“It may have been separated from the rest of the bones,” said Damian. “A few of the monks may have . . .” His words trailed off.
Five seconds later he switched on his flashlight, stood, and strode purposefully around the cavern, pausing at each of the three low openings in the walls. When I asked what he was doing, he hushed me and kept going. When he reached the third portal, he cocked an ear toward it and inhaled deeply through his nostrils.
“Yes, this is the one,” he said. “Come with me.” I didn’t need to be told twice. I scrambled to my feet and ran after him, into the opening.
Damian went forward easily at first but was soon obliged to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the roof. I was, for once, pleased with my notable lack of height. I had no trouble whatsoever walking upright, though I still had to walk attentively—the tunnel’s floor was sprinkled with loose, ankle-turning stones.
Damian finished his thought as we walked on. “Some of the monks may have gone farther into the caves than the others. They may have tried to escape to the sea. The skull we found in the cove may have belonged to one of them. If I’m right, then we’re following in their footsteps.”
“Why do we want to follow in their footsteps?” I asked.
“If this tunnel led them to the sea,” said Damian, “it’ll lead us there, too. It can serve as our escape route.”
The passage curved abruptly to the right, and the sound of the throbbing surf intensified. A chill breeze began to blow steadily against us. After perhaps thirty yards of downward progress, the passage leveled off and opened out into a much larger chamber. Damian’s light picked out knots of driftwood and tangles of seaweed scattered on the rocky, sand-strewn floor. Ten more strides took us across the chamber to a low archway in the opposite wall. We ducked under the archway and found ourselves looking down on a wondrous sight.
We were standing on a ledge at the back of a cavern that opened onto the sea. The dense fog had apparently dissipated, because silver flashes of moonlight streaked the foaming waves that surged and crashed against the cave’s glistening walls. The sound was deafening, the tumult stupefying, and we kept well back from the ledge’s slick edge. Damian studied the unearthly scene until spray began to run in rivulets down our rain jackets, then turned around and led the way back through the tunnel to the relative peace and quiet of the monks’ cave.
“The ledge leads around the wall to the cavern’s mouth,” he informed me upon our arrival. “But it’s no good to us now. The tide is too high. We should be able to get through in a few hours, though.”
“Get through to what?” I asked, eyeing him warily. “The cliffs out there are pretty perpendicular.”
“I can climb them,” Damian said confidently. “You can wait here while I go for help.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said flatly. “And don’t even try to talk me out of it. I’d rather break my neck falling from a cliff than sit here wondering if you’ve broken yours. Percy knows that we came to the monastery, Damian, but he might not know about the movable tablet or the hidden staircase. If—God forbid—you had an accident on your way to the castle, I could be trapped down here forever. And I simply will not allow you to do any sort of climbing until it’s light out. If you take one step toward that tunnel before sunrise, I’ll knock you senseless, I swear I will.”
I started crying about halfway through my tirade and kept crying until I reached the end, when I began to sob. It had been a stressful night, and I was temporarily out of pluck. Damian reached toward his trouser pocket and cursed lustily.
“Damn and blast,” he blustered. “Cassie has my handkerchief as well!”
It was too much. My fearless bodyguard had been able to contain his temper while a band of murderous thugs kidnapped Peter and sealed us into a secret subterranean tomb, but when it came to a missing handkerchief . . . My sobs turned into a strangled giggle. I pulled a handkerchief out of my jacket pocket, buried my face in it, and sank onto the sand, shaking with laughter.
“Are you hysterical?” Damian inquired, squatting in front of me. “Should I slap you?”
“No, thanks,” I said, gasping. “I’ll stop in a minute. I’m s-s-sorry about your hanky.” It was an unwise comment, because it set me off again, but after a few more unsuccessful tries, I managed to regain my composure. “Forgive me, Damian, but you pick the strangest things to get angry about.”
Damian sat beside me, with his shoulder touching mine, and turned off his flashlight. Darkness swallowed us, but it didn’t bother me as much as it had before. I’d purged my fear with laughter and tears. I could face whatever happened next with still-imperfect but much-improved equanimity.