She darted out a hand and grabbed his wrist. “No, don’t!”
A gunshot boomed and she screamed and ducked behind the desk as plaster rained from the ceiling. That one had entered the room.
“This is Chinese silk brocade,” she said, stroking the curtain fabric.
“Amelia, I’m prioritizing you over the curtains.”
“No, I mean this will be much stronger than cotton.” She climbed onto the desk and yanked the curtain rod down. “It’ll be the difference between climbing into Rapunzel’s tower withall her hair or a few strands.” She slipped the curtain and lining from the rod. “There should be enough length that we can use the silk and cotton together.”
A gunshot blasted, followed by another, muffling her hearing. A splinter flew off the door and struck the side of her cheek. Tom grabbed an old letter opener from the desk and stabbed the middle of the first curtain, to get a rip started, then used his hands to tear through the length of it. “Here,” he said, passing her the letter opener. “Get started on the other curtain while I knot these together and tie them to the desk.”
Amelia was relieved that he seemed to know his knots—and that there wasn’t time for her to think through the implications of ruining such precious fabric. This was not how she’d ever expected her master’s thesis on comparative tensile strengths to be put to use. She handed the lengths to him as she ripped, and he quickly knotted them into one long rope.
“After you, Rapunzel,” he said, indicating the window as he tied one end of the length of fabric to the nearest leg of the big desk.
“Holy shitballs, don’t call me that!”
Something—someone—charged the door. The cabinet shuddered, threatening to topple.
Amelia scrambled to the windowsill. “Do youknowwhat happens to her prince?”
“Hold on tight, and I’ll lower you,” he said, handing her the other end of the fabric. “The knots should stop you from sliding. Oh, and take this.” He held out the keys. “Just in case…”
She shoved it down her bra, trying not to finish his sentence in her head.
“When you get to the ground, make for the garage. It’s in the former stables, outside the western wing. Look for the old blue Land Rover.” He checked over his shoulder. “So, what happens to Rapunzel’s prince?” he said, as she climbed over the sill.She recognized it as a transparent attempt to keep her from panicking about this particular life-threatening experience, but she appreciated the thought. “A happy-ever-after?” His voice tensed as he took her weight. Her life was literally in his hands—and the pillaged cocoons of several thousand long-dead silk moths.
“Only after he lands in thorns and gets blinded.”
“Good thing I’m not a prince. No one ever wrote a fairy tale about a younger son. Don’t look down,” he said, as the fabric started to swing, creating a corresponding seesawing in her stomach. “Look straight at the wall. Touch the soles of your shoes to the side of the house. It’ll keep you steady,” Another gunshot blasted out and the fabric shunted down, swinging her around.
“Tom?” she cried.
“Sorry, I just had to duck.”
She scrambled to plant her shoes back on the stone. Something crashed, inside the room.
“You know how to drive a manual car?” Tom called, with a greater urgency.
“A what?”
“A—what do you people call them? You know, with gears?”
“A stick shift! I’m out of practice, but sure.” Though she absolutely did not want to leave without him.
Her descent halted.
“That’s it, I’m afraid,” he called. “We’re out of rope.”
He was already climbing over the sill, holding the fabric in one hand and the gun in another. She had to get her weight off the curtain—it couldn’t hold both of them. Her feet were within reach of a stone window ledge, and from there it was only a short jump to the ground, which she managed with no grace whatsoever, kicking part of the ledge down with her.
“Run!” he called, as another gunshot fired. He swore, and something smashed to the ground beside her. His phone. “Don’t wait for me.”
She ran the long way around the house in case someone was looking out the ballroom windows, taking a shortcut through the kitchen garden, and sprinted along the turning bay. The car was easy to find, parked on a concrete pad within the remains of the stables, which wasn’t much more than a rusty metal roof and chunky timber supports.
She opened the driver’s door and jumped in, remembering too late that the driver’s seat was on the other side. She scuttled over, shakily drove the key into the ignition, and turned it. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Was she doing something wrong? She stomped on the clutch and tried again. Still nothing.
There was a tap on the window beside her head. She screeched. Tom. Just Tom. She must have a word with him about the jump scares. She opened the door. “It won’t start!”
