I grab a pair of solid boots from the bottom of the cupboard, then stuff them and a pair of socks into the duffel bag Óisín used to take to sea with him. They go on top of a change of clothes, a loaf of black bread, a pouch of tealeaves, a flask of winter-lemon whiskey and some dried meat that Maura packed earlier today, plus a largish bag of salt for ‘dealing with things’. She means all the things she told me stories about when I was a child. Right at the bottom are Isolde’s letters. The little poppet is still in the blanket box; I retrieve her, wrapped in the shawl, and push it into a space down the side of bag.
There’s a small velvet purse on the bedside table, containing the ten gold coins from Aoife’s reticule, all scored with lines for where to break them to make change. Not mention the jewellery, hers and mine; I pull the engagement ring from my finger and add it to the glittering pile. It’ll be the first thing I get rid of, I promise myself. When the strings are tightly tied, the purse goes into the duffel too.
I tie my hair up tightly, fix it with copper pins so it won’t come loose, then open the window.
Unlike the Breakwater townhouse, the path from my bedroom window on the second floor is not impassable. Admittedly, I’ve not climbed out this way for a year or two, but when needs must. I toss the bundle of my coat out first, careful to make sure it lands as far from the house as possible, then I sling the duffel across my back and take a deep breath. The roof is not too sharply sloped and I’ve a good handhold on the slates, my feet grip exceedingly well. I only almost slip twice and when my heartbeat comes back under control – Hush, I say, even falling to your death is better than having Aidan to husband – I finally get my hands around a drainpipe and shinny down to the ground. I pull on my socks and boots, grab the coat and push it into the newly freed space in the bag, then pick my way through the front gardens.
I don’t go to the stables for the lads have been sleeping in a back room beneath Malachi’s quarters, but to the ruined gates that mark the boundary of Hob’s Hallow. Malachi is waiting there with Aidan’s black horse all saddled and ready – our old nags would never get me far enough or fast enough away. We did not know I would need to flee this night, but it’s never hurt to be prepared. Gods know I’d hoped my intended would simply accept my refusal, but I know my family too well; I spoke with both Malachi and Maura before Aidan arrived this morning. Had I not needed it, the food would have simply been returned to the kitchen, the horse to the stable. Malachi shouldn’t have been out here waiting, I’d told him to tether the horse then go to bed.
‘He’s dangerous,’ I say. ‘Aidan. He’s dangerous. I hate to leave you—’
‘Don’t fear for us, missy.’ Malachi nods. ‘We’ve been dying a long time, maybe he’ll do us a favour and make the waiting shorter.’
‘But—‘
‘If we come now, we’ll just slow you down and you’re sure to be caught. Ah, missy, we’ll die rather here now.’ He takes off his flat cap and puts it on my head. ‘Cover that face.’ He grins. ‘When you find your mother, give her our best.’
I hug him hard and after a moment he hugs me back; I think of Maura’s arms around me this morning, imagine her standing at the window of her attic room, staring into the darkness, imaging me here. Malachi smells like porter, pipe smoke, winter-lemon whiskey and dust. Then he pushes me away, his tolerance for affection spent, and helps me into the saddle. The beast is well-trained, obedient, for Aidan likes his things broken.
Malachi clears his throat, lips quivering. ‘Be on your way, missy,’ he says sternly. Then: ‘Run, Miren, and don’t look back.’
* * *
It wasn’t even close to midnight when I left Hob’s Hallow, and I estimate I’ve been on the road for almost two hours now. The sensible thing would have been to take Óisín’s pocket watch, but Aoife gave it to Malachi after my grandfather’s death and it felt wrong to ask for it back. I’ll buy another somewhere along the way, perhaps trade one of the earrings in the bag for a timepiece to set my life by. The night’s cool as it can be by the sea, but not cold. There’s little light to see by as the sky is clouded, which is all the better for a night-time flit, but it also means I don’t give the stallion his head. What’s the point in escaping if I’m found the next morning with my neck broken beside a horse whose leg’s been snapped in a ditch or fox hole?
I do urge him up to a trot, I must admit, as soon as we’re far enough away that the sound won’t carry back to the mansion and alert, well, anyone. I think, briefly, of going to Breakwater and reporting what’s happened to someone… who? The archbishop who’ll do Aidan a grand favour by marrying us? Or the Queen of Thieves who does nothing without a pound of flesh in payment? The last remaining former councilman who kept his skin intact by poisoning two of his former colleagues to please Bethany Lawrence?
There is no one who would see justice done for Aoife’s death and there’s no one I can rely on not to return me to the tender mercies of my betrothed. The moment he put the engagement ring on my finger
