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“Oh!” Isobel whirled, throwing a Hold on! gesture toward the window before diving for the handset.
“Gwen,” she said, “it’s Varen. I gotta go.”
“Omigod. Okay—but you better call me baa—!”
Beep.
Isobel flung the phone aside and sprang to grapple once more with the window. She tugged and jerked until it shimmied up half an inch, allowing in the cold evening air. She slipped her hands under the bottom, ready to lift, but froze when she felt his fingertips, cool from the October air, slide in next to hers.
All breathing ceased. And there was that static sensation again, a soft buzz where their skin touched.
The quiet knock at her door made her jump. She spun, slamming her back to the window. There was a shift and a shudder from outside, a quiet curse, and then a long, scraping scuffle.
“Isobel?” Her father.
“Not decent!” she yelled, her voice ridiculously loud, erratic. “Just a second!” She turned and faced the window again, only to catch sight of Varen sliding backward, headfirst down the slope of her roof, some sort of bag trailing behind him, still clutched in his white-knuckled grasp.
“Oh!” Isobel’s hands rushed to cover her mouth, so her suppressed scream came out as a high-pitched squeak. She fought the urge to shut her eyes and watched, horrified, as he careened toward the ledge. The strap of his bag snagged on the corner of an upturned shingle and ripped from his grasp. He skidded to the end of the roof, managing to reposition himself at the last second, just in time for the heels of his boots to catch against the gutter, hands braced out on either side of him.
He stopped. Isobel breathed again.
The knock at her door was more insistent this time. “Isobel, is everything all right in there?”
“Fine!” she called. Putting a foot on her window ledge, she hoisted herself up and grasped the shade, pulling it down. “Just . . . give me a second, okay?” She undid the ties on her curtains and drew them together. Turning, she tore across her room and barreled into her closet. She yanked her pink robe from its hanger, threw it around herself, pushed her arms through the sleeves, and tied the belt haphazardly around her waist. Gripping the collar closed so her dad wouldn’t see her T-shirt, she scuttled to the door and opened it a crack.
“Yeah?” she asked, trying to make her breathing seem normal.
Her dad stepped closer and put the toe of his shoe between the door and the door frame. Isobel pushed in on the door. He squinted down at her suspiciously, then peered past her, over her head.
“Dad,” she said, “I am trying to get ready to take a shower.”
“Oh,” he said. The lie worked, and her father leaned back again, removing his shoe. “I thought I heard you yell.”
“I was on the phone,” she answered, having had the excuse ready.
“Everything all right?”
“Yep!” She flashed a smile.
“Okay.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, but didn’t turn to leave.
“Okay,” she echoed, and pressed the door shut.
“Listen,” he said, jamming the door with his foot again, “you didn’t hear anything on the roof, did you? Mom says she thought she might have heard that raccoon again.”
“No!” Isobel answered quickly—maybe too quickly. She tried to wipe her face clear of any knowing. “No,” she repeated. “Nothing.”
“Well,” he said, “do you mind if I take a look?”
“Dad!” she screeched. She pushed his foot out with her own, then clamped the door shut in his face. “Just wait till I’m in the shower! I am naked!”
“Okay! Okay! I’ll wait, I’ll wait!”
Isobel stood another moment at the door, her ear pressed against it, listening. After the sound of quiet shuffling, she cracked it again and saw him tromp down the stairs, muttering to himself.
She shut the door and turned the lock, then padded back to the window and heaved it open.
“What are you doing?” she hissed into the darkness.
