The Cup and the Crown (22 page)
Richard went on smiling. He plainly had something to tell and was waiting for Tobias to ask.
“All right,” Tobias said, “what is it?”
“This!” He produced a strip of paper with an enormous grin.
“From Molly?” He took it from Richard’s hand and saw that it was covered with words, not pretty written, but bold as brass—Molly through and through. He looked up at Richard pleadingly.
Don’t tease me, not now! Just tell me what it says.
This only served to encourage him.
“Now, you’ve told me rather a lot about that girl of yours, Tobias; and I confess I’ve doubted whether she could be as amazing as she’s been presented: battling demons, rescuing princes—”
“Richard, for heaven’s sake!”
“She’s beautiful, of course, and clever, clever, clever—”
“I could strangle you with one hand, you know, while eating this pie with the other; and I’m quite inclined to do it, too, if—”
“Patience, lad. Who would bring you food if you strangled me?”
“No need. I’d slice you up and eat you raw.”
“That’s the spirit! I’ll tell you—though, mind, this is something that deserves to be told right—”
“And you’re the very man to do it.”
“I am indeed. So here it is: your beloved has sent me to a silversmith’s shop to see about a cup, which I have done. It will be ready within the week.”
“That’s why you’re grinning?”
“No. I told you it must be enjoyed slowly, like a fine dinner.”
Tobias glared at him in silence.
“What else? Let me see. She is gratified to know that you are safe and that we have found an escape route. I was so exceedingly careful in my choice of words, in case the message was intercepted, that I rather feared I might have been too subtle altogether. But she made my meaning out perfectly and was nearly as cagy in her reply, so that I had to read it over a time or two before I got it entirely straight in my mind.”
Tobias folded his hands as if in prayer, the very model of quiet patience.
“Oh, dear, I shan’t do it justice, but I really can’t bear to drag it out.”
Tobias raised his eyebrows, just a little.
“Prepare yourself, man, to be knocked over with amazement. Are you ready? You are? Good. Well
your lady
—who I have vastly underestimated, I confess it now, without reservation—is at this very moment . . .”
Tobias unlaced his fingers from their prayerful pose and reached out a hand as though to grasp something—a ball, say, or Richard’s throat.
“. . . is building herself some wings.”
Tobias froze, stupefied. “Wings?”
“Yes, Tobias. Wings.
Your
lady is going to
fly
out of bloody Harrowsgode Hall. Now, what do you think of that?”
HER NEW ROOM WAS
twice the size of her chamber in the tower. And while the windows there had been small and covered by a grille, here she had a large double casement. When both of the panes were opened, it provided a fine, wide sill—a perfect place to perch while arranging one’s flying apparatus before flinging oneself off the building.
It was also a more comfortable spot for Uncle to land; he’d managed with difficulty before.
All she’d lacked was privacy, and that would be essential once she started constructing her Magus wings. To that end, she’d had a few words with the chambermaid, begging the girl to stay out of her room and never mind the mess. Because otherwise the maid was sure to tread on one of the kites, or be tripped up by a bit of string, or knock over a pot of glue. The girl had not minded in the least—that much less for her to do.
Now Molly sat on the floor with her pile of willow wands. Winifred had gathered them at her request; and Uncle had carried them by night, one at a time, to her new room at Harrowsgode Hall. Then he’d gone back to Winifred for one last package containing a penknife, a needle, and six spools of thread.
The choice of willow had been brilliant; it was supple, light, and strong. But tying the individual branches together to form a perfect curve, making sure that at each connection point the thread was wound tightly many times, then finished with a stout knot—that wasn’t so easy. And her life would depend on having done it right.
She laid out the first willow branch on the floor, admiring its graceful curve. Then she nested a second one against the first and slid it down about a handsbreadth so that its thin end extended beyond that of the first. Now she bound them together at four points. In this way, with each addition, the structure would grow in length and sturdiness.
She worked in a dream state, with utter concentration, effortlessly harnessing something within her that guided her busy hands, correcting the shape of the curve as needed, alerting her if the thread was too loose at any of the connection points. When it was, she’d unwind it and start again.
Time was suspended. The slender moon, a bright shallow cup, hung motionless outside her window as she worked.
When the two wings were completed, their supporting struts attached and the trailing edges perfectly formed, they proved to be equal in length, exact mirror images of each other, each with a delicate curve from side to side and front to back, as when you cup your hands to splash water on your face.
Now she started on the central structure that would join the wings and support the harness.
Still the moon remained a fixed point in the sky. Still Molly worked under the guidance of her inner spirit. The world around her was hushed.
She’d reserved the thickest branches for this final step. Simple though it was—a box shape, longer than it was wide, reinforced by crosspieces and the overlapping origin of the wings—it had to be strong.
Her hands knew exactly what to do.
When at last it was finished, lacking only its silken skin, she lifted it and felt its weight. It was heavier than she’d expected, but still she believed. From working with her kites she knew the astonishing power of wind against a broad surface. It would hold her weight and that of the wings, and carry them over the city walls to freedom.
As soon as the cup was ready, as soon as the tunnel was finished—then she would cut apart her beautiful Magus gown and attach the silk to the frame with careful stitches, using the scraps to form a harness—one loop to support her chest, one to support her hips, and a small handle on either side to grip with each of her hands.
Now she had only to wait, and sleep.
Outside, the little sliver of moon began to move in the sky again.
AS BEFORE, TOBIAS
was alone in the tunnel when his pick bit through the fill.
He’d found the first stair earlier that morning and known that he was close. Perhaps by dusk, when Richard arrived, he’d have broken through altogether. Excited, he’d redoubled his efforts, clearing step after step.
But it was trickier digging up than it had been digging down. There was always the danger that a large chunk would break away from the wall and bury him in a heap of rubble. So the nearer he came to the top, the more careful and analytical did his process become—working in from the side, for example, instead of starting in the middle.
It was going well. He allowed himself to hope. Any minute now his pick might cut right through that wall like a knife through butter; light would come streaming in from the outside world, bringing with it the sweet smell of sun-warmed grass.
But instead his pick met stone, and the unexpected impact sent him tumbling down the stairs. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath. Then he got to his feet again and held the lantern up to the wall. There wasn’t much to see. Stone, yes, undoubtedly—in one particular place. But that wasn’t the whole story, not yet.
And the more he thought about it, the more hopeful he became. They couldn’t possibly have moved a single boulder large enough to cover the entrance. It must be a pile of rocks, then, in varying sizes. There might be gaps between those rocks. Some of them might be small enough to move. To find out, he’d simply have to keep knocking rubble away till the true state of affairs was revealed.
He continued chipping away with the pick, exposing more and more rock. He worked all the way to the ceiling and found that the rock extended beyond the opening. He would have to work laterally, then. But nothing he found brought him joy. So far it was all the same: one single, enormous stone pressed against the opening.
Constance had been busy at the other end of the tunnel, doing what she did best. Now she came to join Tobias, bringing her usual offering.
“What a bloodthirsty, precious little monster you are,” he said, using the point of his pick to fling the rat corpse off the stairs. Then he went back to clearing the stone, the endless, enormous, giant, hopeless—
Constance was at it again, this time over on the corner, right at the top of the stairs. She made a fierce little growl and began scratching frantically at the dirt with her forepaws. Well, Tobias thought, at least that was one section he wouldn’t have to clear.
She barked twice, then returned to her digging:
scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch
—very fast.
Tobias stopped and stared.
Scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch!
Bark-bark-bark!
“Constance!” he said, but she ignored him. Rats always came first. So he went and squatted beside her, loose bits of dirt flying out as she dug, covering his boots. Finally she reached the nest-hole and a rat darted out. Constance caught it on the run; and there followed the familiar screech, the creature’s death throes, and then it was over. She dropped it, limp, on the flagstone. Another gift.
But this time the gift had been one of hope. Because a rat couldn’t dig through stone any more than Tobias could. “My turn,” he said, nudging the little terrier away with his foot so he could see what lay beyond the nest.
DEAR M.—
The vessel you ordered is finished, and the person who made it wishes to join us. Is this all right with you?
R.
Dear R—
Yes. Take him with you, and I will meet you at our destanashun. tamarro I think after noon mabe mid day.
M.
Dear Win—
I am redy. You need to by 2 more horses with sadels and have plenty ofprovizfood. Do this rite now. I will come tamarro after the mid day meal. Look up at the sky.
M
Dear M.—
Your gentleman friend wishes you to know that he is rather the worse for goose-grease, ashes, and rat-muck. He hopes you will not mind. He also says that if you die on him, he will never forgive you.
I cannot wait to meet you.
R.
Dear M.,
Everything will be ready. Be careful.
Yours,
Lord M.
MOLLY STOOD AT THE
window watching the clouds. Uncle had said she must wait for the puffy kind, the ones that looked like mountains with flat bases, darker at the bottom. They were a sign that warm air was rising, and that meant perfect flying weather.
But she wasn’t worried. She’d been watching for mountain-clouds every afternoon since Uncle had first mentioned them, and never had they failed to form. She recalled that it was Soren who managed the weather, and that made her laugh. If he only knew that he was making it easier for her to escape! Thunderclouds right now would be very inconvenient.
She’d been holed up in her chamber, the door locked, since dinner the previous night, at which she’d complained, in a loud voice, of a headache and a roiling gut. She’d spent the rest of the night taking her Magus gown apart and attaching it to the framework of the wings. It had been tedious work, stitch after painstaking stitch; but when she’d finished, Uncle had said it was perfect. She’d collapsed onto her bed, still in her clothes, and slept till midmorning.
Mikel, bless him, had knocked politely and asked if she was all right. But he’d woken her, and she’d been a bit snappish.
No
, she didn’t want to eat.
No
, she wasn’t up to studying today.
Please go away!
She felt bad about that now. He’d been so kind to her. He’d taught her how to write her name and how to buckle on her armor. And now, if all went well, she’d never see him again. But she had the feeling he’d know that she was grateful even though she’d never said it.
The clouds were just about perfect now, the warm air ready to support her. She was ready, too. She’d plaited her hair and pinned it up so it wouldn’t blow in her face. And she’d turned the skirt of her day gown into makeshift pantaloons by stitching it up the middle between her legs, fastening the hem tightly around the ankles and across the middle. It looked ridiculous, but at least her skirt wouldn’t catch the wind and slow her down.
Now there was nothing left to do but lean on the windowsill, look at the clouds, and wait for Uncle. And that was hard. Molly was restless, and she couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that might go wrong. It was a long list, and she had a gruesome imagination when it came to picturing disasters. What she really needed was to get this over with
now
, get up on that bloody ledge and bloody well jump off into—
There he was! Finally!
He landed gracefully on the sill beside her.
“Where in blazes have you been?” she scolded. “I’ve about lost my mind with waiting.”
I was having a word with some rooks and jackdaws.
That left her more or less speechless. Saying good-bye to his little friends? Getting some tips on wind direction? “Well, I’ve been ready this last hour or more. Shall we go?”
Yes. But before you put the wings on, let’s review this one more time: your window faces north, but you want to go south. So first—
”
