It was a testament to the former-Warbird’s twisted character, that she found the level of security surrounding her amusing. The windows had been soldered shut with iron panels. The door was heavy wood, with so many bolts that Croe laughed every time it had to be unlocked – generally, twice a day only, for the delivery of her meals. When it swung open to admit the armed and armored delivery men, she could see her honor guard by the door, and could hear another pair down the hallway. Nobody made eye-contact, which Croe could appreciate. She did, after all, have a reputation for hypnotizing anyone who met her gaze. Like a gorgon turning all who saw her into stone.
That had been partly correct, in the early days. Now she didn’t need to see a man’s pupils to bend him.
But it would not do, to remind her captors how closely their behavior bordered on superstition. The long, heavy chain on her ankle, which made movement around the room annoying, would have fallen away harmlessly if she took crow-shape. Without equilibrium, any of the guards could have succumbed to her powers of hypnosis or visio-spatial manipulation. A little invisibility would have caused complete panic. A little fire and persistence could burn down the door, locks be damned. All of these things were like salt on a threshold; they may have helped everyone feel more secure, but they did not keep the demons out. The fact that Croe was still here, in her upgraded prison cell, owed as much to her cooperation as the diligence of the guard.
It was a fact nobody seemed to remember. Croe supposed she would be given the opportunity to remind them at her trial, if there was one. In the meantime, she did not have any desire to scoff at the gifts of lamplight, clean sheets, a chair, a book to read. The King had capitulated to Mallos’ request to keep her out of the dungeon, but it was clear he did not want to give anyone the impression that the Warbird was lounging in luxury. These small comforts were hard-won, and reminded her of Him.
She was reading the book when the bolts began their untimely clanking. Her thumb slipped into the furrow, marking her place, as her eyes slide up to the door. It swung halfway open, and admitted a girl.
“Ah, the sister.” She said, with a note of interest, and a knowing expression. She nodded toward the chair, which happened to be sitting a “safe” distance away, and set the book on the blanket beside her. “One cannot be called a captain without a ship, love. The guards call me many colorful things that are, at the moment, more accurate…or you can call me Croe, as my First Mate used to do, in private.” A faint smile ghosted across her mouth. “I assume he has been pardoned?”
Croe’s tone gave no indication that she was surprised by Henry’s betrayal, or even a sense that she had ever been in the dark about it. Her brow lifted slightly, curious more than challenging, as she folded her hands over her belly.
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