“That is a problem for later,” Stoker said. “For now, we will worry only about how to get there.”
I bent and unlaced the slippers on my feet, tying them securely together and slinging them about my neck. I looped up the modest knee-length skirts of my tunic, knotting them high on my thighs.
Stoker was making his own preparations, stripping off the shirt that strained across the breadth of his shoulders. I caught my breath at the sight of the bruises, dark violet and enormous, blossoming over his ribs. Here and there the skin was lacerated, the blood sticky and dark.
“This is going to hurt,” I told him.
“No doubt,” he said, and he smiled at me, a smile of such dazzling devotion and good humor that I vowed to myself whatever happened in the whole of my life I would never forget that moment when, in spite of everything—my insistence upon involving us in yet another perilous undertaking, my murderous relations—he threw himself into this adventure with the whole of his heart. And I vowed then that whatever became of that night’s work, I would endeavor to meet him in the same spirit, headlong into what life threw at us.
He handed his soiled shirt to Eddy. “It isn’t very nice, but there is a chill tonight and I daresay I will not feel the cold as acutely as you.” It was the truth, but not the whole truth. None of us wanted to think about the fact that we would, if successful, shortly be traversing insalubrious streets of the capital with the future king looking asdisreputable as if he had just committed a series of felonious assaults. At least Stoker’s ragged shirt would conceal the prince’s distinctive tattoos as well as keep him that tiny bit warmer.
Eddy did not hesitate. He, who was accustomed to the finest linen and cleanest garments, took the shirt streaked with blood and sweat and donned it gratefully.
Stoker put himself into position and braced his thigh, slapping it once as he looked at me. “Up you go.”
I stepped on his leg and his hands came around my waist, vaulting me upwards until I could find a handhold. I pushed upwards with my feet, clinging to the stone like a limpet. I put my hand out and groped blindly for a place to grip.
“There is no handhold,” I protested. Stoker had climbed up next to me, spreading his arms and legs across the corner to hold him fixed into place.
“There is me,” he said. “Use me to get where you must.”
And I did. Even now I cannot bear to think of the exquisite pain he must have endured as I climbed with his help, moving ever higher, perched precariously above the stone floor of the warehouse. Eddy watched us from below, eyes fixed upon our slow and steady ascent.
We progressed in this fashion, Stoker using himself as a human bulwark, until we neared the window and I no longer looked down, preferring instead to keep my eyes on the goal, the small clerestory window above us. Just then I realized our efforts would be for naught. A narrow beam ran from the wall just under the window, an ideal means of approach. But the window was set a good seven feet above the beam, tantalizingly, heartbreakingly out of reach.
“It is too high,” I told him. “I cannot reach it.”
“I have a plan for that,” he assured me.
Stoker edged himself out onto the beam, his feet placed just so, his legs taut with effort. He stretched out a hand. “Come on, then.”
“I haven’t room to pass you,” I said.
“I will take care of that,” he promised. I edged out to meet him. I have a good head for heights—butterflying demands the occasional foray onto rocky outcropping or jungle cliff—but that was a singularly unnerving experience. We were perhaps thirty feet above the stone floor, our lives suspended by a beam no larger than the span of Stoker’s palm. He knelt as I approached and braced his hands.
“Onto my back,” he ordered. “It is the only way to reach the window.”
I did not hesitate. I did as he instructed, climbing carefully onto his back, wrapping my legs about his waist and grasping his shoulders with both hands. He paused, letting my weight settle onto him, then began to rise, pushing through his thighs to lift us both into the air.
For just a moment, I had the most curious sensation of flight, like a butterfly raising itself upon the wind for the first time. I had no connection to the earth except through him; he was an extension of me, and my life was wholly in his hands.
I stretched out my arms and grasped the edge of the window. Stoker was standing, but I was still not quite able to shift myself all the way out of the aperture. Slowly, and with infinite, sweat-inducing care, I climbed him, moving my weight from his back to his shoulders, placing my hands on the window glass, pushing it open. I felt his palms beneath my feet, as solid as the earth below, and then he gave one fluid shove and I was up and out, through the window and perched on the roof.
I paused only long enough to catch my breath before maneuvering around to look back. Stoker was already halfway down again, swarming with the agility of a jungle creature. He positioned himself as before and instructed Eddy how to begin. Their progress was slow, achingly so, and every second that passed felt an eternity, perched as I was on the roof.
Eddy faltered halfway up and Stoker half pushed, half hauled himonto the beam. What followed was one of the most harrowing experiences of my life: the heir to the throne dangling a heart-stopping distance from the stone floor, dependent completely upon us for his safety. Stoker swore with a new vigor as Eddy climbed his back for the last part of the endeavor.
“I am sorry,” Eddy muttered as he reached up to grasp my hands. I leaned back, bracing my feet on a handy ledge and pushing through my legs to pull him free. He came out with a pop like a champagne cork, bouncing onto the roof with a gasp of surprise.
Below, I heard a muted roar, and I peered through the window, expecting to see Stoker still on the beam, but it was empty. Entirely and heartbreakingly empty.
CHAPTER
18
My God!” Eddy exclaimed. “Stoker!”
I shushed him ruthlessly. “We must not draw attention to ourselves,” I reminded him. “Look there!”
