Chapter 41 — The Name
Sierra did not sleep, and she did not show the note to anyone.
She read it eleven times in her own room with the door barred, and each time the same four words did the same thing to her chest, and each time she made herself put the paper down and pick up something else.
I am told the third one sings.
Told. Not knows. Not have. Told.
Whoever wrote that was passing on someone else's information — which meant there was a chain, and chains have ends, and she had spent five years learning that the way you take something apart is one link at a time.
You want me frantic, she thought. You want me running south with my sons in a carriage on an open road. You have wanted that since the first toy at the first door.
She folded the note into the drawer with the locket and l
