The Magician's Lie by Greer Macallister Page A

from the floorboards of the old house, and I didn’t know whether it was my imagination or someone rising in the night. It wasn’t worth the risk. If Ray found me trying to run, I knew he would hurt me, and I feared he would kill me. There was no coming back from that.
    There was only one thing I needed to do before leaving. I dashed across the grass toward the barn, shoving open the huge door and not, as I’d been warned a thousand times to do, sliding it shut behind me. I wanted to throw open the doors of every stall, sending our whole crew of mares, foals, and stallions sprinting out into the night, but the thought of my mother stopped me. If all the horses were gone, it would be too obvious what I’d done. Silas’s wrath would come down on her. Instead, I walked directly to the stall of the mare I’d seen Ray attack. I could free one horse, at least. I could even ride to freedom on her back, if she let me.
    I crouched down to open the door, but I hadn’t foreseen her eagerness to break free, and I’d no sooner undone the latch than she charged the door, knocking me back. I fell to the ground, my head striking the floorboards with a thud, and then the horse was on me. I rolled, almost by instinct, hoping to shield my head. Hooves were all around, like thunder in my ears. I could only curl myself as small as I could and pray for luck. It was all over in a few moments. I had a distant awareness of retreating hoof beats, and on some level, that pleased me, but I was afraid to move and afraid to open my eyes. My body was frozen in shock, the blood so cold in my veins that I couldn’t tell at first whether I’d been injured. Had I ruined my chance at escape?
    As best I could, I stretched my body out to test its state, and a searing pain in my hand woke me from my trance. I held the hand out to look at it. It was clear that the outer two fingers had been caught under the horse’s hoof, broken and possibly crushed, down to the first joint of each. At least it was my hand and not my foot, I told myself. I could still walk. And I didn’t have time to indulge the pain. I had to get moving. So I sprinted north through the back field, skirting the edge of the neighbors’ land. I rejoined the road on the other side of town, where there was no one to ask questions.
    Where could I go? Not back to my grandparents’ house, which was an unknown distance in an unknown direction. I doubted they would welcome me, child of an unknown lecher and a known cheat with whom they had explicitly cut all ties. I knew almost nothing else of the world, only stories, nothing real. I only knew one place to go, unsuited as it was, and so I went there. It took much longer to go on foot, but at least I had two strong legs under me this time.
    I walked with my aching hand raised to keep it from filling with blood, a solitary young woman on a long road, one hand in the air as if she had the answer to a question.

Chapter Eight
    Janesville, 1905
    Half past one o’clock
    â€œIf I could, I’d show you what that looked like,” she says and twists her hands so the cuffs rattle against the wood of the chair.
    â€œIf I wanted to, I’m sure I could picture it,” he remarks dryly. She doesn’t need to remind him that her hands are trapped. But the sound prompts him to circle behind her and examine her hands again. “Which hand was it?” he asks.
    â€œThe right.”
    He kneels behind her so he can see clearly and leans in as close as he dares. The cut on her wrist stands out, although it seems less severe than he first thought. The fingers on both hands look straight and unblemished.
    â€œThis hand doesn’t look like it’s ever been broken.”
    â€œIt was a long time ago, officer,” she says.
    He retrieves his chair and sits down across from her again. He leaves plenty of room between them, but he wants to be on her level. He wants to look at her; not up, not