The two men stopped. Her heart nearly did as well, until they turned.
“What?” one muttered.
“I can’t see to write,” she said, tone meek. “How can I write a note in the dark?”
The two men exchanged an uneasy look. Likely, they’d been told not to converse with her. None had before.
“Torch is lit,” the one finally said.
Madelina tried to adopt an unthreatening expression. “That light doesn’t make it in here. I can eat in the dark, but write?” She hoped that letters were a mystery to them, which would make her argument more convincing.
The one who hadn’t spoken grabbed the other’s shoulder. He pulled and they both turned away and put their heads together. She couldn’t make out their whispers.
Finally, the second man shrugged. They headed up the steps. She clenched her teeth to keep from calling them back.
She bent to retrieve the paper they’d slid under the door, unsure if their silence meant victory or defeat. Something rolled away, back out of her cell. The charcoal, no doubt. Well, at least they would see she hadn’t lied. She could see little.
Footsteps sounded. Hope caught her breath. She forced her limbs still. It wouldn’t do to rush to the window. Instead, she called, “I didn’t see the charcoal. I think it rolled out.”
A grunt sounded in reply. The charcoal rolled back in, followed by flickering light. The shortest candle stub she’d ever seen slid under the door, the flame nearly guttering out.
“Write quick. You won’t get another,” her guard said. Two sets of footsteps tromped away.
She grabbed the short length of rope and lit its end before the candle could gutter out. Leaving the rope crackling on the floor, she took up the blindfold and shoved it into her little bowl of water. Next, she lay down and reached under the door to unlock the bottom bolt.
That accomplished, she grabbed her blanket and piled it loosely under the edge of the door. She slid the rope up against the rough fabric, grabbed a piece of paper, twisted it into a taper, then lit it. This, she carefully placed on the blanket, then repeated the process. She kept going until all five pages were alight, the first two already ash against the threadbare cotton.
Madelina backed away from her growing blaze. She retrieved the wet blindfold and wrapped it over her mouth and nose. Flames licked upward. The wood of the door began to darken. Already, the heat felt overbearing. Smoke plumes rose to the ceiling. She threw handfuls of straw onto the blaze.
Footsteps pounded down the staircase. Men shouted. Madelina picked up the little earthenware water bowl and dumped the rest of the water over her hair and face. She put the bowl down and stomped on it, then snatched up the largest shard to use as a weapon.
Water sloshed under the door. The blanket disappeared, yanked outward. She heard boots stomping. More water sloshed in, swamping her straw and cloak. The flames on the door sputtered out. Her hope died with them.
Without, men cursed. Feet raced. More water washed under the door. Still more poured through the little window.
“I think it’s out,” one of them said.
“Who gave her a damn candle?”
“She said she needed it to write.”
“Let her write in the dark.”
“The madam said we need that note from her or it’s our hides.”
They argued as they tromped back down the hall and up the steps. Madelina dropped her pottery shard and tugged the wet blindfold from her face. She could only hope her guards would be too afraid of Miss White’s wrath to report what she’d done. She’d no doubt Miss White would place her in chains at the least provocation.
Madelina went to the door and kicked, but the wood didn’t budge. Her fire had scorched the wood but not weakened it. She looked down and grimaced. Even by what little light filtered in, she could see she’d made her living conditions significantly less bearable. Her blanket was gone. Wet, burnt straw coated the floor of the little cell. Her cloak was sopping. She let out a sigh, rolled her cloak, and used it to push the mess under the door. At least the cleanup gave her something to do while she plotted another way to win her freedom.
Chapter Sixteen
For the fourth time in as many nights, Jasper scaled the church in London’s poorest borough. He didn’t know what else to do. He’d spoken with all the contacts he trusted not to alert Clementine. He’d personally searched everywhere he could think to search.
The day before, when he’d arrived to hear the banns read, he’d run after Clementine when she left the church and begged her to let Madelina free. Then threatened, then promised.
Nothing moved her. She’d merely repeated that, should any harm befall her, Madelina would die, and reiterated her promise to let him see Madelina on the day of the wedding.
Jasper needed Lefthook. The trouble was, he had never found Lefthook. In the past, Jasper went to their meeting place and, if Lefthook was about and felt Jasper hadn’t been followed, Lefthook found him.
