Page 19 of Carousel

But he’s pulling away from me. Tense. Like his world is crashing down around him.

It tugs at something in me. A need to protect.

I slide my hand across the stone floor until I find his. Gently, I prise open his clammy fingers and thread mine into them.

For a second, all is calm.

Then a shooting sensation rushes up my hands and along my arms – so violently my whole body jolts.

“Did you feel that?” I gasp, snapping my neck to him.

“Feel what?”

Maybe I was mistaken?

“Nothing.”

He inhales, then shifts back to where he was, close to me.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear.

We wait.

A loud knock from above startles me. For a terrible second, I picture bombs.

But no. It can’t be. No bombs. Yet.

I’m fully awake now, but my bones are heavy, like I’ve come up from beneath the sea. I realise I must have dozed off again. I’m resting on something soft.

It’s Drake’s shoulder.

Instantly, I move away, heat warming my face. Thank the Sisters it’s dark.

The sound comes again, and this time, Drake jerks, too. Three firm knocks – before a voice I don’t recognise calls down to us. “Is it safe to come down?”

My brain tries to make sense of this.

A man is asking us – the prisoners – if he can come down?

“Come in?” I reply, conscious of how absurd it sounds.

Drake and I stand up at the same time. It’s soothing, knowing he’s beside me again.

There’s groaning metal, like bolts are sliding. Then the trapdoor creaks open and a rope ladder is tossed down. It sways in the air before a tall, trim man in a long, flowing coat descends it.

He’s carrying a torch in one fist. His height, angular physique, the sharp way he moves; I’m already recoiling from him.

Vikemy.

But the torchlight flickers over the profile of his face just as his small feet neatly and soundlessly hit the ground, and I realise that though there is a resemblance between the two men, this man is someone else.

He has all of his hair, for a start, which is long, silver, and tied back from his wide forehead and pointed face with a thin cord. He’s a decade or so younger, and looks far sprightlier, and he’s not in State Craftsman robes, but a soldier’s uniform, complete with a leather coat so long it almost touches the floor. The high collar of his red shirt is embroidered with letters and strange symbols.

He lifts his torch higher, illuminating us.

I cast a glance at Drake. His short dark hair, which had been wet and slicked when we met, is now sticking up and almost curling. His eyes look bloodshot and wild.

I realise I can’t look much better, and I flinch from the light.