"But prove how? You were dying in a ditch for goodness sake!" I clutched Jacob's hand. George would be joining us at any moment. There wasn't much time. "What did he think you'd do, get up and walk away to perform this sacrifice he wanted? And if you didn't, was he threatening to...?" I couldn't finish the sentence. It was just too horrible to think about Jacob's murder. Besides, George was opening the door and climbing into the carriage.
He lifted the coat he carried over his arm to reveal a rectangular wooden box about the size of a large book. He placed it on the seat beside him and called out, "Drive on!"
The carriage jerked forward and the horses' hooves clipclopped a merry tune on the road. I looked to Jacob. If he wanted to speak, he could and it would be like having a private conversation with me. But he did not. He turned away and looked out the window.
His words haunted me the entire journey to Clerkenwell: if I want to live, I must prove I deserve to by sacrificing something important to me.
So why hadn't the murderer given Jacob the chance to make the sacrifice before ending his life?