It opened before I reached for the handle, and there stood Mary.She wore petticoats and a man’s shirt with a blanket for a shawl, and her hair was in disarray.
My breath left me in a relieved, misty rush.Mary squeaked as I bundled her into my arms, musket clattering and my face buried in her cool, damp hair.
“I’m not dead,” she assured me, her voice muffled by my shoulder.“You’renot dead!”
Not nearly ready to let her go, I let a fraction of my tension ebb away.
“Yes, I am quite fine out here in the cold,” Grant called, overloud, from the steps behind me.“Should I see to the horses, or will we be fleeing right away?”
“Hail,” Benedict’s voice called from farther inside the single, large common space.He sat in a large, quilt-smothered chair next to the hearth, forearms wearily braced on his knees.He looked out of place in the homey chamber, a battered criminal wrapped in a worn quilt of faded jewel tones, with a brimming basket of knitting beside him.“The house is asleep.Yes, everyone is alive, Sam.Do not look at me like that, I have no energy for your castigations.”
My relief at seeing Mary was pure and warm, but the sight of Benedict brought a host of more complex feelings.Even cloaked in the blanket I could see he was thinner, his beard wiry and unkempt, his hair wild and his eyes haunted, shadowed.His cheeks were windburned and the rest of his skin unnaturally pale.
“Right, I’ll see to the horses, then,” Grant muttered.“Glad you are still among the living, Mary.”
“I’m glad to see you too,” Mary called after him.“Charles!Charlie!”
“Then where’s my dramatic embrace?”Grant shouted back, sounding not altogether joking.“And never call me Charlie!I had a friend with a dog named Charlie, and he got run over by a cart.”
I cleared my throat pointedly.“Thank you, Mr.Grant.”
Grant’s response was concealed in the clatter of hooves, and I shifted inside so we could close the door.My urge to go to Benedict was strong, but I took one more moment to look at Mary.I snagged one of her hands, feeling the lingering chill in her skin.She squeezed my fingers in return, and for that brief second we took rest in one another, all reservations forgotten.
Then I saw the bruising on her throat and a swelling at her hairline.I pulled away quickly, remembering how tightly I had embraced her.
“What happened?Did I hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” Mary assured me, her voice steady.“I had an… encounter with a guard.”
“She threw up three times,” Benedict cut in.“She is concussed.”
My heart staggered.“Mary.”
“Tane has me,” Mary reassured us both.“I feel much better.”
“Concussed,” Benedict repeated, ignoring us.
“Sit.”I urged her towards the divan.Mary gave me a flat-lipped, wan look, but sat.I eased down beside her, battling the urge not to fuss.
Ben surveyed us, his haggard eyes bland with fatigue.“Your boat did not come.”
“They were chased out to sea,” I returned, crooking my legs to fit the narrow space between the divan and a low table overladen with books, a pipe on a stand, a jar of tobacco and various children’s toys.The sight of the latter made me look at Ben more closely.“The family is unharmed?”
Mary, evidently deciding she had sat for long enough, rose and moved over to a rack next to the hearth, where the rest of their clothing was hung.The bare stone beneath it was puddled with water, and the clothing sopping wet.I smelled the stink of salt-watered wool and realized the two had been in the sea.
“Mary, please rest—” I started.
She shot me a look that made me bite back my words, her patience clearly waning.
Benedict leaned his head back onto an embroidered cushion and closed his eyes.“These bumpkins will never even know we were here.”
“They’re well,” Mary affirmed, crouching to mop up the dripping puddle with a rag, then squeezing it into a bucket.She moved slowly, I noted, but seemed steady.“I checked.”
Benedict eyed her with resentment.
“You swam from the prison?”I asked.
“Yes.Who’s gone afterHart?”Mary returned to the divan and sat with a leg tucked up under her petticoats, careless as a child.
