Scout’s POV
"You are the only reason my neck is not in a noose right now," Alice rasped.
She stood by the iron-rimmed workstation, her fingers twitching against her thighs. Strands of dark hair clung to her damp forehead. Black smudges ringed her eyes, deep enough to look like bruises.
"Do not thank me yet," I said.
"I thought I was dead," she cut in. Her voice cracked, dry and thin. "I thought Nixon would have my head on a spike before the sun went down. You know how he gets when blood spills."
"How is the Grand Luna?" I demanded. I slammed my palm on the stone table to cut her off. The wood groaned under the strike. "Give me facts, Alice."
Alice shrunk back, her knuckles turning white as she locked her hands together. Her chest rose and fell in ragged bursts.
"Bad," she whispered.
