“Oes,” Ingo said, straightening his back up as much as he could. “Wouldn’ be who we are if we couldn’ take a little worse, oes, Silk? Ent so sure about the better.”
His breath caught in his chest; he snorted, strained to hold himself straight. Tom could tell he was taking as much of his own weight as he could, but he didn’t know it’d be enough.
He didn’t know, but he reckoned it’d have to be. Lowering his head, he turned back to the stairs and started up. Again, he felt the twinges in his hip; again, he struggled to find footing, risked slipping on the worn stone in those expensive, useless fucking shoes. Again, it felt like an age, but this time, he was aware of Ava behind him, of the wick’s shuffling and labored breaths. He had to put it out of his head.
Risha, Tom kept thinking, with every careful footfall. Like two notes, rich and deep, rising up through him. It lay warm and heavy in his chest – like a paperweight, holding his soul in place.
At the top of the stairs, he cast a look backward. Even though he’d heard them scuffling behind him, he half-expected to see nothing but the shadows and the twist of the steps down; it was mung, but he couldn’t help the swell of relief when the light licked over the wick’s bowed head, his ragged hair, when it lit the shape of Ava’s face beside. He knew he shouldn’t’ve, but he looked at her face for just a second, and he saw something warm and soft in her eyes as they met his.
Tom wanted to smile back. There wasn’t a thing he wanted more than that; he wanted it so bad, he felt it in his bones, and it hurt. He didn’t think he had a good face for it, and he didn’t know if she’d understand, but the warmth of that name rose up through him, and he wanted to lay it out between them, and he wanted to give her something for what she’d given him. But Ingo lifted his head, his gold eyes glittering, and Tom just nodded and turned back.
Easing the shelf away from the wall, he crept out into the room, eyes adjusting to the thin film of moonlight that trickled from the window. He left the door open behind him, scanned the room, then turned and raised a hand, nodding. He waited for Ava to bring the wick shuffling through; he hesitated. Padding silently through the shadows, flame bowing in the late Roalis breeze, he moved round to each of the grims they’d pulled earlier – eased them back in. Better to be careful, he thought, squinting through the dark for irregularities in the rows of spines.
Being honest, with Ingo’s eyes singing the hairs off the back of his neck, it’d helped to have something to do. As he slid Mantel back into place, he could hear the wick’s breath clawing in and out of his lungs, even over the chatter of the crickets and the rustle of the drapes. When he turned back, Ingo was leaning heavier on Ava, and Tom fought to keep the concern out of his eyes.
He was opening his mouth to suggest a way out – thinking they’d do best to go out the way they’d come in; he could clear each hall, give them the signal, move quick and quiet – when he heard a muffled noise, and his mouth clamped shut. Ingo blinked his eyes, jerked his head toward the shut door, his mouth furrowing deep in his beard.
Footsteps, heavy on carpet. Shuffling. A familiar voice, breathless laughter – a man’s, then a woman’s, twittering. “It came from in here, I think,” he thought he heard, and then another laugh.
Swallowing thickly, Tom turned back to Ava and Ingo. His jaw set; his head felt empty of thoughts. The drapes fluttered in a big gust, playing in the shadows on the carpeting, and he looked toward the window. It was a big window, Tom reckoned, big and tall, just about to the floor. He wasn’t good at making calculations, but he reckoned he’d been big as the wick, once; he reckoned he’d’ve been able to fit through. There was some kind of garden out there, too, it looked like, dotted with greens, thick with shadows.
Worse before it gets better.
Taking a deep breath, he looked Ava in the eye. “I’ll meet you at the carriage.” He held the candlestick, wavering in the air. He felt like his breath was trapped somewhere inside him, but he found it quick enough. “If I don’t come out,” he went on, unhesitating, “the coachman’ll listen to you. I made sure, in case.”
He licked his lips, watching them through the soft, warm light, the cold echoes of the moon and the streetlamp. Then – with a huff of a breath, he blew out the candle. The noises were getting closer and louder.
Tom nodded, brusque-like, setting down the candlestick.