Mary sat bolt upright in the bed. She was trembling, and her inner
garments clung to her in a cold sweat. Fully awake now, and with the
sudden insight brought by waking, she knew beyond a shadow of doubt
what she must do. Still fully clothed, she stepped down from the bed
and lifted up the mattress.
The manuscript book was there, had been there all the while she slept.
The feel of its widow-black cover was cold and forbidding, but there
was no longer time for fear or hesitation. She lit a thick tallow
candle, and moved with it to the hard, bare table and chair.
Her mother was still nowhere to be seen. She bolted the door from
within, then opened the book before her.
Eleven
The two men sat before the roaring fire, smoking contentedly. The
prisoner put a hand to his stomach, feeling nourished and filled as he
had not been for many months. The room was warm; he was safe for the
night, at least. And yet something was troubling him. Nothing to do
with the man, or the place. It did not even seem to concern himself.
But in some remote corner of his mind there was disquiet, as if
someone he cared about was in trouble or in danger.
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