“I have a plan.” He looked tired; dark circles ringed his eyes.
She wondered how long he’d been awake. The melancholy seemed to have lifted, though, and Clare smiled. “Yeah?”
“It is an hour’s walk to the car. All of yesterday afternoon, I was trying to think of how we could be faster. Improvised skis? Lighter loads? Under the best conditions and if we jog the whole way, we could be there in half an hour and back in the same amount of time. But that is still an hour spent outside. An hour where we are vulnerable.”
The air was clear that day, and the forest stood out more sharply than normal. The pine trees wore their familiar cap of white, but the trunks were still dark. Clare searched the spaces between them for movement. She knew hollows lived in the forest, but it came back to the same question that continued to plague her. How many?
She tilted her head back to look up at Dorran. “What did you decide on?”
“I changed my way of thinking.” He flashed her a smile. “Instead of trying to be fast, we will be slow.”
“Okay.” She wasn’t following, but she trusted he knew what he was talking about.
“Instead of packing light, we will bring a sled. There is chicken wire in the storage shed behind the garden. With a good, strong cloth, I believe we can create something like a tent—something tough enough to protect us if the hail returns.”
She’d been so focussed on avoiding the hollows, she hadn’t considered the temperamental weather. But the first time they’d attempted to reach the car, they had been caught in a hailstorm that had risen unnaturally quickly. They didn’t seem to strike often, but when they did, the storms were brutal.
“We will have weapons,” Dorran said. “But more importantly, we will have armour. This time, instead of trying to kill them before they bite us, we will make ourselves unbitable. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. Defensive, rather than offensive.” Clare nodded. “It’s smart.”
“Good. Eat first. You will need energy. Then we will see about our equipment. I would like to leave no later than midday. If we are being slow, we must be prepared for all eventualities—including being waylaid. I would not want to be outside after dark.”
Chapter Seven
Clare and Dorran crouched in the stone room bridging the garden, the basement, and the wine cellar. The room was cold, but it was closest to the equipment they needed. Dorran had laid out a sheet to work on. One of the immense, heavy-woven red drapes had been wrenched off its holder in the dining room and lay in a pool beside them. Dorran unspooled chicken wire from its roll and, by buckling it and tying it, created a dome shape.
“We will be like a turtle,” he joked.
When it was completed, it would be just large enough for them to huddle underneath. Once the frame was ready, Dorran layered the drapes over it, then a second set of the wire, followed by more drapes. The fabric was thick. It added to the construct’s weight, but Clare hoped it would be enough to keep the weather out, at least.
Clare had her back to the cellar. She couldn’t tell if that was better or worse than facing it. Her mind was constantly hunting for the scratching sounds, the shuffling, and the quiet breaths that would be her only warning of someone creeping up behind her.
Dorran rocked back on his heels, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “It will be heavy. But I would rather carry this weight than have it fail on us when we need it most.”
Clare finished tying off one section. She couldn’t help but admire their handiwork. The vivid red cloth would stand out against the white snow, but it was a solid construction. Dorran lifted one end, and Clare tried picking up the other side. Between the two of them, they could heave it up, but Clare knew they wouldn’t get far carrying it on their backs. They dropped it back onto the floor.
“It won’t be such a burden when we have the sled.” Dorran packed up the tool kit they’d been using, scooped up the unused chicken wire, and carried it back to the shelves in the storage area. As he put away the equipment, Clare brushed her hand across some of the tools. Garden gloves, so old and worn they were starting to fall apart. Trowels. Bottles of fertiliser. They were all well-used.
A sense of regret washed over her. Dorran’s family had issues, but he’d talked fondly about some of the staff. Someone had dedicated their life to tending to the garden. They had worn the gloves daily. And they would never be back.
She turned away. A pitchfork caught her notice. She picked it up and shook dust from its handle. “Dorran, what about this?”
“Yes.” He felt across the prongs, testing their sharpness. “This will be useful. I will try to find a second ranged weapon too. And a knife of some kind, perhaps. I wish this family had been interested in swords—” He broke off, and his eyes flitted towards the ceiling.
Clare looked up, too, a spike of panic catching in her throat as she thought Dorran had heard something.
Then he smiled. “My uncle used to be involved in fencing. They will not be any use for weapons, but the masks will make a good defence for our faces. Come, let’s see if I can remember where he stored his equipment.”
They dropped the pitchfork beside the protective dome and crossed to the stairs. Clare was faintly aware of how quickly the time was passing. She had a sense that if they didn’t get there that day, they might never make it. The sky had stayed clear all morning. It was almost as though the outside world were waiting for them, staying on its best behaviour as it coaxed them outside. If they missed their chance, the following day might be storming. And
