An axe goes sailing by overhead. The blade thunks into the doorframe just inches from Rook’s side.
“On your feet, Kansas. Hurry.” Rook motions me forward. “Don’t look back.”
I climb to my feet, stumble on the skirt, right myself again, and race through the door.
THIRTY-ONE
Dorothy
We spill out into the street, Rook leading Toto and me down the sidewalk at a brisk clip.
The streets are still empty, all of Glimming Hollow a silent tomb save for the crackle of magic in the streetlamps.
And then—
A dark shadow flies overhead and a piercing screech echoes over the rooftops.
“What is that?”
“Keep your head down,” Rook instructs, taking my hand, yanking me beneath the awnings of the nearby shops. We pass window display after display. Frosted cupcakes, striped sweets, leather-bound books, decorated boxes. How do these two things exist alongside each other? This normal, colorful, sweet-filled life alongside war and wicked witches and axe-wielding mercenaries?
It’s jarring to think about how close we exist to beauty and danger.
When we reach the next intersection, Rook comes to an abrupt stop. I slam into his back with anoomph,and then he’s shoving me against the stone wall of a bakery as another screech emanates from the sky.
The sound makes my skin crawl. I shiver next to Rook.
He turns to me, puts his finger to his mouth again.
There is no fear on his face. Whether or not he knows what danger flies above, he is eerily calm about it.
But I can’t seem to catch my breath. Can’t seem to settle the rapid acceleration of my beating heart.
It feels like I’m trapped in a never-ending nightmare. When will I get home? Will I even make it?
Rook holds his hand up and counts down with his fingers.
Three.
Two.
One.
Go.
He pulls me again. Around the corner. Duck.
Another squall in the distance.
I trip over my skirt. Rook rights me. We move.
We make it to the next square where another bronze statue stands forever frozen in movement. We dart between the statue’s legs when a whistle brings us to a stop.
Across the way, shrouded in shadow, are two horses. Remy sits atop one, waving us over.
Rook cranes his neck, checking the sky from beneath the billowed fabric of the statue’s bronze dress.
“Come,” he finally says and we sneak away, cutting diagonally across the square.
