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I squinted in the direction of the opening again. The light outside was still so bright in comparison with the tunnel’s gloom that I could hardly make out anything.
‘Some bushes, I think. Grass.’
‘Good. As soon as we leave the tunnel, we are going to throw ourselves into those bushes.’
‘To disrupt the nests of innocent nightingales, Sir?’
‘To cushion our fall, Mr Linton. Cover your face with your arms so your eyes won’t be stabbed by a branch. And… be careful.’
I had just opened my mouth for a witty comeback, but closed it again. Had I heard right? Mr Rikkard Ambrose had just wasted valuable time and breath telling me to be careful? Not only that, but he had sounded genuinely concerned. Could it be that he…?
Another gunshot sheared throu
gh my half-finished thought. Hurriedly, I turned my gaze from Mr Ambrose to the approaching exit. I had to keep an eye on it. He was guarding our backs, making sure those sons of bachelors didn’t get us. I had to do my part.
‘We’re getting close,’ I announced. Sweat had started to bead on my forehead again, although the air in the tunnel was still icy, and I was just sitting, doing nothing, only watching. ‘On the count of three we have to jump.’
He gave a grunt, and fired again. I took a deep breath.
‘One,’ I called.
Two more shots burst from his revolver, and the enemy answered.
‘Two.’
He slowly pulled back his revolver and crouched lower, preparing to jump.
‘Um… two and a half.’
‘What? Mr Linton, what is that supposed to mean?’
‘I misjudged the distance, all right? Two and three quarters!’
‘Your version of a countdown is not very reliable, Mr Linton!’
‘Why? I said on the count of three, and on the count of three it'll be. Two and four fifths!’
‘Mr Linton…!’
‘Three!’
I snatched his arm and hurled myself sideways, into free air.
Rising Waves
Mr Ambrose had suggested that the bushes would cushion our fall. I didn’t know what kind of cushion he preferred, but the landing in the bushes gave me a pretty good idea. Basalt, maybe? Sandstone?
By the time I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill on which the bushes were perched, I felt as though I had been squeezed through a meat-grinder. A strangled moan escaped from my throat.
‘You should have rolled,’ a cool voice commented from above me.
‘I did roll! I did nothing but roll and jump and bump! I feel like a flipping football!’
‘I mean actively. To break your fall.’ A firm hand gripped mine and pulled me up so quickly I couldn’t even try to protest. In a moment, I was standing beside Mr Ambrose, whose red uniform - curse him! - somehow still looked immaculate. He hadn’t even gotten one twig in his smooth, shiny black hair.
For a moment, we stood like this, each close enough to hear the other’s heart beating, our hands intertwined. Then he let go and abruptly turned.
‘Let’s go!’
