Grey light bleeds into the alley. The air is heavy with the scent of wet ash. Water drips from the eaves, marking time in cold splashes.

  My hand cramps around the bundle. I tighten my grip. The dead face inside deforms. The nose flattens under my thumb. The cheekbone presses back against my palm. Hard. Cold. Real.

  A figure interrupts the grey. Gwendolyn.

  She stops at a window. The glass is slick with grime and condensation. Her reflection is a broken thing caught in the filth.

  She leans in, trying to find her face. She fixes her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.

  Her posture corrects itself. Spine straightens. Chin lifts.

  "We do this for the children." Her breath fogs the glass. "We do this for the future."

  A drop slides down, erasing her eye.

  I step into the light. My boots scrape the stone. The bundle swings heavy at my hip.

  "You do this," I say, "to keep your own name out of the bag."

  She spins. Her hand claws at her neck.

  She sees me. Her muscles unlock, then tighten again. She squares her shoulders.

  "Move, James."

  "No."

  "I am an Assessor." She gestures to the square beyond the alley mouth. "I have influence. I can have you—"

  "You have nothing."

  I drive the bundle into the window. A flat, wet slap. The pane shudders. She recoils, hitting the brick.

  I pull the cloth free.

  I press the dead face against the glass. The skin flattens, grey and cold. The empty eye stares into the window, hovering perfectly over her reflection.

  "Look at it."

  My thumb digs into the base of her skull. I pivot her head.

  I capture her wrist. She locks her elbow, her hand inches from the grey flesh.

  Her breath hits the glass in quick, white bursts. The condensation spreads, burying the dead face in mist.

  I lean into her struggle. Her elbow buckles. Her fingers sink deep into the yielding putty of the cheek.

  "He gave this to me." My lips brush her ear. "He told me he doesn't want your bag. He doesn't want your influence."

  Her knees buckle. Her spine unlocks. She hangs in my grip.

  "He just wants bodies. And I'm picking them."

  I drag her into the open. The grey sky is a sheet of iron. The village holds its breath.

  Gwendolyn resets. Hand to hair. Lips peeling back from teeth. A performance for the crowd.

  "Let go," she hisses through her fixed, frozen smile. "They are watching."

  "I know." I compress her wrist. Her joints click audibly. "That's the point."

  I drop my shoulder. Her arm snaps down. Her posture collapses.

  My boots hit the stone. Hard. Fast. I force the pace. I do not slow down for her.

  She half-runs to stay upright, her steps frantic and uneven. She is small under the grey sky. Withered. A scrap of grey wool caught in a storm.

  The crowd splits.

  "About time," someone says.

  "Good lad," Ward rumbles as I pass the forge.

  Each nod, each smile, adds mass to the paper in my pocket. It presses against my hip, heavy as a stone.

  I search the crowd.

  Faces blur. Wool. Mud.

  Then, a patch of brightness breaks the monotony.

  Evangeline. She stands on a crate. Her face is pink from the cold. She looks down at the broken woman in my grip, then up. Her eyes find mine.

  She closes her eyes. A long, shuddering exhale. Her shoulders sink, the rigid lines of her cloak softening.

  Her eyes open. Wet. Shining. Her hand presses to her chest, over her heart.

  That look. It is a hook in my gut.

  Total, terrifying trust.

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  She is looking at a monster and seeing a saviour.

  She takes Pip's small hand. She raises it. A wave.

  I tear my eyes away. The bile hits the back of my throat. Hot. Sour. If I look at her love for one more second, I will retch.

  "Is it over?" A woman calls out. Her voice is thin, carried on the wind.

  I do not answer. I keep walking.

  My boots find the stairs of the platform. I force Gwendolyn up. She stumbles. Her knee slams into the deck. A hollow, bone-jarring sound.

  Reginald is propped against the rail. He sees me. He attempts to correct his posture.

  I drive my hand onto his shoulder. I shove him down.

  "Sit."

  He collapses. A sack of old bones settling onto the stool.

  Gwendolyn shivers. Her teeth chatter, a small, insect sound. "James," she breathes. "What are you going to do?"

  I ignore her. I face the crowd. Relief ripples through them. Shoulders drop. Hands find hands. They think the nightmare is over.

  I pull the list from my pocket. The paper crinkles, a sound like dry leaves breaking.

  Ward is watching from the smithy. Hammer down. Arms crossed. He is a judge in a leather apron.

  He looks at the broken Elders, then at me. At the paper in my hand.

  He doesn't smile. Ward never smiles. But he dips his chin. One firm, downward motion. It says, Go on, lad. Do it.

  I lift the paper. The wind whips it against my knuckles. I look down at the black marks.

  My hand shakes. The charcoal letters blur under my thumb. I grab the railing.

  "It stops." My voice cracks. I force air into my lungs. I shout. "It stops today."

  The crowd is silent. They lean in.

  "You thought it was a lottery." My voice gains an edge. "You thought it was bad luck."

  My eyes lock onto Gwendolyn. She is huddled against the railing, her arms wrapped around a dark, leather shape pressed to her stomach. She looks up at me, shaking her head, pleading without sound.

  I cross the platform. Two strides. Gwendolyn curls tighter, her knees drawing up to protect the object.

  I reach down. My fingers dig into the worn leather of the bag. "It wasn't luck."

  She shrieks, a thin, pathetic sound, and claws at my wrist. I ignore it. I wrench the bag upward, breaking her grip.

  I hold it high. The leather is heavy. Full.

  I throw the bag down. The knot loosens. The stones hit the deck. They roll across the wood, bumping against the boots of the crowd.

  "Read them!" The command rips from my throat. "Pick them up! Look at what she did. Every stone has one name. My wife's name."

  For a heartbeat, no one breathes.

  A man in the front row picks one up. He traces the carved letters with a thumb. He looks at Gwendolyn with eyes like flint.

  I check Evangeline. She is crumbling, folding in on herself. She looks at the stones like they are bodies.

  Faces in the crowd turn. Eyes slide from Gwendolyn to my wife.

  No. I have to stop it. I have to give them a target so big they forget the victim.

  I step to the edge, forcing their eyes onto me. "The Flesh Tax is due. But why should the innocent pay for the crimes of the guilty?"

  The air goes still.

  I point a shaking finger at the two shapes in grey. They shrink back, pressing their spines against the railing. "I say the architects should pay the price."

  I lift the paper. "The Collectors are coming. I have chosen the offering."

  Charcoal dust coats my fingertips. Black grit. I don't need to look. The name is already spoken in my head.

  "Gwendolyn."

  The square detonates. A human wave slams into the base of the platform. The heavy timbers shudder under the impact, an earthquake driven by hate.

  Gwendolyn's knees hit the vibrating wood. She presses her forehead against the railing, hiding her eyes from the sea of grasping hands reaching up for her boots. She is shaking. A violent, rattling tremor that makes her grey tunic blur.

  I look at the second name on the list. "But one life is not enough."

  The crowd screams its agreement. They pivot, locking onto the old man.

  Reginald shrinks from their hunger. He watches the stairs filling with bodies. He turns his watery eyes to me.

  I hold his stare. I do not blink. "Reginald."

  He nods. A small, jerky motion.

  The crowd breaches the top step. They spill onto the platform, climbing over each other. Fingernails claw at the planks. Boots slip.

  Reginald drops his chin to his chest. He closes his eyes against the approaching wave. He goes limp. A body giving up before the noose even tightens.

  They crush him. The pile of bodies grows. I hear the wet crack of a rib folding inward.

  "Wait!" I slam my hand on the railing. I make my voice certain. Certainty is all they hear. "There is one name left."

  The crowd freezes. They leave the old man crumpled on the planks. They look to me. Bloodshot eyes. Heaving chests. They are dogs waiting for the next command.

  I point to the empty space beside Gwendolyn. "The woman who poured the sickness into your children's throats."

  I read the charcoal. "Ursula."

  Silence. Then a woman's voice, sharp with panic. "She's gone!"

  "The well," I rasp. "She's at the well."

  The crowd fractures. A torrent of men flows toward the alley mouth.

  We wait.

  Silence rushes back in. I stand on the platform. I count the seconds. One hundred. Two hundred. The cold finds the sweat on my back.

  The grey sky presses down on the rooftops. A speck of white hits the paper. Then another.

  Snow.

  It starts slow. Then it thickens, a white sheet dropping over the crowd.

  The crowd huddles. They press together, sharing heat. Their breath rises in a single, white cloud.

  I look at the forge. Ward is still there. He nods again. I break eye contact and stare at my boots.

  I check the perimeter. The treeline is a black, jagged edge. No silver masks. Just the endless falling white.

  Where are they? I want the Collectors. I want a fight. I want anything other than this.

  They don't come. Only the snow comes.

  I look at the paper in my hand. White flakes land on the top names. One lands on Gwendolyn. Then Reginald. Then Ursula.

  But the bottom names are black wounds on the page. Sharp. Defined.

  I try to fold the paper. To hide them. But my fingers are too stiff. They will not obey.

  The noise returns first. A low, dragging sound.

  The mob emerges from the alley. They haul Ursula by her arms. Her feet drag through the fresh snow, leaving two long, dark trails.

  They dump her. A pile of black rags on the white stone.

  The villagers shrink back. They cover their mouths against the smell of rot and sweet fruit. They step back, widening the circle.

  She moves. Her head lifts, the movement jerky and wrong. Her face is a landscape of decay. But the eyes are hers. Two wet, living stones in the ruin. She finds me.

  She reaches out. A claw of bone aiming at my chest.

  My blood goes cold. Do it. Say what I am. Expose me. End this.

  Her mouth opens. A black bubble forms, glistens, pops. Her strength leaves her. She falls.

  Then she lets out a wheezing sound. Wet air moving through ruined lungs. It sounds like laughter. She bows her head.

  "Justice!" Ward's voice booms. He thrusts his hammer at the sky. "For the village!"

  "For the village!"

  The crowd screams back. They are drunk on the victory. Villagers cling to each other, sobbing into the wet wool of their neighbours' coats. Laughter tears from their throats, wild and jagged. They think they have won.

  I stand there. For ten seconds, I am the hero. But I don't feel like one. I feel like a disease.

  My eyes find Rory. He is standing apart from the mob, clutching his fiddle to his chest. Snow gathers on his shoulders. He looks at Ursula, a black stain on the snow, then at me. His eyes are wide. Confused. He is waiting for me to tell him it's okay. To make a joke. To be James.

  I look past Rory. I find Grace.

  She is hugging her neighbour. The lines of grief on her face have smoothed out. She looks younger. Lighter.

  I look down at the paper. The next name is a black smear under my thumb. Grace.

  She wipes her eyes. She catches my stare and beams. A smile of pure gratitude. She thinks the debt is paid.

  I squeeze the rail until a splinter pierces my skin.

  I have to put the light out.

  I raise my head. The silence stretches, thin and brittle.

  I break it.

  "I'm sorry."

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