33
Somehow, I think it will be the blink of an eye, a simple thing to be in this beautiful bower one moment, returned to the green of Berhta’s Forge the next. No. The ground opens beneath my feet, and I go down as surely as falling off a cliff. At some point the descent stops and I’m jerked sideways, shifting horizontally, quickly, through dirt and darkness, watching roots and rocks, earthworms and buried bones, pockets of water and fire as I go, terribly fast, terrifyingly strange. When I’m travelling vertically again – I think I’m going up, gods, I hope it’s up – I hurtle, hurtle, hurtle until I finally pop out of the earth as if being born.
Dirt on my skin, some in my mouth, sticks in my hair, brilliant red beetles on my skirts like decorations, but at least I’d dried out in the bower so it’s not all mud. I jump, spitting and shaking myself so the majority of detritus and bugs falls away. Only then does it occur to me to look around. I’m in the bridewell, down in its cellar and thankfully not in one of the cells. Clever green woman.
A single lantern throws soft light over the empty cells andthe one with an occupant. Cool down here but still warmer than outside. Warmer than the river.
It doesn’t smell any better than when I was last here, and the ragged bundle in a corner doesn’t appear to be moving. Heart in mouth, I whisper, ‘Fenna?’
Nothing. I say a little more loudly, clinging to the bars: ‘Fenna?’
The jerking of someone startled awake, pulled from the refuge of sleep.
‘Who is it?’ She’s at least still got the wit to keep her voice low.
‘It’s Mehrab.’
‘Mehrab’s dead. The boy said they drowned her,’ she mutters. ‘Are you her ghost, come to haunt me?’
‘I’d like to think I’d have better things to do, were I a ghost. Now, move your arse if you want to get out of here.’
Slowly, she rolls up to sitting, peering at me through the gloom.
‘Can you walk?’ Oh. The key.
She climbs to her feet, slowly and stiffly; the hours – days? – I’ve been away have given her time to heal properly and she limps to the bars, grasps my hand tightly. ‘See? Very real, very solid.’
‘How?’ she asks, eyes very round.
‘More lives than a cat, me.’ I don’t quite feel like explaining at this very moment that I did not in fact survive. I’d prefer to simply get us both out of here. ‘Do you know if anyone’s here? Upstairs? I’m assuming that’s where the key is likely to be…’
‘I think just the lad?’
‘Which one?’ I’m trying to be patient.
‘Kian? He brought me that.’ She nods towards the bowl of half-finished gruel and what smells like beer on the floor of the cell. There’s a bruise on her left cheek, dried blood around her nostrils.
‘Did they question you again?’
She nods. ‘Their hearts really weren’t in it, though. They’d drowned you, seemed like they’d had their fill of violence for the night.’
‘They didn’t chain you again?’
‘That was the lad. Made me promise not to tell – as if! He was crying a lot.’
Whatever’s made Kian Arnold have a change of heart won’t be enough to stop me throttling him. I’m half tempted to experiment withdeconstructinghim. Perhaps his balls still hurt. ‘Just him upstairs, then?’
‘I think so. The others are likely at the inn, celebrating their great victory.’ She grins. ‘May they choke.’
‘Agreed. But first things first. Wait here.’
‘Where else am I going to go?’ She raises her brows.
‘Good point.’
I creep slowly up the stairs towards the door at the top, hoping for all I’m worth that it’s not locked. Thinking hard, I try to recall the layout of the little entry room where whoever’s on duty sits and waits until relieved by the next sawyer-come-jailer. A desk. A chair. A cupboard for storage, a row of hooks for hanging coats and cloaks and hats – and a smaller one for keys.
I try the doorhandle – unlocked! Now to pray that the hinges don’t creak.
