“Sebastian,” Jonathan said. “Remember what Patrick said about the storm and the surge and—”
“Shut up, Jonathan. No one cares what Patrick said. Don’t piss me off—I’m still deciding what your punishment is.” He looked at Gregory and Roger. “One of you keep your hands on him at all times. I know the little punk’ll run away to save his little friend first chance he gets.”
They ate dinner sitting on the tables, their feet on the chairs. The storm was so loud they couldn’t talk over it. They kept having to relight their candles, blown out by the hard fists of gusting wind that hammered through the room. Jonathan sat where Sebastian had been carving with his sword a couple of days ago, flanked by a guard on either side. He fingered the crudely notched letters Sebastian had inscribed on the wooden tabletop: S-C-A-R-S. He looked around at the soggy boys glumly eating, shivering and soaked, sitting in near-darkness with rain blowing in the broken window. His mind kept circling around Colin, bound in blackness, swarmed by giant rats. He couldn’t swallow a bite.
“We need to keep the furnace lit!” Sebastian shouted over the storm. “Jonathan—it’s your turn! You two go with him!” He tossed a stale roll to Roger. “You can give that to our prisoner. Don’t untie him, though!”
Jonathan managed to eat a dry bite of bread and slumped down to the coal room, Roger and Gregory right behind.
Patrick was tied to his chair in the middle of the room under a dangling lantern, surrounded by piles of coal. The furnace glowed and hissed behind him. His face was grim and he was drenched in sweat. Jonathan gasped and unbuttoned the top button of his own shirt. He’d forgotten how hot it was in the dark little cellar. There was a large puddle at the foot of the stairs. Jonathan frowned. He didn’t remember the coal room having any puddles.
“Have ye come to yer senses, then?” Patrick asked.
“We’re just here to feed the furnace,” Roger said. “Here.” He held out the roll.
Patrick looked at it, his hands tied behind his back.
“Uh, ye’ll have to untie me.”
“No way,” Roger answered. He tore a chunk off the roll and shoved it into Patrick’s mouth. “Get to work, Jonathan,” he said over his shoulder. “I don’t wanna be down here forever.”
Jonathan was looking at the puddle on the ground. It was spreading and growing as he watched. He looked closer and saw the little rivulets of water running down the stairs along the wall.
“Water’s getting down here,” he said, pointing. “From upstairs.”
“Who cares?”
“Well, that means—”
“Look, just get to work, okay? I’ll help.”
Jonathan and Gregory started shoveling coal into the wheelbarrow while Roger fed Patrick bites of roll.
“Ye boys are crazy,” Patrick said when they stood gasping for breath after dumping the first load into the fiery furnace. “Ye can’t keep going like this. Ye need to get outta here.”
“Quiet,” Roger said. “We’re fine.”
“What happened to yer nose?” he asked, looking at Jonathan. Jonathan sniffed and touched it gingerly with sooty fingers. It was still sore.
“Nothing. Just an accident.”
“Aye,” Patrick said quietly. “I bet plenty of accidents happen around that boy with the sword.”
“Come on. Keep shoveling. I wanna go to bed.”
They were just about to open the furnace doors for the second load of coal when they heard the crash from above them.
More than a crash. A shattering, shuddering explosion that echoed down the stairs. They froze in mid-motion, then turned to look at the staircase.
There was a moment of near-stillness. Then the water trickling down the sides of the stairs increased to a steady stream an inch deep from wall to wall, waterfalling into the coal room in dirty little cascades.
“What the hell?” Patrick breathed.
From upstairs came the sound of screaming.
Jonathan and Gregory dropped their shovels and all three boys tore up the stairs at a run.
“Wait!” Patrick called. “Don’t leave me down here!”
But they were already gone, up the stairs and through the kitchen and into the dining room.
The room was in chaos. The storm, which had already seemed impossibly fierce, was doubled in strength and fury. All the windows had blown out, every single one, and the door was ripped off its hinges, leaving one whole wall open to the raging wind and rain. All the candles were out, leaving the room in darkness except when it was lit by flashes of lightning. The boys were all huddled behind tables.
Jonathan, Roger, and Gregory stopped in their tracks. The water in the room was no longer an inch deep—it was over their ankles, and rising.
“Look at that!” Miguel shouted over the thundering storm. “In the courtyard!”
Ducking heads peeked from behind the tables. Jonathan’s eyes peered through the pelting rain into the darkness beyond the glassless windows. For a moment, there was only wet, howling blackness.
Then a bright white strobe of lightning lit the scene, and he saw it.