Page 80 of A Resistance of Witches

“You asked me to leave.”

“I know I did.”

The silence filled the tiny room, the space between them seeming to grow wider until it was an uncrossable canyon.

“Claire. Please look at me.”

She did.

“Do you believe me?”

Claire took a breath. “Yes. I believe you.”

And in that moment, Rebecca knew with complete certainty that Claire did not believe her. Not at all.

“Good.” Rebecca was careful to keep her voice even. “Thank you.”

“You should go back to bed,” Claire said.

“You’re right.” Rebecca turned toward the door. Then, as casually as she could manage, she said, “What about my friend?”

Claire didn’t look at her. “We’ll take care of him.”

There it was again, the buzzing amphetamine clarity that had been her survival for so long. She didn’t feel afraid—not yet. Only a single-minded focus.Get Henry. Get out.

“Right. Well then, I should get some sleep.”

Claire nodded.

Rebecca looked at Claire’s face, the lines harder than she’d remembered from strain and hunger, and suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to touch her again. Even though she knew it wouldn’t change anything. Rebecca closed the space between them and stood in front of her, so close she could feel the warmth from her body and smell the faint, familiar scent of her skin. She leaned in and grazed her lips against Claire’s, and after a moment, Claire kissed her back—hesitantly at first, then easing into something softer, more tender. Time stretched, and the kiss deepened, turning to something sad and hungry. Something that felt like goodbye. Rebecca wanted to stay in that moment, drag her lips across every inch of Claire’s skin, memorize her body so she could take it with her. Claire gasped against Rebecca’s mouth, a sob caught just in the back of her throat. Then she pulled away, so fast it left Rebecca reeling, eyes down, her bruised lips hidden behind her fingertips.

“Good night, Rebecca.”

Rebecca nodded, shaken and heartsick. Her mouth tasted like salt water. “Good night, Claire.”

She walked out of the pantry and through the kitchen, passing the two maquisards smoking on the stairs, and returned to the empty bedroom. Now, finally, she felt it—fear, vibrating under her skin. She shook her head, trying to bring back that clarity that had saved her life so many times before.

Fear makes you stupid, she told herself.Stupid people die.

Rebecca picked up the coat from the chair where she had abandonedit a few minutes before. She put it on, every nerve in her body buzzing like a wire.

She stood by the window, peering out into the darkness. Behind the house, just beyond the frostbitten vegetable garden, was a shed, and inside the shed, she could see the yellow glow of a single lamp. Henry was nowhere to be seen, but Rebecca could make out Roger’s stooped shape silhouetted in the doorway, smoking a cigarette in the cold.

There was a knife on one of the bedside tables, lying next to a half-eaten apple. She picked it up and slipped it into her coat pocket. After a moment, Roger disappeared back inside the shed.

Rebecca threw open the window as a rush of freezing air swept across her face like needles. Moving fast before she lost her nerve, she straddled the windowsill, one leg inside the room, the other dangling in the open air. To the left of the window was a thick, woody vine, now stripped bare of its leaves by the cold. Rebecca gave it a tug and found that it held firmly to the stone wall. She grabbed hold of the vine with her good arm and began to climb down.

Right away, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. Fear had made her forget the pain in her shoulder, but now it erupted to the surface with a new urgency. She tried to fight through it, but she was still weak, and her stitches strained with every movement. She hung on for one final moment, gritting her teeth against the pain, then lost her purchase and fell. The air left her lungs all at once as she hit the ground, and she lay there for several agonizing seconds, willing herself to breathe.

She raised herself up carefully and took stock. Her wrist was tender, and she had torn her stitches, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. She got to her feet and made her way slowly to the shed, remembering to pull the leaves from her hair just before she stepped through the door.

Stay sharp, she told herself.Stay alive.

Henry was there, clutching his pack like a life raft. Roger looked up from his cigarette as she walked in.

“The hell do you want?”

She nodded toward Henry. “Claire wants to talk to him.”

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