She felt herself falling.
And then the shelf slammed into the window opening, halting her progress so rapidly her teeth clacked together.
The noise was tremendous. Immediately she heard Beatrice call her name, and chains rattling against the pantry door.
Quickly Arabella lowered herself as far as she could, her feet scrabbling against the wall, hands gripping the black dress. Soon she hung from the dress’s end, arms fully extended, gasping from the effort. Her feet swung in the air, feeling nothing beneath no matter how she stretched her toes.
From the window above came the sound of the pantry door opening, a light from the kitchen, and a gasp from Beatrice.
Arabella closed her eyes tight and released her hold on the dress.
With a shriek and a crash she fell into the bush, its branches tearing at her legs and arms, then tumbled out of it and onto the hard ground.
From within the house came the sound of Beatrice’s voice: crying out alarms, calling for Jane, and casting imprecations on Arabella even as she rushed through the Ashbys’ little house.
Arabella pulled herself to her feet—panting hard, heart hammering. Her dress hung from the window above, far out of reach.
At least she still retained her reticule.
She gathered up her petticoats, turned, and ran.
She was a hundred yards or so down the lane when Beatrice rounded the corner of the house, shouting, “Stop! Stop! Stop or I shall shoot!”
Arabella did not stop. Surely Beatrice would not—
A loud crack came from behind. But though the sound nearly stopped Arabella’s racing heart, a zing and crash from the shrubbery to her left showed that, though Beatrice might be willing to pull the trigger, she had aimed wide—or else her skill as a marksman did not match her intent.
Arabella risked a glance over her shoulder. Beatrice stood panting, winded, the smoking pistol still in her hand, her eyes desperate. “Please, Cousin!” she cried. “Come back! Simon will regain his senses, I am certain of it!”
“I am not!” Arabella called back. “You must help me to stop him before he commits murder!”
Though the expression on Beatrice’s face held nothing but misery, she shook her head. “For the sake of my child,” she replied, “I cannot.” She then cried out, surprisingly loud, “Help! Oh, help me! Madwoman! Madwoman!”
Lights flickered to life all around, and voices were raised in alarm.
Arabella turned and ran.
*
Dodging through copses of trees smelling of loam and leaf-mould, scrambling over stone fences damp with moss, stumbling across plowed fields stubbled with wheat-stalks, Arabella fled headlong, caring for nothing other than to evade pursuit. Though the moon was setting and only half-full, it was so very much larger than Phobos that its light was still sufficient to keep her feet from roots and other obstacles. Strange chirruping noises—from birds or frogs or insects, she knew not what—came from the shadows, reminding her just how unfamiliar this landscape was to her; her desert skills availed her not at all.
From time to time she paused, gasping, peering in every direction. But Beatrice was nowhere in sight, and any sounds of pursuit were inaudible over her pounding heart.
After she knew not how long a time, exhaustion compelled her to stop. She crept into the darkness in the shade of a rock wall and lay panting on the cold ground there for just a moment’s rest.
A moment later, or so it seemed, she woke with a gasp from sleep. The moon had entirely vanished, and the sun’s wan light had begun to illuminate the horizon. Somehow, despite the excitement of the chase, fatigue had gotten the better of her.
Immediately she began to shiver from chill and weariness. The earth beneath her felt cold as ice, and besides the effort of escape she had barely slept or eaten in the last two days. She hugged herself miserably and bunched her sodden, soiled shift beneath herself as best she could.
What could she do? She had nothing—no family, no friends, hardly any money, not even decent clothing. Only the locket with Michael’s picture, and a grim determination.
The rising sun limned a farmhouse on a rise not far away. Arabella levered her stiff and protesting body to its feet, and began walking toward it.
*
The kitchen door creaked open a crack and a wrinkled, suspicious face peered out. “Who might you be?” the old woman said.
“Arabella Ashby, ma’am,” she replied. Her voice, after a cold night sleeping on bare earth, was little more than a croak.