No one bothers to untie my wrists, which niggles at my brain. Something is wrong. And Jefferson . . . The fog takes over. I sink into the prickly mattress, and then I keep sinking, so deep it feels like darkness swallows me whole.

I wake to the smell of frying eggs and tobacco smoke. Sun shines through a single east-facing window. It’s too, too bright, like a spear of light lancing my mind. In fact, my whole head feels like it’s going to split open.

My belly roils with nausea. I try to sit up, and the binds on my wrist tighten, bringing more pain. Blinking to clear my vision, I stare at the rope. It leads to the footboard.

I’m tied to the bed.

Using the rope, I pull myself forward on the mattress, scanning the floor for a slop bucket, a wash bin, anything I can use to throw up in. My stomach lurches, and I pause to breathe deeply through my nose, willing things to calm down.

I’m in a small room with log walls and plank floors. Beside my small bed is a nightstand, displaying an issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book and a lantern. Along the other side of the room is a set of four empty shelves. Next to it is a doorway. A patchwork quilt hangs in the doorway like a curtain.

The quilt curtain is whisked aside, and a tiny lady in strange clothing barrels through, carrying a breakfast tray. Steam curls up from two fried eggs, a mess of bacon, a fluffy round biscuit, and a tin cup full of hot coffee.

It’s too rich, too much, and I bend over and vomit onto the floor.

Frank Dilley didn’t give me near enough food and water, so there’s not a lot inside me, and it’s over quick. My face burns, and I’m about to apologize, but the lady’s hand darts out quick as a snake to mop my mouth and chin with a handkerchief.

“Thank you,” I manage, looking up at her.

She’s Chinese. Her eyes are different from mine, but they’re not squeezed shut like in all the newspaper drawings. She has shining black hair pulled into a single thick braid down her back. The skin of her face looks as soft as a cloud. No, she’s wearing some kind of powder to make it appear so. Still, her skin doesn’t seem the least bit yellow to me, any more than the Indians I’ve seen appeared red.

“My name is Lee,” I say. “Thank you for bringing me breakfast. I’m sorry I . . . made such a mess.”

She gazes at me as if taking my measure, and I realize that she’s just a girl, no older than I am.

She carefully skirts the puddle on the floor and sets the tray on my bed. Then she points at her chest and says, “Mary.”

“Nice to meet you, Mary. Do you work for my uncle? Hiram Westfall?” Now that I’m awake and alert, the laudanum no longer swimming in my blood, I’m sure I remember his voice. His scent.

The girl’s gaze drops to the rope at my wrists, or maybe the sticky, raw skin beneath. She frowns slightly. A flurry of speech comes out of her mouth, but I have no idea what she’s saying.

“I’m sorry. I don’t speak Chinese.”

Mary points to the puddle, says something else, and walks away. Her bright blue tunic drapes softly over wide pants, and her platform shoes make a steady clump-clump sound as she goes. The quilt curtain swishes closed behind her.

I stare after her, wondering what to do. Eat some of this breakfast, maybe. I’m weak from my journey with Dilley and his men, and I’ll need a store of strength for whatever’s ahead. But the puddle on the floor smells something awful, and my belly is still churning like a fish in a trap. Maybe the coffee is a good starting place.

My bonds force me to grab the cup with both hands. I sip carefully at first, wary of putting too much in my stomach. It seems to go down okay, so I sip a little more.

Once I have some food in me, I need to think about escape. No, first I need to find out where Jefferson and Tom are. A vague memory from last night indicates they might be in a stable.

But even if we could escape, where would we go? I have no idea where Frank has taken us. I suppose fleeing in any direction is better than sticking around and waiting to see what my uncle has in store.

Just thinking about my uncle brings such a cramp to my belly that I set the cup down and clamp my hands over my mouth. This is it. The thing I’ve dreaded for so long. The man who killed Mama and Daddy has gotten me alone and defenseless. Maybe he’s right outside that door.

The quilt is whisked aside, and I jump, almost spilling my coffee. But it’s just Mary again, with some rags to mop up my puddle.

She drops the rags in front of me and makes a wiping-up gesture. When I don’t do anything, she mimes it again, more vigorously. Not knowing what else to do, I strain against the ropes at my ankles and reach for the floor with my still-tied hands. I try to wipe up the puddle, but the angle is all wrong and I mostly just smear it around.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her again, even though I’m not sure she understands.

She doesn’t bother hiding her disgust as she gathers the soiled rags. “Eat,” she says. Her voice is high and musical, and I wonder if she’s even younger than I thought, maybe fifteen.

“I’ll try,” I say. “It’s hard with . . . this.” I hold up my wrists, indicating the ropes and screaming red burns on my skin beneath them.

Mary scowls, and I’m not sure what she’s scowling at: that the bonds are on my wrists in the first place or that I’m complaining about them. She puts her hands together like they’re tied and makes an eating gesture, as if I’m too addled to figure it out myself.

She leaves me to try it, and I give it a splendid effort, poking at the eggs, nibbling the bacon, smearing bits of biscuit around my plate. I feel better than I did before, and I manage to keep a few bites down.

I look around the room again, for my things this time, and I spot a small chest at the foot of the bed. Maybe my knapsack is inside. I suppose it would be too much to ask for my guns to be there, too.

The curtain is whisked aside again, and I look up, expecting Mary, but oh, dear Lord, it’s my uncle Hiram, dressed all in fancy black, bearing down on me like a storm cloud.

I spider-crawl backward on the bed until my spine hits the wall.

“Hello, sweet pea,” he says in that sleepy Milledgeville drawl.

Chapter Twelve

It’s like nails on a slate, hearing my daddy’s name for me out of my uncle Hiram’s rotten mouth. It makes me so angry I almost forget to be afraid. “Where are Jefferson and Tom?” I demand.