Do whatever it takes.
She needed to be mercenary to survive. Steeling her resolve, she walked over to Matteo’s prone form and kneeled down. Tentatively, she reached out and took hold of one of his boots, tugging gently. It was harder to remove than she’d thought. By the time the boot slipped, off she was sweating and shaking, terrified that he would wake up. But he didn’t stir. She worked off the second boot and examined them both.
Stepping into the boots and trying to walk proved impossible. They were simply too large. Isobel almost fell over twice before giving up. Dashing away the moisture that stung her eyes with the back of her hand, she put the boots down next to Matteo. His thick woolen socks would have to suffice. Slipping those off much more easily, she drew them over her feet and was grateful for their warmth. She cast another guilty glance at Matteo before dragging the blanket off the bed and throwing it over him. Then she took it off and put it back on the bed.
She would not help him.
Trying to move quietly in case the guards were still outside despite the rain, she carried the chair under the far window. Unfortunately, the blasted thing seemed to be swollen shut. Hands scrabbling on the wood she tried the other window. It too was damaged, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t open it. Were they nailed shut?
Giving way to self-pity, Isobel sat on the floor, her eyes stinging. Her eyes swung from the sealed windows to the door, trying to formulate a plan. But no brilliant ideas came to her. Defeated, she sat there for a few minutes, trying to prepare for the worst.
Though she wasn’t a brave woman, it was harder than she’d ever imagined to sit there and meekly accept her fate. Giving up simply wasn’t in her nature.
Gathering her knees to her and hugging them tightly, she pushed away her feelings of despair and helplessness. She would do something—even if it meant attacking the guards the minute they opened the door in the morning. She couldn’t possibly win, but at least she would go down fighting.
It took her some time to realize that the sound of drops she heard were not from her tears falling on the floor.
The roof was leaking. On the other side of the newly installed chimney was a small puddle. A desperate idea came to her. It wasn’t likely to work, but she had to try.
Pulling the table with effort, she positioned it directly over the puddle. Then she put the chair on top of the table before adjusting Matteo’s coat over her shoulders. She tied the ends together to keep it from dragging and tripping her before climbing onto the chair. Bent over nearly double, she pushed at the weak spot in the thatched ceiling. With some determined pushing, she could poke her finger out to feel the rain and night air outside. But getting her whole body out this way would require some effort.
Wasn’t there something her grandmother had taught her that would help? Some spell for moving immovable objects? If there was, she couldn’t remember it. The fire starting spell wouldn’t help much, either. Even if the damp thatch caught, the smoke would alert people for miles around.
Doesn’t matter.
Spine stiffening, Isobel continued to tear and poke at the weak spot in the roof. Eventually, she had created a hole large enough to fit her head through. The rain was slowing down. The occasional fat drop pelted her face, running down her neck and chest to chill her despite the stolen coat.
She tried to widen the hole with her shoulders, but all she succeeded in doing was scratching her neck. Crouching down again, she carefully pulled the coat over her head, holding on to the nearest beam of wood in the roof to keep her balance. Then she forced upwards with her back, using all her strength. A loud crack sounded as one of the supporting branches gave way and her shoulders were able to rise above the gap she’d opened wide.
Hoping the noise of breaking wood was covered by the wind, she crawled upwards. She hauled herself through the hole, sucking in a deep breath as the branches and bundled thatch scraped her sides. Without the protection of the great coat she would have been torn to shreds. As it was, she would probably be bruised from neck to knee.
Finally, she was outside in the damp night air, clinging to the thatch as she sagged there, trying to gather her strength. Repeatedly adjusting the coat, she crawled to the edge of the roof and looked down. The ground seemed very far away.