Coughing harder, I ignore Sim, and pull on a velvet curtain untilit falls. The heavy panel is lined with wool and has cashmere trim around thesides. Fifty-two, fifty-three. I throw the panel over my body and pickup Ming the dragon. Twisting around, I hurl the dragon with all my might.
Fifty-nine, sixty…
Glass shatters and falls everywhere, hitting my head, shouldersand feet. Flames explode behind me. Jump, Hester. Do it before you burn likethe bacon at supper.
The curtain panel that I’m wearing as a barrier to the heat smellshot, as though the tail of it is alight. I throw myself out of the window andland on the ground below. Only a four or five foot drop. Then I roll away fromthe burning velvet panel, kicking at the heat. Still coughing, I push the aprondown from my face and untie it. The grass has bits of glass in it but it feelswet. My legs sting like hell, though. Is my petticoat on fire? Well get it off,you dolt! I untie the ribbons at my waist and shimmy out of the smoldering petticoat.Left with only my camisole, drawers, stockings and boots, I take my leave ofthe rose garden.
Hide in the maze, I think. No, too far away. Go north…This is getting ridiculous. I am sick of running from villains—it’s all I everdo anymore. Thorns catch at my skin, and I fall over a small topiary bush,landing on one knee. Damn topiary, never did like it. Scrambling to my feetagain, I extend both of my hands and continue forward, hoping to hide in theorchard.
Cordie refused to go there at night. “Black as sin,” she alwayssaid. But I murmur a prayer of thanks. Darkness is what all hunted thingsdesire. In an effort to calm myself, I exhale slowly, trying to form a soundgrid in my mind.
Blast that noise from the fire. Ninety-five feet? Eighty? Whothe hell knows?
Flames growl and scream within the house like an angry creature.The Revels is being destroyed from the inside out. I hear a wall crumble,wood hissing. Another window shatters as Sim jumps through it. His blazingmonster has gotten away from him, and he’s fleeing its open maw, just as I amrunning from him.
Sixty feet away… Fifty-five… Possibly forty-eight, though Iwouldn’t bet on it.
Finally, I enter the orchard and cover my face as I plungebetween the branches. The aisle grows narrow so I drop to my knees and crawl.Careful now. Keep quiet. Yet my throat hurts from inhaling the smoke, and Iwant to cough so badly.
A man calls my name. Smooth voice, well-educated. I know him,although we have only met once. “You won’t escape this time,” he says, usingSim as a mouthpiece. “I’ll only lead him to you.”
My mind veers back to the vision I had in Ironwood—of thestrange Venetian masquerade and the person wearing the mask of the horned beast.It was James Scarlett, so polished and beautiful on the outside, but pure evilwithin. It’s his voice speaking to me now through Sim Harrow’s body. The ownerof Griffin House is driving people to commit murder.
He is the heir of Archimendax.
The grove of fruit trees comes to an end. I crawl out, extendmy hands out of habit, and walk, hoping to make it to the corral before Simfinds me. In the barn, horses stomp at the stall doors, kick at thewalls. I recognize Jupiter’s cry. He’s near crazed. Hold on, I’ll set you free,old boy. There’s a smokehouse between us, and I hurry around the east side ofthe building and collide with an immovable object. It comes to my midsectionand has an open shaft in the center. Something tiny—a piece of gravel?—isdislodged by my elbow and falls, hits the bottom seconds later. A twelve-footdrop, perhaps? This must be the old well!
Last November, my father told Willard to fill it in. But heyelled at Little Hawk that day and made him angry. Willard must have left thejob unfinished, bless him. A small, defiant gesture against the tyrant.
Sim pushes through the orchard, cracking branches loudly, but Idetect another set of footsteps not far behind him. Is it Scarlett? Here towitness my execution? I sit on the mantle of the well, and throw one leg overthe side. The second joins the first, and I turn on my stomach, gripping theoverhang with one hand. First the window and now the well, it seems to be mynight for jumping and dropping. I ease my body backwards—into open space. ThenI take a deep breath and let go. My fall barely warrants the word it is soshort, but I land on some gravel and dirt. The wall feels slimy, moss-covered,nevertheless I mold my body against it. In the distance, clanging bells androlling wagon wheels bash my ears. It’s the fire brigade. They won’t get to mein time, however.
My doom is nearly at the well.
Scarlett speaks through Sim once more, encouraging the boy tokill. “No, Simmons,” he whispers. “Fire is the way it should be done. Fire.Just as your mother died, screaming in flames.”
As Sim walks toward my hiding place, the person who followedhim through the orchard does too. I sense it’s a man, small in stature, andwith a hitch in his gait. He passes the smoke house, heads directly for thewell.
“A flash of light and heat, and the debt is paid,” Scarlettsays, via Sim. “Requiescat in pace.”
Rest in peace yourself, you lunatic.
Something strikes against the rough stones at the top of thewell. It flares, like a match tip catching flame. In my mind’s eye, Sim hasalready lifted his arm and opened his fingers. I imagine the match falling intothe dark hole and my body igniting like a torch. Instead, I hear several thingshappen at once, nearly overlapping each other—fast movement, the impact of a hardobject against bone, and Simmons Harrow dropping to his knees.
Someone leans over the well, spine creaking loudly. “I said itbefore and I’ll say it again. You’re pretty lucky, White Hair.”
On the verge of hysteria, I feel intoxicated, giddy withrelief. Both smiling and crying, I wave at the handyman. Well
