Agnes held one finger to her lips.
He looked at her with wide, glassy eyes. His mouth opened. She shook her head once, firm, the headshake of a woman who had spent her life commanding rooms and was now applying that energy to commanding a seven-year-old's silence.
He remained silent.
She grabbed a horseshoe nail from the edge of the platform. It was rusted, bent, discarded by a farrier who had been shoeing patrol horses in the square that afternoon. It was also thin enough to fit the pin mechanism on the pillory latch, because the universe, which had been punishing Agnes for the last four hours, had apparently decided to offer a single concession.
CLICK. The head hole released. CLICK. The left wrist. CLICK. The right.
