The soldiers paid in coin, rough silver stamped with a lion’s head.

  I weighed it in my palm, listening to the way they laughed at each other as they passed the bucket around.

  They didn’t even notice the difference between my water and the swamp they usually drank, at least not right away.

  But when one soldier tipped the cup back, his eyes widened.

  He swore under his breath, then passed it down the line like it was a relic.

  They’d be back.

  Soldiers always came back for a good vice, whether it was women, smoke, or water.

  I tucked the coin in my sleeve and slipped away before anyone got too curious.

  Felt good.

  Dangerous.

  Just like old times.

  When I got back to the yard, Anna was gone.

  I asked one of the younger kids.

  He wouldn’t look at me, just muttered:

  “Saw her with Garrick. Barrel room.”

  Figures.

  The door groaned when I pushed it open.

  The air inside was damp, heavy with mold and the sour tang of iron hoops.

  Barrels stacked to the ceiling, shadows stretching between them.

  Garrick stood in the middle with two of his rats, all older, all bigger.

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  Anna was pressed against a barrel, clutching her arms around herself, eyes wide.

  “Dog finally shows up,” Garrick sneered.

  “Thought you could steal bread, steal scraps, and walk away clean?”

  I stepped in slow.

  Hands loose at my sides.

  Voice flat as a knife edge.

  “Let her go, Garrick. Or you’ll wish you had.”

  He barked a laugh.

  “Listen to the little twig. Thinks she’s scary.”

  I didn’t answer.

  I just moved.

  One step.

  Heel low into his shin.

  He yelped.

  My elbow snapped back into the gut of the boy behind me.

  He doubled over, wheezing.

  I spun.

  Slammed the crown of my head under the third’s chin.

  Teeth clacked.

  Blood spattered.

  Three moves.

  Three openings.

  Enough for Anna to scramble past me, her shriek already echoing down the hall:

  “Help! Nuns! Father Iren!”

  Good girl.

  But now it was just me.

  The first boy recovered, grabbed my wrist.

  I twisted, drove my nails into the soft web of his thumb—

  —but he didn’t let go.

  Another clamped my shoulder.

  Garrick’s grin was back, meaner than ever.

  “You’ve got tricks,” he said.

  “Let’s wash the bitch’s mouth out.”

  He drove me into the barrels.

  Wood thudded.

  My arm bent the wrong way—pain lanced sharp and hot.

  For a second I thought he’d snap it.

  Then his hand shoved down on the back of my head.

  “Let’s see if twigs still float underwater.”

  The water hit my face cold.

  Filthy.

  My lungs seized.

  I thrashed, nails clawing wood, but the body was too small, too weak.

  Panic rose, ugly and animal.

  The hitman in me screamed:

  Don’t die like this. Don’t die here. Not again.

  And then the water changed.

  It burned cold.

  Sharper than knives, crawling through my nose, my mouth, my skin.

  The grime dissolved.

  The stench vanished.

  Light rippled in the depths of the barrel, clear as glass.

  Too bright—blinding.

  Garrick screamed and jerked back like he’d touched fire.

  His rats stumbled, pale, muttering curses.

  I tore free, coughing.

  Pure water poured down my face.

  Soaking my shirt.

  Dripping from my hair in silver threads.

  The barrel behind me glowed faintly.

  Every drop inside, clean.

  The door slammed open.

  Father Iren stood in the frame, robes heavy, face unreadable.

  Nuns crowded behind him.

  Anna clung to one sleeve, eyes wide and tear-streaked.

  Iren’s gaze fell on me.

  Then on the barrel.

  Then back to me.

  When he spoke, it was soft.

  Steady.

  Impossible to mistake.

  “So. The Saint’s gift was not denied you after all.”