His hand reaches up to cover mine. Then he shakes his head, as if he can’t speak.
“What do you think is out there?” I ask. I step closer and turn my hand in his so we are palm to palm. Our fingers interlace.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Wolves on the hunt. Fog and nothingness.”
“You’re afraid,” I say starkly.
“Of course I am.” He pulls his hand away from mine. “There’s no Before for the likes of us, Pin, and no After, either.”
He truly believes that his entire world is bounded by the bramble-covered wall that surrounds the fortress. “So you really won’t come?” I ask.
He looks down at the floor and shakes his head.
Tears prickle at the corner of my eyes. I blink them away. “Can you just do me one favor?”
He gives me a wary nod.
I lift my bare foot and waggle it at him. “In a few days, call for a model again. That’ll give me an excuse to leave the sewing room so I can get out of the fortress. Will you do it?”
“Yes,” he says, his voice rough.
The tears threaten again, and I turn away because I don’t want him to see me crying, I want him to think that I am strong. He doesn’t speak as I move to the door, turn the knob, and go out into the hallway, where I bend to pick up the box of candles.
Then the sound of a quick step and as I stand I feel his warmth at my shoulder. “Pin,” he whispers. “Come and say good-bye before you go.”
I nod and hurry away.
THE OVERSEER IS nervous; the guards come in and out of the sewing room, extra vigilant. Marya’s attempted escape is being whispered about throughout the Godmother’s fortress, even though we are warned that to be caught mentioning it is a crime that will be punished by fifty lashes at the post. There will be inspections, we are told, and extra vigilance, and punishments.
I have been ready and waiting for a long time—or what seems like a long time in this place where time passes so slowly—before Shoe calls again for his model. The thin silken rope that I made is coiled around my waist under my loose woolen dress and shift. My silver thimble is clenched in my hand, and it burns like a hot coal. I carefully get to my feet, bow my head when the Overseer hisses her orders, and slide out of the room.
Outside, the sky is dark gray and snakes of freezing fog slither across the courtyard. On the way to Shoe’s room, I stop at an out-of-the-way closet I found when fetching the candles, and collect my other supplies, carrying them in my apron.
It is time.
CHAPTER
5
SHOE IS JUST FINISHING ONE OF THE FUR SLIPPERS WHEN Pin knocks on the door and slips into his workroom.
She is different now; he can see it at once. Before she was sharp and a little teasing; now she looks sharp and determined.
“You were right, by the way,” Pin says. She dumps a pile of things out of her apron. A wax candle rolls across the floor and bumps against his foot. Then, to his alarm, she bends over and, pulling her skirt up to her knees, reaches under her dress. He relaxes a little when he sees that she is unwinding a thin rope from around her waist; it falls in a heap at her bare feet. “There. I think it’s long enough.” She crouches and starts coiling the rope.
He sets an awl on his workbench and clears his throat. “I was right about what?”
She glances up at him. A lock of her short, dark hair falls over her eyes, and she brushes it impatiently away. “That there are worse things than the post,” she says shortly.
He nods. After Pin’s visit, a Jack had come with a requisition for some leather, and whispered to him that a Seamstress had dared the wall. For a moment he’d felt a stab to the heart; he’d been sure it was Pin.
“No, not her,” the Jack had said. “Not that girl you were with. A different one. Our Overseer took us Jacks to see her, stuck on the wall. She’s meant to be a lesson.”
His own Overseer, an over-busy, rat-tailed man, hadn’t bothered taking Shoe to the wall. Shoe had already learned his lesson at the post.
The Jack had glanced furtively around. “Tell her, your girl. Tell her the hook is ready.”
Pin has finished coiling the rope, and stands. “I came to say good-bye,” she says.
He bends and picks up the candle, holding it out to her. When their hands meet, he feels the searing heat of her lingering touch. She gives him a long look, and he knows she is asking again. I can’t, he wants to say, but the words stay caught in his throat. She nods and adds the candle to her pile of things. Feeling as creaky as an old man—he’s been hunched over his workbench for too long—he pushes himself to his feet and goes to the darkest corner of his workroom. From under his bench he pulls the boots he cobbled together when he should have been making glass slippers. “Here,” he says, and thrusts them awkwardly at her. “They’re for you.”
Pin’s eyes widen. “Oh.” Abruptly, she sits on the floor and pulls a boot onto her left foot. “It fits perfectly.”
“Of course it’s perfect.” He’s used her foot for a model, after all. He’s lined the boots with sable, for warmth, and he’s made them sturdy, too, not dainty or fragile like the dancing slippers he has to make for the Godmother. They are boots for walking long distances, boots for running while pursued by trackers.
With quick fingers she is slipping the other boot onto her right foot and tying the laces. “Won’t you get into trouble?” she asks.
“No,” he answers. “They’re cobbled. I only used leftover scraps.” In truth, if she gets away clean, he’ll be fine. If she is caught, though, as she is sure to be, with his boots on her feet, he will be in trouble—they all will. But he knows that even if the Godmother herself questions Pin, she won’t tell that he made the boots especially for her escape. He might get another trip to the post for it, and that will be bad enough, but there are worse things.
She stands and stamps each foot to test the fit. “Well, they’re wonderful. Thank you.” She bends and puts the coil of rope over her arm and gathers her things into her apron. The candle escapes again and rolls away. As she stands, a square, paper-wrapped package that smells like gingerbread drops to the floor. “Oops,” she says.
He bends to pick them up. “I’ll carry them for you,” he offers, because he can’t bear to say good-bye to her quite yet. “Just to the Jacks’ workroom. They said to tell you that your grappling hook is ready. They’ll have a sack you can use, too.”
She gives him the wicked grin she gave him once before and hands him a small velvet bag that makes a metal clinking sound when he takes it.
“This, too. It’s gold from the Spinsters,” she tells him. “I’ll need money when I get to the Before.”
She really believes she is going to get out.
He knows she won’t. But he puts on his coat and stows the bag of money in his pocket, and, carrying the packet of gingerbread and a few candles, follows her out of his workroom.
NOW THAT THE moment has come, my candle flame of hope has flared into a bonfire. Marya had nothing, she’d been broken, and she’d made a desperate dash for the wall. But I have a plan; I have supplies. I am going to make it, and then I will come back for Shoe and rescue him and all the other slaves from this place.
I lead Shoe through the dim hallways of the fortress and down the stairs, where I turn left toward the Jacks’ workroom.
From behind us comes a rush of footsteps. Before I can turn to see what’s going on, Shoe has grabbed me and dragged me into another, darker hallway. I start to protest, and his hand comes over my mouth. I can feel the calluses on his palm and fingers, rough against my face. “Shhh,” he breathes into my ear. The footsteps clatter past the end of the hallway. Releasing me, he edges to the corner and peers around. Then he leans his shoulder against the wall. “Something’s happening.”
“I have to go on,” I say, gripping the corners of my apron.
He gives me a grim nod, and after peeking around again, pulls me out of the dark corridor. Silently, keeping our ears pricked, we ghos
t through the hallways to the workroom of the Jacks of all trades.
Holding the corners of my overloaded apron with one hand, I slip the thimble on my finger and try the knob.
“Quietly,” Shoe whispers.
I nod and open the door the merest crack.
The room inside is chaos. The sound of the Jacks’ wailing leaks out the door; I catch a glimpse of sawdust and feathers swirling through the air. One of the Jacks spies me at the door and hurries over. It is our Jack, from before.
“Shhh, shhh,” he whispers, glancing over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“I need the grappling hook,” I whisper through the crack in the door. “And a knapsack, if you’ve got one to spare. What’s going on in there?”
“Surprise inspection,” the Jack replies in a shaking voice. “Wait here.” The door eases closed.
I lean against the wall beside Shoe. He’s wound tightly, his head cocked as he listens to sounds coming from elsewhere in the fortress.
“If you squeeze that candle any harder,” I whisper, “it’s going to melt into a puddle of wax.”
He gives me a dark look and hands me the candle.
The door opens, and the Jack quickly passes me a knapsack, which I give to Shoe, and then something heavy wrapped in rags. “That’s your hook,” he whispers. “Hurry. They know. They are searching for you.”
My heart quivers in my chest like a hunted rabbit. Beside me, Shoe has gone as white as chalk.
From the workroom behind the Jack comes the sound of a guard shouting.
“Curse it,” mutters the Jack. “We’re headed for the post, all of us.” He glances over his shoulder. “They are coming,” he whispers urgently. “Run!” He reaches through and shoves me away from the door and slams it closed.
I stumble into Shoe, lose hold of a corner of my apron, and all my supplies tumble to the floor.
“Oh, curse it, Pin,” Shoe says in a strangled whisper. He’s already on his knees gathering the things, stuffing them into the knapsack. I keep hold of the grappling hook, and I have the rope over my shoulder. He snatches up a candle and shoves it into the bag.
“Shoe, leave it,” I say. “You have to get back to your workroom.” I reach out to take the knapsack from him, but he jerks it away and, wincing, slings it onto his back.
“No,” he says. In the dim light, his eyes are intensely green. “I’m coming with you.” He grabs my hand and pulls me down the hallway, toward the courtyard. Behind us, I hear pounding at the workshop door. The Jack must have blocked it somehow; the guards are trying to get through, to come after us.
“Come on,” Shoe says.
We race around a corner. From behind, I hear the workshop door burst open, and the pounding of feet.
Panting, I follow Shoe. He rounds a corner. I grab his arm. “No, this way,” I gasp, and he whirls and follows me down another corridor to another, smaller door, one that I scouted when I was sent out for candles. He flings the door open and pulls me through, and we set off across the courtyard. Halfway, I pull Shoe to a stop.
Wild-eyed, he pauses. “Pin, they’re coming!”
“Just a moment,” I say, and I set down the rag-wrapped hook. I can hear shouts and crashes coming from the fortress. “Shoe, face in the direction of the wall,” I order. “Know exactly where it is so we don’t lose it.” Without arguing, he does it.
I grope in my apron pocket for the thimble. As I slip it onto my finger it flares with heat.
Crouching, I tap my thimbled finger against the slick courtyard cobblestones. “I need more than heat,” I whisper. “Give me smoke.” For just a moment I close my eyes; if this doesn’t work, we won’t even make it as far as the wall. “Thick smoke to hide us.” Quickly I stow the thimble in my pocket, pick up the hook, and take Shoe’s hand. “Don’t let go,” I tell him.
As we start toward the wall on the other side of the courtyard, a heavy smoke seeps from the cobblestones. With every step it grows thicker. I glance behind us, and see the fortress as if through a foggy curtain; when I look again it is gone, and we are surrounded by a hot, billowing cloud. I pull closer to Shoe. “Do you have the wall?” I whisper. My eyes water in the thick air.
He coughs, then nods, and we go on.
The smoke swirls around us. From the direction of the fortress I hear guards calling to one another; their voices sound very far away. My stout boots are sure on the cobbles, and Shoe guides us steadily onward. The air grows quieter; even our footsteps are muffled. Suddenly a tall, thin shape looms at our left. The post, with its chains hanging down. I check to be sure Shoe is all right, but he grips my hand and keeps his face set resolutely forward, and he leads us on.
At last we reach the wall. Shoe releases my hand. The smoke is another wall behind us; above us the sky lowers, dark gray and threatening. Thick gray brambles snake across the wall, naked but for a few grayish leaves. I can’t see any thorns; I can’t see Marya’s body, either. Quickly I drop the grappling hook onto the cobbles and unwrap it from the rags. It is matte black metal and has four sharp prongs for clinging to the top of the wall. Once it’s anchored, we’ll be able to climb up, and over. Uncoiling my silken rope, I tie an end through the eye at the bottom of the hook. Then I stand and face the wall. It is very high.
“I’ll do it,” Shoe says. I trade him the knapsack for the rope and hook. He steps back, settling the rope so it will fly free, taking the measure of the wall, and whirls the hook, faster and faster, and then releases it. The hook, trailing the rope, flies in a perfect arc, up and up, and lodges at the very top of the wall.
My hope flares again. Escape is possible. We’re going to do it.
Shoe cocks his head, listening. “Pin, they’re coming. Hurry.”
I can hear it, too: barked orders and the sound of running footsteps on cobblestones. The smoke behind us swirls, thins. Shoe tries to take the knapsack, but I saw how he winced when he put it on before, so I shrug away from him and grip my lumpy silken rope, step onto a loop of bramble, and pull myself up. The knapsack heavy on my shoulders, I climb higher, and then feel Shoe’s weight on the rope below me. I glance down and narrow my eyes. “You’re not looking up my dress, are you, Shoe?” I say.
“Shhh,” he says, and to my surprise, he flushes.
I hoist myself higher, holding tightly to the rope, my feet braced against the thick brambles. And higher still. Fog swirls above my head, obscuring the top of the wall. It can’t be too much farther. My hands cramp as they grip the rope; the muscles in my arms ache. The knapsack feels like it’s full of rocks. I pull myself higher. Tilting my head back, I peer up through the fog. Surely I should have reached the top by now.
I glance over my shoulder. Shoe is right below me. Beneath him, I can’t see the ground, only fog. A chill, damp tendril brushes the back of my neck, and I shiver. “Onward,” I tell myself, and pull myself higher. The muscles in my arms and shoulders are burning now. “Just a little farther.”
From below, I hear a gasp. The rope jerks. I lose my footing and, clinging desperately to the rope, I slam against the wall. “Pin,” Shoe whispers urgently. “Be careful. Thorns.”
As he speaks, a thorn as long as my hand and as sharp as a dagger bursts from the bramble vine, stabbing past my face. I jerk away, and my hands slip on the rope. As I sway toward the wall again, another thorn slashes at my arm; the cloth of my dress rips, and a line of fire burns across my wrist, leaving a bleeding gash behind it. I pull away. A thorn jabs at my foot, and my sturdy boot deflects it. All around me, knifelike thorns erupt from the brambles, seeking my blood.
This is how Marya’s escape ended.
But mine will not. Ignoring the pain in my wrist and gripping the rope, I look over my shoulder to be sure Shoe is all right, but the fog has crept between us. “Keep going,” I say, hoping he can hear me. I pull myself higher and higher, my muscles burning, flinching when a thorn stabs at me. As the thorns fail, the brambles start to writhe under my feet; thick tendrils reach for me, and
I duck under them, and climb on.
I pause, panting, and look up. The fog swirls aside. The wall stretches above me, endless, gray, and crawling with thorny, tangled brambles.
The Godmother’s magic.
As I realize this, the clouds overhead blacken, and a few drops of icy rain fall. Thunder grumbles, the clouds lower, and rain pounds down, trying to wash us from the wall. In a moment I am drenched, my dress a heavy, wet weight on my arms and legs. Cold radiates from the wall, and the rainwater freezes, coating every surface with a thin, slippery layer of ice. My hands go numb. Blood drips from my throbbing wrist, rivulets of pink washing away with the rain.
I close my eyes for a moment, a hairbreadth from despair. The Godmother won’t let us escape. We’ll be another lesson for the workers in her fortress. After this, nobody will ever try to get away again.
A hand closes around my ankle. I look down and see Shoe’s determined, rain-wet face, looking up. His coat is torn in two places from the thorns, but I don’t see any blood. “Keep going,” he gasps.
I take a deep breath. In my hands, the rope is solid, taut, created with scraps of silken ball gowns, and it is stitched with thread as strong as spider silk. My will is even stronger. Clinging to the rope with one hand, keeping my feet braced, I reach my other hand into my pocket and slip the thimble onto my finger. “Enough of this,” I whisper, and, flinching as a wickedly sharp thorn slashes at me, I reach out and touch the wall. The wall shudders; the brambles writhe, the thimble burns. The silver turns molten red, and then flares into a fiery white.
In answer, a bolt of lightning rips across the sky; thunder crashes; and I look up, blinking the rain out of my eyes, to see the Jacks’ grappling hook just over my head. With Shoe pushing my boots from below, I haul myself up the last few feet, and over the grasping brambles that are slippery and crackling with ice. I crouch on the top of the wide wall, gasping for breath. A moment later, Shoe joins me, and we cling to each other, panting, as the icy rain slams down around us.