Page 111 of Shadowfox

Hell, my heart refused to beat . . . or was beating so fast I couldn’t feel it anymore. Nothing seemed to work right in that moment.

When the housekeeper didn’t appear, Thomas took a tentative step up. Our patient remained blessedly quiet, so up we went, carefully stepping on the sides of the stairs to avoid further squeals.

At the top of the stair, we were presented with far too many choices. That damn house was enormous.

There was one open door to the right, revealing a sprawling bedroom decorated in pastels and lace, as though some ancient woman had vomited all over the walls and curtains before dying and leaving the world her bad taste as its inheritance.

Four other doors watched and waited.

All were closed.

Thomas looked back, a question in his gaze.

All I could do was shrug and cup my hand to my ear, as if to say, “Listen at the door.”

I wasn’t sure that would do much good, but it was the best I could think of. How else were we to guess which room held the girl and which held the woman? Or if the other rooms held sleeping guards with rifles for bedmates? That thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until just that moment.

Thomas stepped to the first door and leaned as close as he dared. A few seconds passed before he stepped back and shook his head. He did this again at the second, then moved to the third. After barely a heartbeat, his hand moved to a pocket where he retrieved a fountain pen—thefountain pen Arty had given us back in Paris during our pre-mission brief. He twisted the top and a very determined needle snaked out through the golden nib.

I blinked a few times, then looked up. Thomas was staring at me.

He held up three fingers.

Then dropped one.

Then the other.

His hand lowered to the doorknob.

Slowly . . . so slowly . . . he turned.

It didn’t protest or squeak. It just turned.

He pushed.

The door slid open silently on well-oiled hinges, thank the gods of ancient metalwork. From what I could see through the widening crack of the doorframe, the bedroom was blanketed in utter darkness. No moonlight spilled in from the window. No lamplight illuminated the bed. I couldn’t see a thing through the gloom, which was a blessing—and a curse.

He stepped inside.

One foot.

The next.

Another step.

And the woman—the housekeeper we’d met in the kitchen—screamed.

43

Thomas

ImovedbeforeIcouldthink.

One second, I was standing in the doorway, gradually edging the door open. The next, whoever was in the bed bolted upright and screamed.

It only took three strides to cross the room.

One hand clamped over the wailing woman’s mouth, while the other held her in place, trapped beneath a tangle of sheets and blankets. Will was by my side, helping to hold her down, before I could turn and speak.

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