A child sobbed somewhere nearby, but the sound was muffled, someone smothering the sound the way I was. Then that sob cut off, swallowed by distance or fear or something worse. I couldn’t be certain.
A heavy crash shook the roots above me, dirt raining down on my hair. Voices came closer.
“Search the tree line!” a man shouted. “They’ll try to run north!”
Another voice laughed, ugly and bright. “Bloody savages, living with beasts. Burn it. Burn all of it.”
Fire crackled somewhere outside.
Smoke seeped into the hollow, sharp and bitter. My eyes watered. My throat tightened.
I couldn’t stay here.
I sheathed my knife, crawled backward and found the narrow gap at the back of the hollow, the escape tunnel that led to the ravine. Griff had helped dig it years ago, cursing the roots the whole time. I’d complained about the mud, and he’d flicked it at my face and told me survival wasn’t tidy and clean. I’d made a face at him and flicked some right back. It had turned into an all-out mud fight by the end of the day, but we’d gotten the job done anyway.
Now I shoved myself through it like a worm, scraping my shoulders on packed earth. The tunnel opened into the ravine, and I pushed out into gray daylight and froze.
The ravine wasn’t empty.
A British soldier stood at the top of the slope, rifle swinging as he scanned back and forth. He was young. I could see that his helmet was too big for his head, and his mouth was twisted in irritation.
I accidentally stepped on a twig and his gaze snapped down, locking onto me.
For half a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Then his lips curled into a grin.
“Well, what’s this?” he called out, clearly amused. “Found a pretty one.”
My body went cold and hot at the same time.
Run, my instincts screamed.
But the ravine was a bowl. The only way out was past him and there was no path I could take where I would be out of the trajectory of his gun.
He lifted his rifle, aiming at my chest like it was nothing.
I didn’t think.
My hand went to my thigh.
Steel whispered out of leather.
I moved the way my father had taught me to move when stalking rabbits, low, fast, and quiet. I darted sideways, slipping behind a boulder as the rifle cracked.
Stone exploded where my head had been.
My ears rang. My heart tried to crawl out of my throat.
He cursed and started down the slope, boots skidding on wet dirt.
“You little?—!”
I clutched the knife with both hands, forcing myself to breathe through the panic.
He rounded the boulder too fast, too confident, his rifle swinging down to club me and I stepped in before I could think of anything else.
I drove my blade forward into the gap beneath his ribs. It sank in deep. His eyes went wide, shocked more than anything, like he couldn’t understand how a young girl in a braid and muddy boots had become dangerous all of a sudden.
