The cries and whimpers that came from the compartment beside her own soon after he left let Annora know just how little he thought of her threat. I should have just pretended to be asleep, she lamented, fearful that the one next to her may be suffering more due to her audaciousness. Her searching in the dark continued, hastened by hatred, feeling no more than wooden planks and damp rope or mops. Then her hand fell upon something so familiar that it felt wrong for it to be here. She rubbed her fingers over its cold surface, feeling each of its many crenulations once and again. It was no great feat to find one perfect half of a seashell on the coast of her former island, but to find one here gave her a sudden rush of achievement-until she remembered what she had planned to use it for. The top edge of it felt purposefully sharp, as if the previous captive had spent endless hours making it so. It would cut through flesh easily enough, either Pyke's or her own. It would not cut deep enough to end a man's life, however, and an image of his face came to her, embroiled with a mix of rage and glee, thankful that she'd given him a reason to hurt her even more. If she was to use this weapon, it could not be on him. The cries from her neighbor had ended, though they refused to leave her mind. A wound to my face will neither stop this man, she confessed to herself. With the shell clasped tightly in her hands she pressed the serrated edge against her chest, fearing the pain that would come, fearing that such an act may cost her her life, but mostly fearing that she lacked the courage to go through with it.
