At length the ferryman mumbled something, or perhaps she merely imagined it, and she jolted as her right shackle opened. And, while her left shackle did not—it did seem to loosen somewhat, so it at least no longer dug into her flesh or pressed against her wrist bones so painfully. Then something familiar caught her eye and she looked down to find her veil lying next to her on the crushed red velvet seat, next to which lay her book.
She breathed deeply, her heart rate slowing, as she tried to process what she was seeing. Was this a trick? Was he baiting her with the promise that he was somehow different, a different kind of ferryman, one who understood how terrified his charges must be and who had some measure of empathy—only so he could perform some cruel reversal later and crush her spir
