But this is hardly humorous, for I can feel the welt rise on my skin.

Hurriedly, I work the strings loose and pull it open. The cry dies in my throat.

It is as if Will’s own hand has squeezed hold of my heart. And as if to confirm it, the fever is upon me at once, the memory of his rage so pure it strikes me to my marrow as I stare at the photograph.


20.