“I’ve been to the Tower before,” Phoebe said. “On a school trip to London. There used to be a moat encircling the walls. How will we get over?”
I grinned. “The moat hasn’t been built yet. Richard the Lionheart had it constructed. And at the moment, he’s not even a gleam in Henry’s eye.”
Phoebe snickered as our horses ambled along, patiently wading through the powder. I patted my mare’s neck. She tossed her head in answer, harness jingling in the stillness.
On the ride over, the crisp air cleaned most of the cobwebs out of my head, and I was able to mull over everything we’d learned. The Timeslippers were after the Nonius Stone. That was clear enough. And who knew what they might do once they had it.
Yet Celia’s motives were murkier. I didn’t know what had happened between my mom, Celia, and Michael MacPherson, but I was convinced it was key. Why go to all the trouble and risk of trapping my mother here? Of selling her out to the brutal Babcock? That took planning and foresight. No. Something else had occurred that night. Something besides Michael choosing to stay behind.
“There they are.” Lost in the puzzle of what could’ve happened twelve years ago, I startled at Phoebe’s alert.
“Yeah.” I nodded, shaking it off to concentrate on the task at hand. “Good.”
William and Rachel hadn’t heard our approach, locked as they were in each other’s arms. My heart squirmed as William pulled back and gently clasped Rachel’s face between his palms.
“I cannot bear it,” he was saying. “Please, do not go to him.”
Rachel’s face crumpled in agony. “You know I must. My father, he—”
“Damn your father.” William seized her arms. “All he cares for is the contract he’ll gain if you marry into that family. Tell me it isn’t so.”
She gazed up into his face, wet eyes sparkling in the low light, like nuggets of gold under a moonlit stream. He pulled her to him. When they swayed together, I could feel the misery streaming off them.
My horse whinnied, blowing steam. Startled, the two broke apart.
“Oy.” William sent a final pleading look at Rachel before he stepped away. “There you are. Let’s get this done.”
After we dismounted, I hurried to Rachel and whispered, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Rachel swiped at her cheeks and tried to smile, but it wobbled and faded. “It matters not.”
A single tear plopped into the snow as she bent to pick up the handle of a small iron pot. William opened the gate, obviously uncomfortable. He thought we were just going for a last visit. If he had known what we really planned, there was no way he’d have allowed it.
Once we made it through the thick wall and into the snow-packed yard, William spoke. “I’ll wait outside and make sure no one comes. But I like this not. Pray you let me come with you.”
He glanced at the pot dangling at Rachel’s side. “Food for the prisoner,” she lied. “He must be hungry, and even a thief deserves a meal.”
William’s eyes narrowed, though his shoulders slumped in acquiescence. “Hurry. Dawn approaches, and the guards make their round on the half hour. We must away by then.” He pointed across a snowy expanse to where several ground-level, arched openings stood black against the paler stone. “Last one, near the back corner.”
Once he was safely outside the wall, the three of us plowed across the yard. Our skirts grew heavy, as snow caked us to the knees.
“Is it strong enough?” I whispered to Rachel. “How is it not melting the pot?”
“’Tis lined with gold, which isn’t affected by the oil. It’s a fresh batch, though, and should attain our purpose.”
It had to work. Had to. In a little over twenty-four hours, the Dim would come to take us home. And we were going to be there if it killed me. All of us.
“Collum?” I dropped to my knees before the low, barred window. “Collum, can you hear me?”
I pressed my face between the bars. Cold iron burned my cheeks. I ignored it, though I struggled to keep from gagging at the fetid stench. Rancid straw. Stale urine. Old blood. And worse.
“Coll!” Phoebe pushed in beside me. “It’s us. Please, Coll. Answer me.”
Nothing but black silence. What would it be like to be trapped there? Entombed there? What if Collum was still unconscious? What if they’d hurt him so badly, he couldn’t walk? What if . . .
“Phee?” My shoulders sagged in relief.
Alive. He’s alive.
“Phee? Hope? Is it really you? Or . . . no . . . I’m dreaming again.”
I tried to keep calm, but the resignation in his cracked voice made me want to scream at the sky. “You’re not dreaming, Collum.” I said. “Listen. We’re going to get you out. Can you walk?”
“Aye.” A shuffling sound came to us as Collum moved closer to the window. I listened for a telltale clink but heard nothing but boots on reeking straw.
No chains. Thank God.