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The rope bites into her wrists before she even opens her eyes.
Wantang's first real thought is that the knot is wrong. Too tight at the base, no give in the coil—whoever tied it didn't care if circulation held. Her second thought is that her head is splitting, worse than any hangover, worse than the time she talked a man off a crane for six hours straight and forgot to hydrate. Her third thought is: I'm not supposed to be tied up at all.
She cracks her eyes open. Sunlight slams in, white and vicious.
She's outside. A crowd hums somewhere close, low and anticipatory, the kind of sound people make when they're waiting for something to start. She tries to move and her spine scrapes wood. She's upright. Vertical. Her arms are wrenched behind her back and lashed to something solid, and when she tilts her head she sees iron brackets and a tall post and, below, a platform stacked with bundled branches.
Oh.
Oh, hell.
She's tied to a stake.
The crowd isn't humming. They're gathering.
She yanks against the rope. It doesn't budge. Her shoulders scream. She twists her neck, trying to see past the post, and catches sight of stone buildings, narrow streets, and a square packed with people in clothes she's only seen in museum paintings—wool cloaks, leather vests, women in long skirts and men in buckled boots. No phones. No cars. No power lines.
Her mouth is dry as ash.