Текст книги "Rook"
Автор книги: Sharon Cameron
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
“Now, Mademoiselle,” René said, adjusting the angle of her body carefully as they stood in front of the sitting-room fire, the slanting rays of nethersun glowing through the filmy windows. He was in his linen shirtsleeves, the plain jacket tossed onto a chair, hair tied. “Hit with an open palm, and aim for here.”
He put her fingers against the lower edge of his cheek. She’d wondered what that would feel like. It prickled.
“Do not hold back,” he instructed. “There must be no doubt that we are having a fight of passion. That will be essential. Unless you are pulling on your wound?”
She shook her head. She was going to slap him with her right and her cut was on the left, but overall she thought this situation particularly unjust. What she wouldn’t have given to do this one week ago, and René was ruining it with sheer willingness.
“Hit him hard, Sophie,” Spear said, chuckling as he watched from the couch. Even Benoit had come to see, a man-shaped outline easy to overlook in the corner.
René waited, almost daring her, while she was trying to ignore the little pulse beating at the base of his throat. It was beating rather fast. She took a deep breath, pulled her arm back, and slapped. Her skin on his made a solid, but faint, smack.
“Oh, no,” René said, shaking his head. “I do not think you meant that.”
“And he would know when a woman slaps him and means it, Sophie, don’t you think?” said Spear, still chuckling. He put a hand to his shirt pocket, as if checking to see that something was still there.
René was looking over his shoulder toward the couch, an amused half smile on his face, and something about the expression put Sophia in mind of their Banns, and Lauren Rathbone, and that gaggle of women he had so expertly flirted with.
This time her slap turned his head.
“Ah,” René said after a moment, hand to his cheek. “That was much better.”
He rubbed his face, where a patch of skin was beginning to show the shape of her hand. Sophia would have sworn the blue fire in his eyes was pleased. She almost smiled before she could stop herself.
“This will be about the timing, I think,” he said. “You should come across the room, pause, step one, two, three, and hit. Let’s do that, Mademoiselle, without the hitting …”
They did it without, and then they did it with, adding dialogue, working for the actions to be automatic, for René to turn slightly just in time to deflect the worst of the blow, until Benoit could tell them the level of preparation was not obvious. René would accept no one else’s opinion on that subject. She was afraid she must be bruising his face, but René’s enthusiasm, she discovered, was a force of nature, not to be diminished or controlled. They kept at it.
Spear seemed to forget that there was a rehearsal going on, and it made him bold. He flattered her, shielded her when it wasn’t needed, sat too close when she let René’s cheek have a rest. “Staking a claim,” that had been Orla’s single comment in her ear. Sophia did not want to be “staked.” And René was aware of it, too. He kept giving her that knowing look, as he had that first night in the farmhouse, which made him much easier to hit. Especially when she called up the image of the way he had smiled at Lauren Rathbone’s smudgy eyes.
The candles had burned low before Benoit finally gave his blessing. Spear banked the fire, thoughtful, while Sophia trudged up the stairs, tired and with a hand on her side, Orla behind her. Benoit and René were both out of sight. Spear allowed himself a smile. Things were going well. Sophie seemed to like the farm, she’d sat with him on the couch, and she’d been slapping the stuffing out of Hasard. Since dusk. And he knew Sophia Bellamy well enough to see when there was anger on her face. She’d never been that good of an actress. He had nothing to fear from Hasard. The knowledge lifted a weight from his mind. Spear put the poker back in place, still smiling, checked his shirt pocket once more for the rustle of paper, then headed toward the kitchen to blow out the lamps.
Hasard was just entering the narrow passage from the kitchen door, head down and preoccupied, barreling down the hall to stop only just short of a collision. They circled each other, Hasard’s hands going up in mock apology before they both moved on in their opposite directions. Spear smiled again. The man’s left cheek had been a very satisfactory reddish-purple.
René grinned as he walked away down the kitchen passage, rubbing his sore cheek, slipping the folded piece of paper from Spear Hammond’s shirt pocket into his own.
“What do you think, Benoit?” René’s Parisian was very soft as he knelt at the little table in his room, where Benoit was taking advantage of a strong lamp. Benoit ran the end of the eyescope over the now unfolded piece of paper, then held it up, peering at the light shining through.
“It is an official document of the Sunken City,” Benoit said. “Not a forgery, I would say.”
“And why would Hammond be carrying this particular document with him, do you think?”
Benoit didn’t answer. René had not expected him to.
“And where did he get it, Benoit? Had Tom Bellamy already acquired it, or did he get it from LeBlanc, perhaps?”
But René did not expect an answer to this, either. He scratched his stubbled chin, frowning once as he grazed his bruised cheek.
“She slapped you very thoroughly,” commented Benoit. “What did you do to her?”
“Teased her. About Hammond. But only a little. She is an interesting girl, do you not agree?” Benoit just shook his head, and René picked up the document. “I suggest we give it back, and see where he leads us. Do you agree to that?”
“I do,” Benoit said, and soon after, when Spear left his bedroom to investigate a noise at the front door, there was a folded piece of paper on the floor of his bedroom, just where it might have fallen from a shirt’s front pocket.
Tom glanced down and saw a piece of paper in the dirt beside him. He got a hand on top of it, only just clinking his chains, studying the two gendarmes that had come to his prison hole with Gerard. Which of them had dropped the paper while he’d been dazzled by the lantern light?
The younger gendarme of the two was carrying the water bucket, which he managed to bump and slosh onto Gerard’s shoes. Tom hated to see any of the water go, but they would have left it just out of his reach anyway. While Gerard fussed and the three of them argued, Tom unfolded the paper beneath his fingers and his eyes darted down. Very small, in red ink, was the shape of a feather.
Tom wiggled the paper into the dirt beneath his hand, stiffening as the younger gendarme approached. He’d drawn his knife. Gerard and the other gendarme, a man with a small, brown mustache, waited by the door. The young man squatted beside Tom, his back to the others.
“A pinprick, that is all,” he whispered.
“No talking to the prisoner!” Gerard snapped.
The young man winked, pushed up Tom’s filthy sleeve, and made a quick stab into his forearm with the knife tip. Then he held a small glass vial to the wound, squeezing and pushing a little to help the blood run into it.
They left him in the dark soon after. But Tom, having quickly learned to memorize the position of his water bucket, had seen the young gendarme nudge it to just within his reach. He listened for the metal door to bang shut from far above, and as soon as it did he called, “Jennifer?”
His voice echoed in the dark, oppressive quiet. A primitive sort of panic swelled in his chest.
“Jennifer! Are you there?”
“I’m here, Tom.” Her voice came through the little barred window of her door into his, and it was shaking. “Are they gone?”
“Yes, they’re gone.” He didn’t mention his bleeding arm; he was just now beginning to notice the sting of it. He found the tiny piece of paper and made for the water, drinking straight from the bucket, heart beating hard against his cracked ribs.
Sophie was coming. That’s what the paper meant. Part of him wished she wouldn’t, but surely he’d known she would. He wondered what she’d done about René Hasard, who seemed to be operating under his own flag, and if Spear had done what Tom had asked right before LeBlanc dragged him out of Bellamy House: to find out who had denounced the Bonnards. It could have been anyone, he supposed. But he wondered …
And why had LeBlanc sent in a doctor, and taken a vial of his blood, as Jennifer said he’d taken hers before? The doctor must have seen his limitations, which meant LeBlanc must know them now, too. LeBlanc had to at least suspect that he didn’t have the Red Rook. But then who did he think the Rook was? And why wasn’t LeBlanc down here right now, dragging information from his screaming mouth? So far their favorite way to torment him was to make Jennifer scream, which was very effective; he’d bit his lip bloody and pulled the hair from his scalp just trying to endure it. But no one had ever asked him any questions.
“Jennifer?”
“Yes, Tom?”
“Tell me about the time you went to Finland.”
She began to talk, hesitant at first, eventually losing herself in the story.
Now that he’d thought it through, it was clear that if LeBlanc had sent his cousin to them, then he must have been looking at the Bellamy coast long before the night that Sophie emptied the Bonnards’ prison cell. And someone must have given LeBlanc a reason to do so. It was this unseen enemy that frightened him. He hoped that his sister was being smart. That she was trusting no one.
He leaned his head against the rough stone, listening to Jennifer describe trees frozen like ice sculptures in the snow. He tore the piece of paper with the red feather into tiny pieces and ate them bit by bit.
Sophia ate a piece of bread at the table, tearing off chunks while looking out the kitchen windows, where the salt wind had been prevented from mounting a direct attack on the clarity of the glass. It was the quiet time after dawn, when the birds were awake and most other animals too sensible to be so. But she thought she’d seen movement on the hillside, a branch bobbing where there was no breeze.
The daylight grew, the remnants of mist lifted, and the woods remained tranquil. Spear’s horse whinnied in the stable. She wiped the crumbs from the table, moved softly down the passage, through the sitting room, and knocked once on Spear’s bedroom door before she poked her head in. She’d heard him moving about for some time.
“Spear, can I ask you something?”
Spear looked up, startled. He was on the edge of his bed, pulling on his boots. “Yes, but just let me …”
She slipped in and closed the door behind her, feeling rather daring, while Spear checked the order of his hair. She’d never seen Spear’s bedroom. It was neat. Spartan, even. And she had a suspicion there would be no stray balls of fluff roaming beneath the bed, either.
“Do you remember last year, when the three of us were in the undermarket at Kent, and we went to the blacksmith’s?”
Spear finished his bootlace. “The one who had clocks under the floorboards of his mother-in-law’s potting shed?”
“That’s the one. Do you remember seeing this?” She pulled a paper from the back pocket of her breeches as she came across the room. On it was a drawing of a clock, an odd sort of arm apparatus attached to the top.
“Yes. I do remember,” he said, taking the paper. “He called it a ‘firelighter,’ right? Because the flint on the top would strike a flame at a certain time, depending on how you set the clock?”
“Exactly so. I want to buy it.”
“That was a lot of money, Sophie. Hard to imagine somebody paying so much not to light their own fire.”
“I know. That’s why I hope he still has it, and that he will bargain. Do you think you could talk him down on the price?”
Spear studied the picture. “I could make this, I think. If I had the clock.”
“Could you really?” Sophia sat next to him, looking at the drawing. Spear was good at that sort of thing, but it had never occurred to her that he was that good. “Are you sure? How long would it take? Can you do it in ten days?”
“I think so. It’s just flint and steel, and the parts for the top. And it would be much cheaper to buy the clock alone. What do you want it for?”
“Oh.” Sophia smiled. “I was just thinking it would be safer not to have someone standing right there, lighting the Bellamy fire. This could be set to light a greased fuse ahead of time. No one near it at all.”
“I thought you were using the explosions for a distraction, like before?”
She nodded, her brown eyes open and earnest. His narrowed.
“Well, that’s a lot of trouble for a distraction. What are you not telling me, Sophia Bellamy?”
What she wasn’t telling him was that she was going to put that firelighter in barrels of Bellamy fire and blow a great ruddy hole in LeBlanc’s prison. And that she was going to usher out hundreds of sick and dying prisoners first. And that it was very likely she wouldn’t be coming back out again.
“Really, Spear,” Sophia said. “When did you get so suspicious? What would I not be telling you?”
She looked down at the floor, so he wouldn’t see her face, and noticed a piece of paper, much folded, peeking out from the space beneath the bed. An anomaly in such an orderly room. She leaned over and picked it up.
“Here,” she said. Spear took it from her, tucking the paper into his shirt pocket without meeting her eyes. “So will you make the firelighter for me?” she asked. “If you can?”
“Yes,” Spear replied, “I can do that.”
A completely unreasonable part of her wished he had slapped that drawing right back into her hand and for once in his life denied her a request. “Thank you. And … maybe we should keep this between ourselves, if you don’t mind.”
That brought a tiny smile to his face. He nodded, and she stood up to go, wincing a bit.
“Sophie,” Spear said, “what are you doing for money right now? Are you able to pay Nancy and Cartier?” Without waiting for an answer, Spear opened a drawer in the table beside his bed and took out a small cloth bag. It clinked. He held it out to her.
Sophia shook her head. “I can’t …”
“Yes, you can.”
“But where did you …”
“I came into a little money. You can pay me back when we get all this sorted.”
She smiled ruefully as she took it. “That really is good of you, Spear. I …”
“Or,” he went on, “we could just consider the money ours. No need to pay it back. We could say it’s for a common cause, couldn’t we? For you and me.”
Sophia stood still, the bag heavy in her hand.
“I know you said you don’t fancy marrying anyone right now. And I know that’s because the timing is bad. But it’s always been us, hasn’t it? And when this is over, no matter what happens, I’ll make sure that doesn’t have to change. I can promise that.”
Silence settled over the room, and Sophia still had not moved. Her eyes were stinging, and she was willing herself not to blink, not to spill any tears. How did you tell someone that you loved them, truly loved them, but not in the way they wanted you to? How could she tell him that one way or the other, whether she came back or not, the future he’d planned was never going to happen? You didn’t, and she couldn’t. Not now.
She turned to walk away, but Spear caught her hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing it once. She left, the bag jangling, tears finally spilling as she climbed the farmhouse stairs. She heard another person coming down.
“Bonjour,” said René.
“Bonjour,” Sophia whispered. She could feel the blue of his eyes on her back as she hurried around the turn of the landing.
Spear sat on the edge of his bed, thinking about Sophia’s silence. The most important words came hardest to her. She’d always been like that. She needed someone to take care of her. Spear stood and left his room, the folded paper with the seal of the Sunken City back in the pocket against his chest.
“Bonjour,” said René as they crossed paths in the sitting room. René’s left jaw was a faint purple. Spear nodded, picking up speed as he moved down the passage to the kitchen. He pushed open the back door and walked fast through the farmyard, scattering a few slow-moving ducks, taking long strides through the uncut stubble of the cornfield until the plow land gave way to brushy trees and an overgrown path. He disappeared into the woods of the hillside.
And like a shadow where it shouldn’t be, Benoit also entered the woods, his eyes on Spear Hammond’s back.
It took the better part of two days to make the preparations for Spear’s trip. None of the rest of them could be seen outside the house, not a terribly difficult thing on Spear’s isolated farm, but they couldn’t just pop over to Forge for bread, either. So Sophia wrote lists and instructions, planning for their needs both now and in the Sunken City, and all the while Spear had not been exactly forward, but behaving as if things were … settled between them.
She’d thought she’d been right not to tell him, that the whole tangle of the future could wait until she brought Tom home, as René had suggested. Tom would be on her side, she knew that, no matter what Spear thought her brother had said. And if she didn’t come back, there would be nothing to tell Spear anyway, would there? Now she was thinking that this perfectly logical line of reasoning was really nothing more than an excuse. An excuse for being a bloody coward.
She watched Spear gallop his horse down Graysin Lane, carrying her list, money, and a letter to their forger, the back of her hand still warm from his kiss. It was a relief to have him go, which made her sad. And guilty. She’d never been glad to see Spear’s back before. But wisdom or cowardice either way, for however long Spear took in Kent, she would not have to look into his sincere eyes and think about how she would hurt him.
“So tell me about the water-lift shaft,” Sophia said.
It was nearly middlesun and she stood at the sink, washing the pan she’d been frying eggs in, all the dishes they hadn’t done the night before teetering in a pile to her left. She was feeling rather cheerful about doing dishes. It was uncomplicated work, with no expectations she could not fulfill, results seen instantly in a growing stack of clean plates. St. Just prowled about her feet, devouring scraps, and Orla was behind the toolshed, plucking a duck for their dinner, well away from the laundry blowing in the autumn wind. Benoit had not shown his face. Probably following Spear, if Sophia had to guess.
René sat at the kitchen table, writing out the invitations to their second engagement party, this time in the Sunken City, all one hundred and thirty-eight of them. The invitations were his curse for having the best handwriting in Parisian, and they had to be in the post by the next highsun. He leaned back, stretching ink-stained hands behind his head and into the air, left cheek just showing a faint bruise. Sophia’s scrubbing slowed. René was definitely a filcher of purses today, working his way up to daughters. She went back to her pan before she got caught staring.
“The water-lift shaft,” he replied, still stretching, “is twelve floors down and narrow. You will be able to get your back and feet on the walls, if you wish.”
“It will be dirty,” she said, considering.
“Very. But you will enjoy it, Mademoiselle, especially if the bucket on the other side is full.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because if one bucket is full, and you are certain to take the opposite rope, you will get such a ride to the bottom! Just do not stand on the bucket.”
Sophia smiled, amused. “And why ever not?”
“Because then you will get such a dunking at the end of your ride! And LeBlanc will track your wet footprints right across the Lower City.” He leapt up from his chair. “Here, give me that towel. If I do not do something else, I will explode.”
“You want to dry dishes?”
“I have done it before,” he said, expression serious. “It was Maman’s most particular punishment.”
“You must have done it every day, then.”
“Once again, you wound me. It was only five or six times a week.”
She laughed before she could help it and tossed him a towel, which he caught on his way to the sink. “Have you ever been down it?” she asked, going back to the water lift.
“What do you take me for, Mademoiselle? I have climbed both up and down, though not for some time. There has been no need of escaping my tutors.”
“And the rope?” she asked, handing him a dripping plate.
“It is replaced from time to time. But it should be tested, I think, before you go down.”
For a little while there was just the slosh of water and clink of stacking dishes, until René said, “Tell me what you are thinking of.”
Sophia had been watching the wisping steam rise off the water in the rinsing bucket, and realized she’d been smiling. She ran the dry part of her arm over her forehead, pushing back hair gone mad from the heat, and shook her head. “Nothing.”
“It is not nothing. Tell me. I am suffering.”
Nothing made René Hasard suffer more than information he could not have. It was a good thing he wasn’t aware of just how much she denied him. She let him fidget for another few moments before she said, “It’s just that I was nearly killed by an old rope once, that’s all.”
“And this makes you smile?”
“Yes.” She bit her lip, smiling even more. She knew she needed to be careful, that she was vulnerable, that keeping René at arm’s length and focused only on the business at hand was the best thing for her. But one glance at the grin in the corner of his mouth and she succumbed.
“Tom stole a rope once. He was going to bring it back, of course, but he wanted to measure exactly how far the Sunken City had sunk, to know how high the cliffs were for our map.”
“You went to the city every summer?”
“Yes. Tom and Spear and I. Father took us. Since I was too small to remember.”
“And you often climbed down into the Lower City?”
“Nearly every day. I had … there were people there, Mémé Annette and her son Justin, Maggie and the baby, they were like family to me. I think I was all of eight years old before I realized that Mémé Annette wasn’t actually my grandmother. I used to help her sell oatcakes on Blackpot Street.”
“Oatcakes,” René repeated. “On Blackpot Street?”
“Oh, yes. I thought it was great fun. Do you know the market there?”
“I do.”
She glanced at him again from the corner of her eye, a little surprised, though perhaps she shouldn’t have been. Smugglers might very well know the Blackpot market. René had stopped drying and was just watching her talk, all his energy focused on her face.
“So the three of us climbed the fence, snuck past the guards at the Seine Gate, where there is a little path down to the waterfall …”
“Yes, I know the place.”
“And Tom dropped his rope over, only it was a cool night, and there was so much fog coming off the river we couldn’t see if the rope had reached the bottom. So Tom decided to climb down and find out. Spear and I were to let out more rope if he tugged once, and pull him back up when he tugged twice. Or Spear was supposed to, anyway, since he was so much bigger …”
“How old were you?”
“Nine, maybe. I think Tom was ten, Spear eleven. But Tom never tugged the rope. And I was so jealous that he’d gotten to do the measuring down the cliff …”
“You went down after him,” René said.
“We had a bet on how far it was, and I was afraid he might cheat. But when I got near the bottom I found out why Tom hadn’t tugged. He was talking to a woman, telling her the most ridiculous story about night fishing.”
“In the Seine?”
“I said it was stupid. But then I realized the rope above my head was fraying, untwisting bit by bit. I tried to climb back up above the weak place, but the rope snapped, and if I hadn’t landed on Tom’s head, I probably would have broken mine. As it was, I left us in a pile on the ground.”
“And what did Tom do?” René asked, grinning.
“He picked me up, dusted me off, and apologized beautifully to the woman. And then, being the helpful sister I was, and because no sane person would believe the story he’d been telling, I told the woman that we were actually in secret training for the circus.”
René laughed, which made her smile. “Who was she?”
“No idea. But she was Lower City, and she must have known we were Upper. Tom’s hair wasn’t cut. She could have called the guards, though I don’t suppose they threw children into the prison in those days. Instead she told us to climb back up and practice more or we’d be the worst circus act the Sunken City had ever seen. Tom gave me such a smack when we got back to the top.”
René laughed again, and Sophia laughed with him. It felt good to laugh. But the feeling died away as she rinsed another plate. What would she do without Tom? He should be here right now, at the kitchen table, correcting the details she’d gotten wrong, telling her when she was being an idiot. And when she wasn’t.
René said, “Sometimes, Mademoiselle, it is a torture to me, trying to decide what is inside your head. And then at other times, I can see just what you are thinking.” His voice lowered. “Should I tell you what you are thinking now?”
She rinsed the same plate again, suddenly aware of proximity, of the arm next to hers, the smell of cedar wood and that little beat of pulse at the base of his neck, just at the level of her eyes, close enough to touch. He’d moved up to daughter-stealing before she’d realized. No. She really didn’t want him to tell her what she was thinking.
“I will say, then, and you will tell me if I am wrong. You fear that this plan will fail, that this will be the first time the Red Rook does not come out of the Sunken City with her quarry, and that this is the one time you cannot live with such a failure. But that is not so difficult to see, is it? Who would not fear that in your place? But I think I will tell you what you truly fear.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was even softer. “You fear what will happen if your plan succeeds.”
She stood still, her fingers dripping. She didn’t dare look up.
“If your plan succeeds, will you come back to a father imprisoned and a home lost and a life that is uncertain? Or no? Will there be a marriage fee, and a husband instead? And if there is, what will you do with them, this husband you did not ask for, a brother who cannot provide, and a father whose mind is not whole?”
Sophia let her wild hair fall about her cheeks where it would hide her face, her body paralyzed. How could he know that? These were things she hardly admitted to herself.
“But even if none of that were so,” he went on, “if there was no husband, your father restored, and home secure, if Allemande fell on his own sword and the Tombs were empty and the Razor torn down tomorrow—if you could have everything you have ever allowed yourself to wish for, you would still lose, would you not? Because you would go back to being Sophia Bellamy before the Red Rook, and I think you fear that just as much as failure. Now tell me I am wrong.”
She could not tell him he was wrong. And it was mortifying. He reached up a finger and hooked a long curl, moving it away from her face. She felt her gaze pulled upward. René’s hair was russet and mahogany in the window sun, his expression serious, the blue eyes heated and focused and intent on hers.
“Do you know why I know these things you do not say? It is because you are like me. That is why I can see. I know what it is to live as someone else, where others can never know you.” He was making free with her hair on one side now, letting the strands spiral around his fingers while he ripped secrets straight from her soul. “But have you never thought that there could be a life you would want after the Rook?”
She should go. Some part of her mind knew this, was telling her to put an end to it, that she’d been caught in his spell unawares, that she was allowing what had happened in the sanctuary to happen again. But she couldn’t speak. She breathed in as his hand moved to her neck, thumb running along her jaw, tilting her chin to steady her gaze.
“Shall I say more truth to you? You have never thought there would be a life you would want, because you think all that is possible is only what you have seen. That anything sweet is like the honey in a trap.”
The universe had narrowed to the inches around Spear’s kitchen sink, to the lack of space that was between them. He brought his other hand up to her neck, cradling her head so she could look nowhere else. Her pulse was racing, the feel of his hands, the path of his thumb along her cheek negating her will to move.
“But what if Sophia and the Rook did not have to be two separate people, but could be one and the same?” His gaze looked hard into hers. “You are a risk taker, Sophia Bellamy, and I wonder, if you believed anything I am saying to you now, what would you risk for such a life?”
If she believed. Hadn’t she entered into this arrangement with René Hasard knowing she could not believe? That he could bewitch her like this if he wished? That she could not afford to be taken in just because she was aching to know what would have happened if she’d turned her head that day in the sanctuary, what would happen right now if she leaned forward just the slightest bit?
“But you do not believe me, do you?” he whispered. “Do you?”
Her lips parted, but she had no words. And then he stepped back a pace, dropping his hands, the smile in the corner of his mouth now bitter.
“Or do you choose not to believe, Sophia Bellamy?”
And she fled. Out the back door and into the muddy yard, crisp air hitting her panting lungs, clearing away the cobwebs of her trance. She looked left past the well, at the small barn and the loo and various sheds, and then to her right at the harvested cornfield, brown and crackling with stiff, dead stalks. The hill to the view was straight ahead, but she rejected all of these and instead turned and took hold of the house stones.
She pulled herself up, the flinty rock rough and still cold from the night, finding purchase for her side-turned feet as she grabbed, clawed, opposite leg, opposite arm, pushing her body away from the ground. She felt the ache in her muscles, so pampered the past nine days, and a protest from the wound in her side. She welcomed it. Again and again she stretched up, and then there was roof thatch in her hand. She got a leg over, rolled, and found herself lying flat on the roof, heat pouring down on her from a bright blue sky. She put a hand to her stitches, but she was whole.
