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“Three survivors from a fire,” Silas said quietly, almost conversationally.
“From sabotage. From an attempted escape.” He stopped in front of Ruth.
“Funny how truth always gathers in small groups.” Ruth’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Her eyes flicked toward Mama Edna, then away again, as if looking too long might turn the truth into something fatal.
That hesitation was all Silas needed. “You,” he said, turning slightly, “are the reason my granary burned.”
Ruth shook her head violently. “No. I didn’t— I swear I didn’t—”
The slap came so fast it barely registered as movement.
Her head snapped sideways, her knees buckling, but the patroller behind her kept her upright.
A low murmur rolled through the crowd, instantly crushed by silence.
Silas did not look satisfied. Not yet. His attention drifted, slow and deliberate, until it settled on Mama Edna.
A pause. Something in that pause stretched too long, like a thread pulled taut just before it snaps.
“This one,” Silas said, almost amused now, “has been in my house longer than I’ve been alive.”
Mama Edna lifted her eyes. Not quickly. Not defiantly. Just enough.
And in that sliver of contact, something shifted. Silas tilted his head.
“They say you’re deaf. Half blind. A walking corpse that forgot to die.”
He stepped closer. “Tell me, old woman… did a corpse plan a fire?”
For a heartbeat, there was only the distant crackle of the dying granary.