“Imogen!” Timothy called up. “What happened, girl?”
“Mr. Andersen!” The girl’s voice was thick with tears. “I—I tried to save Marmalade. He was stuck up here, and I thought I could climb up and get him, but now I’m too scared to come down! It’s so high, and I can’t hold on much longer, and Marmalade keeps moving, and?—”
Her words dissolved into fresh sobs.
Joan assessed the situation quickly. The branch the girl sat on was thick and sturdy, but she was at least fifteen feet off the ground. Far enough that a fall could cause serious injury, especially if she was holding a wriggling cat.
“I’ll go up and get her,” Timothy said, already moving toward the tree. He tested the lowest branch, then began pulling himself up.
Joan watched anxiously as he ascended, moving carefully from branch to branch. Percival stood beside her, his young face tight with worry for his friend.
Timothy reached the branch where Imogen sat and spoke to her in low, soothing tones Joan couldn’t quite hear. After a moment, the girl nodded and carefully shifted to climb onto Timothy’s back, still clutching the cat against her chest.
“That’s it,” Timothy encouraged. “Just hold on tight. I’ve got you.”
He began the descent slowly, testing each foothold before putting his weight on it. Joan held her breath, her hands clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms.
They were about eight feet from the ground when disaster struck.
The cat—Marmalade—apparently decided it had endured quite enough of this adventure. It let out a furious yowl and squirmed violently in Imogen’s arms, its claws scrabbling for purchase.
Imogen’s grip loosened in surprise. Timothy, feeling the girl’s hold on him weaken, tried to adjust his position.
His foot slipped.
For a heart-stopping moment, they teetered on the branch. Then Timothy’s boot lost its hold entirely, and they fell.
“No!” Joan didn’t think. She simply moved.
She lunged forward, arms outstretched, just as Imogen tumbled off Timothy’s back. The girl landed against Joan’s chest with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. They both went down in a tangle of skirts and limbs, Joan twisting at the last moment to take the brunt of the impact.
Pain exploded through her left wrist as she tried to break their fall. The world spun sickeningly, and for a moment all she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears.
Timothy hit the ground a few feet away with a heavy thud and a grunt of pain.
“Father!” Percival was at his side immediately. “Father, are you hurt?”
Joan blinked stars from her vision and looked down at the girl in her arms. “Imogen? Are you all right?”
The girl stared up at her with wide, shocked eyes. The cat had vanished—probably fled the moment they hit the ground—but Imogen appeared unhurt. Just frightened.
“I—I think so,” the girl whispered.
Timothy rolled to his feet with a groan, one hand pressed to his ribs. He hurried over to where Joan and Imogen lay on the ground, Percival close behind.
Timothy knelt beside them, his weathered face creased with concern. He gently extracted the girl from Joan’s arms and looked her over carefully. “Are you injured? Does anything hurt?”
“No, Mr. Andersen.” Imogen’s voice was small and shaky. “I’m all right. The lady caught me.”
Timothy’s gaze shifted to Joan, who was struggling to sit up. Her left wrist throbbed with a pain that made her stomach lurch.
“Miss Sinclair.” Timothy’s hand was on her shoulder, steadying her. “Don’t move too quickly. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Joan said automatically, though the words came out more breathless than she intended. She cradled her left wrist against her chest, trying to hide the way it was already beginning to swell.
Timothy’s eyes narrowed. “Let me see your wrist.”
“It’s nothing. Truly. Just a little sore.”
