LUCY
Mina pauses, shaking her head weakly, and that's when I finally notice the strange nature of her injuries. The streaks of raw, blistered skin across her cheek and collarbone aren't from a leather lash. They poured liquid silver on her face.
My stomach turns at the sight of it, even as some colder part of my mind simply files the detail away. Not that I am particularly inclined to complain about her suffering, but that was not my order—and a guard acting on his own whims in my prison is an act of open rebellion.
I glare at the remaining three guards, and they withdraw even further into the shadows of the cell, their knees visibly shaking.
The guard I sent away hurries back into the room, bearing a thick, heavy wool wrapper. He hesitates at the cell door, holding the keys to the silver cuffs, looking at me for confirmation before he touches the restraints.
I give him a firm nod. If Mina wants to sing more details about Murdock's network, I am more than willing to let her.
