It's a mad world and they're too good at hiding it.
***
Sierra Montrose didn't like her life. If anything, she wanted it gone. The end. It was a life of self hatred and mistreatment from her own family. A drunkard for a mother and her abusive boyfri...
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Her labored breaths made the air warmer inside the sheet. Above the cart-owner's complaints that his horse wasn't hurrying fast enough, she listened with bated breath for signs of safety. She waited until they had gotten away from the sounds of yells and screams and explosions to let out a sigh of relief.
Maybe she was being selfish. Maybe she was being thoughtless and inconsiderate. Everyone at the palace could be thinking she was dead or that they had taken her. She might cause chaos with her actions. But she reasoned that once she gets to safety, she could send them a note or something, telling them she was safe and to not come looking for her. She was done with them looking for her. Besides, she still had that stupid tracker by the base of her neck.
Just as she had hoped, she heard noises of normality—no more screaming or shouts. No more rocking explosions or sounds of cackling fire or electricity. Instead, they were replaced by vendors calling out the prices of their goods, women heckling the vendors with bargaining, children running around, erupting peals of laughter.
She had reached the markets of Isia, or as Rebekah called it, the real heart of Don Cradle.
She sneaked a peak outside. Seeing the palace nowhere in sight, she slipped from under the moving cart, crashing to the ground with little grace, scraping her skin on the gravely tracks. She let out a shuddering sigh in protest against the sharp pain at her side.
Someone yelled in alarm. She looked up and saw a cart heading straight for her, the owner struggling to rein in his horses. She stared horrified at the oncoming cart, frozen in shock. A hand grabbed her arm and yanked her away from its path and threw her to the ground, saving her by a fraction of a second. She groaned when her shoulder hit the ground and clutched at her side. He fingers came back bloodied. Wearily, she looked down to her body and saw that her shirt was soaked in blood where her torn up wound was. She had to get help fast.
"Are you blind?" A bearded man yelled at her. She presumed he was the one who saved her. "What were you thinking, you stupid lass?"
Her mind had slowed down. Maybe the blood loss was affecting her. She looked up at him as if she had all the time in the world and pushed herself back to her feet, biting back a groan. "Thank you for your troubles," she murmured.
His eyes dropped to her red-stained shirt, and he flinched. His face transformed in concern and alarm. "You—you need to get help—"
She flapped her hand, moving away from him, ignoring his worried look. "No, no I'm good." She giddily offered him a smile for effect. She had to find a way out of here. She had to find someone who could help her with her wound. That meant she had to blend in.
She spied a group of women giggling and being chatted up by a couple of men by the wall of a building. The women were dressed similarly to the way Cavra had on the first day Sierra had met her—blouses with plunging necklines that covered only their chest and left the lower half of their torso bare, with matching harem pants. Their heads were covered with netted shawls under which hid shiny hair, and the lower half of their faces covered by it in a way the men would be tempted to pull it away to see more. If she could just nick one of their shawls...
