have done what Valentina’s father did. Found us at all costs. After a while, we just gave up hope of ever being saved, and decided our best chance was to save ourselves.

“It was impossible, though. We could barely speak the language, we had no way to hide money, and Sayana had people who kept an eye on us and reported our every move back to her. The only time we were ever given money was the weekly visit to the island shaman. Sayana would make us visit to get her blessings, get guidance for her, that sort of thing. The shaman was the only person on the island we had any kind of real relationship with, and she’d often sneak us food when we were there.

“Honestly, I’m not even sure she did the blessings sometimes and just lied so we’d be safe. One time a reading was bad, and Sayana beat Ryan so badly he broke his arm. After that, she allowed us to keep some of our earnings, although it was barely enough to buy bread on a daily basis, and that was before we paid the shaman. That was the trade-off—we could keep some of our earnings if we paid the weekly fee.

“It was all like that. Surviving on the bare minimum, comforting kids we knew were going to a worse place than us and hiding so we wouldn’t join them. For some reason, though, Sayana couldn’t part with us. She said it was just because we made the most money so were the most useful, but I think she cared about us in her own weird way.”

I press my lips together. That’s the most I’ve ever spoken about what my life was like away from Askurg, and it doesn’t even cover what I know he wants to know the most: how we escaped.

Still, he doesn’t say anything. There’s no pressure for me to elaborate, and so I just sit in silence for a moment.

“It was a couple of years after that that we managed to get away. There were periods where not many kids went through the house, probably so they didn’t get caught, and it was one of those quiet times when she needed us the most. It wasn’t the tourist season, so money was thin, and we overheard her making plans to sell me. Ryan was still the better moneymaker, and I had more value as a bride than he did as anything else. She was going to sell me as a wife for a local leader’s son.”

Finn tenses.

“It wouldn’t have been the end of the world, honestly. The leader and his son were scumbags, but he was only a couple of years older than we were. It was by far the best deal I could have asked for, having seen what kind of things she’d subjected others to for money. Ryan was furious, though. And…” I hesitate. “Well, it doesn’t matter. She died, and it was our one chance to get out.”

“Did he kill her?”

I say nothing.

He nods as if he doesn’t need me to. “How did you get out?”

I tell him the same story I told Valentina. How the shaman knew everything, how she gave us our money and her sister helped us off the island. How we contacted Ryan’s dad once we got to the mainland and he got us, and how he basically adopted me and helped me get on my feet.

“I was complicit, in a sense,” I say after a moment of silence. “I knew what was happening. I knew where those children were going. I knew what was going to happen to them. I didn’t do a thing about it.”

“No.” He raises our clasped hands and kisses my fingers. “No, Hattie. You were a victim.”

“Victims can be complicit.”

“Victims can be coerced into believing they’re complicit,” Finn says softly, yet there’s a firmness to this tone. “What could you have done? Who could you have told? Who would have done anything about it?”

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out.

He’s right. Of all the people on that island who knew what was going on, Ryan and I were the least responsible for it. We were children. We were victims.

There was nothing I could have done.

“You were probably the only kindness those children received,” Finn continues. “In a situation where you could do nothing, you did something anyway. You gave them comfort when they needed it most. I’m sure they carried your kindness with them.”

My breath hitches, and the trembling control I’ve held over my emotions until now shatters. Tears spill down my cheeks, and I bury my face in my hands as Finn envelops me in his arms.

And I cry.

I cry in that gut-wrenchingly raw way one does when they can no longer hold it together. Years of guilt and regret and fear come tumbling out of me in choking sobs that make my chest tight.

All of it.

Everything.

Hatred. Rage. Bitterness. Terror. Grief. Repulsion. Remorse.