Page 108 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Time suspended.
Wide-eyed, she took in the counter that ran across the room. Standing before it, to the right, the lady was chatting with one of the telegraph staff. The little girl was leaning against her mother’s legs, clutching her doll to her chest.
The girl’s eyes were fixed on Duvall, who had apparently sent the other telegraph assistant to fetch something while he bent down and held the burning tip of his cheroot to the end of a short piece of fuse dangling from the top of the briefcase.
The fuse fizzed to life.
Duvall straightened and walked toward the exit, which lay beyond Izzy.
He neared, but she’d lost all interest in him. With a whispered “No,” she dashed around him.
Behind her, Gray called her name, then said, “Oh no, you don’t.”
She swooped on the case, hefted it in her arms, and whirled to see Gray grappling with Duvall.
The woman seized the little girl and, horrified, backed away along the counter.
The assistants were yelling, but Izzy barely heard them.
Outside, outside! Get it outside!
The case in her arms, she raced for the door.
Before she reached the vestibule, the door burst open. She skidded to a halt against the wall beside the vestibule’s archway as Baines and Littlejohn thundered past.
The instant her way was clear, she bolted for the open door, through the doorway, and onto the short path before the station’s door.
Directly before her stood Hennessy, alongside Donaldson, who was already under his camera’s hood with Digby beside him.
She spun away, saw the path leading around the side of the station, and took it.
She rounded the corner of the building, ran down its side, and found herself facing steep stone steps leading to the street—the open and deserted street—which lay higher than head height above.
Ignoring her burning lungs, she hauled in a breath, tucked the case awkwardly beneath one arm, seized her skirts with her free hand, and toiled up the steps as fast as she could.
Gray raced out of the station. “Izzy!”
He’d seen her rush out with the case, mere inches of furiously fizzing fuse dangling beside the handle. Desperate, he looked wildly around, saw Hennessy, Donaldson, and Digby gaping at a point to the side of the station, and raced in that direction.
Rounding the corner of the building, he glimpsed Izzy’s dark skirts ahead and redoubled his efforts.
He raced into the rear courtyard, saw the steep steps, and flung himself up them.
Glancing up, he saw Izzy standing by the side of the street, the case clutched against her as she tried—vainly—to pinch out the fuse with her gloved fingers.
He leapt up the last steps, seized the case, hefted it like a discus, and flung it high—over the road toward the treed bank on the other side.
“Get down!” He flung himself at her. She dropped to her knees and hunched over, and he draped his body over hers.
The briefcase exploded.
High above the road.
The detonation was as percussive as any bomb, but the force of the blast went upward and outward, and only a rush of displaced air washed over them, raking at his hair and tugging at her skirts.
Smothered by Gray’s solid bulk, Izzy could barely breathe. Her ears rang, but regardless, she wouldn’t have heard anything over the still-frantic pounding of her heart.
In the split second during which she’d realized the fuse had burned too far into the case for her to snuff it out, she’d stared death in the face.
