“They said I couldn’t see you again.”
“Who? Who said, Fin?”
“Sister Hilde.” Mr. Hickory was standing nearby, watching, with a worried look on his face. Fin was sobbing. “I left, Peter! I left.”
“Left? Left the orphanage?” he asked.
“I can’t go back, I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Fin, listen, you have to go back. You can’t stay here. Just go back and apologize. Sister Carmaline won’t let Hilde turn you out.”
Fin looked at him, unable to believe what he was saying. “I can’t go back Peter, I can’t.”
“Fin, you have to. Remember our plans? We just have to wait a little longer.”
“I can’t go back, Peter.”
“Fin—” he said, imploring her to go back.
Fin pulled herself to her feet. “I won’t. I can’t. Peter, please!”
Peter cast a look at Mr. Hickory. When he turned back he lowered his head close to hers and spoke softly into her ear. “Fin, we talked about this. Wait a while longer.”
Fin pushed herself away from him and ran. Peter had betrayed her. Peter wanted her back at the orphanage, behind the walls, locked up and looked after. Peter didn’t understand. She ran from him, from all of it, into the woods. Away from people and choices, walls and control. She ran through the trees and brush, briars bit at her legs, tore her clothes, brought bright blood to thatch her shins like ribbons. Roots pulled at her feet and bit into her soles, but she was beyond the pain and ran.
At last, she met the river. She fell on its bank and sobbed into the rolling waters. She was trapped and Peter had turned her away. She hadn’t seen that coming, not Peter. The tears came like a tide and she let herself float away upon them.
Hours later, when the crying had dried, sleep found her and laid her to rest on the muddy bank. She dreamed of her fallen bell tower and in her dream it rose high over the earth, and from her lost corner she saw the sea shining on the horizon like a beacon.
Night came and Fin awoke in its cooling dark. She sat up and felt the sting on her legs where the briars had torn her. She stood and felt a sharp pain in the bottom of her foot. She touched it with her hand and found a deep gash. In her mind, she heard Sister Hilde berating her for going barefoot outside her room and she muttered curses at herself. She winced as she touched the wound.
She limped to the water’s edge and waded into the river to rinse the mud from her clothes. The water was cold and clean. In the moonlight, she could just see the outline of herself in the reflection and it brought back the memory of the day. Running from the orphan house. Peter turning her away. No choice.
Fin washed herself of the muck and spooned a handful of water onto her face. Maybe Peter was right. Hilde couldn’t really keep them apart forever. If Peter could work and sweat day after day for them to be together, was it really so much for her to tolerate Hilde for a few more weeks or months? She couldn’t work with Bartimaeus, but that didn’t mean she’d never see him. Perhaps she was just being foolish.
Fin waded back to the bank and limped her way through the woods toward the road. Her clothes were wet and clinging, and though the night air made her shiver, her head, at least, had cleared. If Peter wanted her to, she’d go back. She’d suffer it for the promise of Peter. Fin thought of the pleased look Sister Hilde would give her when she admitted defeat, and it made her ill. But she would suffer it for Peter.
She fumbled her way through the dark, looking for the road. Almost at once, she felt the cut on the arch of her foot reopen and begin to bleed. Moonlight broke through the treetops here and there, but little of it reached the ground to light her way, and the night had a strange way of elongating distance. A stone’s throw in day felt like a mile alone in the dark, and her aching foot made the crossing no easier. When she reached the road, at last, she breathed easier and wondered if Peter was looking for her—if anyone was. Surely someone would have worried after her by now. As she turned east toward town, she heard footsteps approaching from the west. She strained her eyes in the dark to see who was coming. Peter perhaps, but the darkness was too deep.
“Peter?” she called into the night. There was no answer, just the sound of footsteps coming closer.
“Hello?” she called out again. Her instinct told her to run, but she pushed the feeling down and assured herself she had nothing to fear.
Then something glittered in the dark, a shiny wisp bouncing in the moonlight. Out of the veil of night came two men, dressed in red coats, white trousers, and black tricorne hats. British soldiers. The moonlight glanced off their muskets as they bobbed up and down in the dark.
“You there! Hold!” barked the man on the right. He lowered his musket at Fin and approached her. Fin considered running but her damaged foot wouldn’t allow it. She held her ground and stuck her chin out defiantly.
“What business are you about this hour?” he said. His voice was rough, confident, accustomed to commanding the attention of men and it expected its orders followed. The other soldier leveled his musket at her and peered through the dark, trying to see if she was man or woman, armed or innocent.
“No business but my own,” said Fin.
“What’s this? A girl? After midnight? Stalking out of the woods?” He looked back. His companion shrugged at him. “Speak up! You’re one of those Whigs, I’ll wager, lying in ambush for honest king’s men.”
“I’m headed home. I was sleeping down at the river—”
“All alone, eh? Put up your hands where we can see you aren’t armed,” he ordered.
Fin stood still, defiant, considering it.
“Up!” he barked and jabbed his musket at her. She put her hands up. “Check her,” he said to his companion.
The other man slung his musket over his shoulder and moved toward her. Fin backed away, and he caught her by the wrist and wrenched her around so that her back pressed against him. He ran his hands down her sides and then paused and chuckled. His hands began moving again, but slowly, softly, lingering. Fin tried to wrest herself free, but he jerked her back and held her to him. She felt his breath on her neck.
“We got a fresh one here,” he whispered to his friend. His hands continued their search. Fin closed her eyes and thought of playing the fiddle.
“Tie her,” said the man pointing the musket. He was laughing. She was glad she couldn’t see his face. The man holding her wrapped one arm around her waist and reached with his other for some unseen lashing. Fin took her opening. Speed and surprise. She spun around, freed herself from his arm and struck him in the face. Then she ran. The wound on her foot erupted in a fountain of agony, but she ignored it and flew. Seconds later, she heard the soldier’s labored breathing behind her. His hands snatched at her and caught her by the arm. He flung her to the ground. When she rolled over to kick at him the butt of his musket crashed into her cheek.
Fin woke to the crackle and pop of a campfire. She felt its warmth on the back of her legs and heard voices, the same voices from before. One was low, rough, throaty, the other smooth, metered, and precise. She couldn’t make out words, only tones and mild laughter. Her senses swam in and out of consciousness. Her mouth was gagged with a salty, foul-tasting cloth. She tried to open her eyes and felt a dull ache in her left cheek where the musket had struck her. She couldn’t see out of her left eye; it was swollen shut. Through her right eye she saw that it was still nighttime and she was surrounded by woods.
“Rum’s run dry,” said a voice behind her.
“Good, let me sleep,” said the other.
“Sleep then, you old sot,” the smooth voice said. She heard the hollow clunk of a bottle thrown into the woods. Fin tried moving her arms, but they were tied behind her. She tried moving her feet. They moved freely, unbound. She could run.
“Oy, is our lassie waking up?” Fin froze. She heard a rustle, then footsteps. A boot struck her in the lower back and she cried out.
“She’s awake now.” They both laughed. “What do you say, l
ass? I’ll forgive you for our scuffle, if you forgive me,” said the sharp, calculated voice, dropping to a malicious whisper.
Fin rolled and tried to get to her feet. The soldier standing over her put out his foot and knocked her to the ground like a broken chair. They laughed at her. She fought for her feet again.
“Ha! She’s trying to run home,” he said and kicked her over again. “Oops.”
Fin cried out in frustration and tried to gain her feet once more.
“Oops!” he kicked her to the ground again. The two men burst into laughter. Fin bellowed through the gag in rage. The soldier bent over and grabbed her by the neck, pushed her face into the ground, and whispered in her ear, “That’s the spirit, lass!” She struggled against him, and he drove his knee into her back, knocking the wind from her lungs. “You’ll tell me the name of every Whig in this blight of a town before I’m done with you, lassie. But before we have our little talk, we got to soften you up a bit. Jog the memory so to speak.”
Fin tried screaming, but all she could manage was a muffled moan through the gag. She kicked at him and rocked back and forth, trying to escape his hands. The more she fought, the more he laughed. In her mind, fear mingled with rage and she couldn’t separate the two. No choice, nowhere to run, no one to help, only fear, fury, and, somewhere over the horizon, madness, lurking like a wolf.
“Ho, she’s a live one!” said the rough, low voice. Fin felt the cold line of a knife on her flesh. She kicked and moaned, pulling at the bonds tying her hands. The rope cut into her wrists. She felt the knife bite into her lower back as she struggled, but she didn’t care.
“Damn it, girl! You’ll gut yourself if you don’t mind your squirming,” he spat.
She felt warm trickles of blood running down her side where the knife had pierced her, but still she kept fighting. The man swore and struck her in the temple with his fist. Her vision blurred and her thoughts swam around in her head like fish in the river: near—far—clear—dim.
He threw her over onto her back. She tried to scream at him. Only a ragged moan obeyed. She told her limbs to kick at him, but they didn’t listen. She rolled her head to the side and looked into the fire. She focused on it, stared at it, tried to escape into it in her mind.
Then she saw a figure in the flame, rippling in the air, a man like a storm. He moved like floodwater churning through a gulley. He swirled and flowed out of the fire and raised his arm. She heard voices shouting. The rough-voiced soldier was grabbing his musket. The flowing water-man moved toward him, his hair like the foam of an angry river. A blunt, flared muzzle exploded into the soldier, and a crimson flower bloomed from his back. He staggered backward and collapsed into the fire. The blaze licked around the dying soldier and began to consume him. The watery figure moved closer. His features swirled like the wrinkles of a wave raising up for its plunge to the shore, and she knew him. She barely felt the joy through her pain, but she knew him.
Bartimaeus. He’d come for her.
The soldier that had been on top of her was yelling. Bartimaeus drew a kitchen knife from his coat and slashed at him. The knife painted a gaping red stripe across his face, and the soldier staggered back, screaming. Bartimaeus launched at him again with murder and vengeance to work, but the man turned and fled into the woods.
Bartimaeus knelt to cut Fin’s bonds. His creased face bent and twisted like a squall: now fury, now thunder, now cool, cleansing rain. He pulled the gag from her mouth and she inhaled a precious breath like no other since she’d been born. Then she screamed—no words, no thoughts, just pain and release. Bartimaeus cradled her in his arms and held her like a babe. He too was shaking with tears and rage.
Beside them on the ground, next to the fire, lay the blunderbuss—Betsy. Smoke flitted out of her barrel like breath in winter.
CHAPTER XI
Fin awoke on a bed in the headmistress’s chambers. She was covered with thick woolen blankets and warmed by a fire. Sister Hilde sat stone-faced in the rocking chair near the hearth with her Bible laid open in her lap, reading quietly. From outside the room, Fin heard the warm sounds of children gathering for a meal, small feet stomping on wood, the scraping of chairs on the floor, the voices and sounds of home.
Fin dared not speak. Sister Hilde hadn’t seen she was awake yet. Would Hilde be angry with her? Would she tell her to leave now that she was rousing? Fin was afraid of the answers.
Her entire body ached. The swelling around her eye seemed to have gone down, but her cheekbone throbbed dully. Her temple pounded with each heartbeat.
The soldiers. It came back to her in spurts and explosive images. Running. The butt of a musket. The cold edge of a knife. The fire. Bartimaeus’s eyes as Betsy woke. Oh, Bartimaeus. He’d killed a man. Terrible things. He’d brought back Bart, the man he used to be—and Betsy. He’d lain down. She couldn’t bear it. Twenty years standin’ up, he’d said. Now he’d brought himself low for a foolish girl and her pride.
Oh, Bartimaeus. Did his fiddle hold notes enough to assuage such grief? She couldn’t imagine it did. She couldn’t keep silent any longer and began to cry.
Sister Hilde’s face lifted from her reading. She stood and placed the Bible on the mantle then sat down on the edge of the bed. Fin tried to roll over and turn away, but Hilde pulled her up into an embrace. She held Fin tight and rocked her. Fin looked up. She could hardly believe it. She had never imagined Hilde harbored a thimbleful of caring in her.
“I’m sorry,” cried Fin into Hilde’s bony breast.
“Hush, child,” she whispered.
Their embrace was long and difficult. Years of bitterness had spread a gulf between them too vast to span in so short a time.
Hilde laid Fin back on her pillow and without speaking stood and left the room. Fin tried to remember the last time she’d actually touched Hilde. The only physical contact she’d ever had with the woman had been that of a disciplinary sort. How strange to be caressed by a hand that had only ever brought pain.
Fin heard the door open and the rhythm of quick steps on the wooden floor. Peter ran into the room and straight to the bed. Fin smiled through her aching face at him. He picked her up and kissed her. She didn’t care that it hurt. She’d go through pain a thousand times for such kisses.
“I’m sorry I told you to go back. Me and Bartimaeus were looking for you all night!” He was talking so fast she could barely make out his words.
“You were looking for me?” she asked softly. Peter had been looking for her. Of course he would have been. But knowing it, hearing it out of his own mouth—she needed that. He had looked for her.
“Mr. Hickory said to let you go, said you just needed to cool off. But when I went to see you at dinner they said you hadn’t come back. We spent all night looking. I went door to door through town asking, and Bartimaeus, he searched the woods.” He stopped long enough to kiss her a few more times and Sister Carmaline appeared at the doorway, squinting a big smile at them. “Fin, there was so much blood, I thought you were dead. Bartimaeus came into town carrying you and there was so much blood. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” said Fin, hoping maybe he’d put her down soon. It was really beginning to hurt.
“You won’t be getting out of that bed for a few more days if I have anything to do with it, Miss Button,” cautioned Sister Carmaline.
She heard footsteps coming through the front door again, soft and slow. Bartimaeus slid through the bedroom doorway and worked his creases into a smile. He looked different—was different. Not on the outside, something on the inside had changed. He looked like he had aged years since she’d seen him smile last. Picking up Betsy again had hurt him. She smiled back and said nothing.
“You all get to the table now so I can get Miss Button here some dinner,” he said. Carmaline tugged Peter out of the room. Bartimaeus ducked around the corner and brought back a tray piled high with roasted turkey, okra, potatoes, and peach cobbler. He set it down on the night table and looked at Fin.
&
nbsp; “Can you sit up? Lyin’ down won’t do.”
Fin risked it and pushed herself up against the headboard; it wasn’t pleasant but she managed to make it look painless. Bartimaeus nodded with satisfaction and placed the tray on her lap. She appraised it hungrily while he sat down in the rocking chair next to the fire. She wanted to say something to him, to thank him. But somehow, thanks didn’t seem sufficient. She looked at him, sitting there, smiling at her; she searched for the words to let him know how she felt but when she tried to speak, he stopped her.
“I know, missy. You just eat up now, see here? Old Bartimaeus like to keel over dead the last two days with no help. Got to get you back up and runnin’ around,” he said. Fin smiled at him and dug into her dinner with fury.
The next morning Fin decided that, despite Sister Carmaline’s assurances to the contrary, she was not going to stay in bed any longer. Whether it hurt or not, she was getting up. She swung herself out of bed and groaned as her muscles protested; they were aching and sore. Sharp pains flared in her lower back. Her midriff had a thick bandage wrapped around it to protect the wounds where the knife had cut her. When she stood up, the cut in the arch of her foot throbbed and she shifted her weight quickly to relieve the pain. It hurt, but it wasn’t so bad. She’d be limping for a few days.
She looked around the room for her clothes and failed to find them. Unfortunately, Sister Carmaline had laid out a plain blue dress for her. She scowled at it but was in no mood for stirring up trouble. The least she could do was to put it on. She slipped into it and washed her face in the basin on the night table. Looking up into the mirror was a mistake, though. Fin hardly recognized herself. Her cheek and left eye were a dull, greenish-yellow color; the other side of her face was black and blue from her hairline above her right eye to her ear and down to her jaw. Colorful—but not anything she wanted to get used to. She ran a brush through her hair to give it some semblance of order then went outside.
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