“There is me,” he said. “Use me to get where you must.”
And I did. Even now I cannot bear to think of the exquisite pain he must have endured as I climbed with his help, moving ever higher, perched precariously above the stone floor of the warehouse. Eddy watched us from below, eyes fixed upon our slow and steady ascent.
We progressed in this fashion, Stoker using himself as a human bulwark, until we neared the window and I no longer looked down, preferring instead to keep my eyes on the goal, the small clerestory window above us. Just then I realized our efforts would be for naught. A narrow beam ran from the wall just under the window, an ideal means of approach. But the window was set a good seven feet above the beam, tantalizingly, heartbreakingly out of reach.
“It is too high,” I told him. “I cannot reach it.”
“I have a plan for that,” he assured me.
Stoker edged himself out onto the beam, his feet placed just so, his legs taut with effort. He stretched out a hand. “Come on, then.”
“I haven’t room to pass you,” I said.
“I will take care of that,” he promised. I edged out to meet him. I have a good head for heights—butterflying demands the occasional foray onto rocky outcropping or jungle cliff—but that was a singularly unnerving experience. We were perhaps thirty feet above the stone floor, our lives suspended by a beam no larger than the span of Stoker’s palm. He knelt as I approached and braced his hands.
“Onto my back,” he ordered. “It is the only way to reach the window.”
I did not hesitate. I did as he instructed, climbing carefully onto his back, wrapping my legs about his waist and grasping his shoulders with both hands. He paused, letting my weight settle onto him, then began to rise, pushing through his thighs to lift us both into the air.
For just a moment, I had the most curious sensation of flight, like a butterfly raising itself upon the wind for the first time. I had no connection to the earth except through him; he was an extension of me, and my life was wholly in his hands.
I stretched out my arms and grasped the edge of the window. Stoker was standing, but I was still not quite able to shift myself all the way out of the aperture. Slowly, and with infinite, sweat-inducing care, I climbed him, moving my weight from his back to his shoulders, placing my hands on the window glass, pushing it open. I felt his palms beneath my feet, as solid as the earth below, and then he gave one fluid shove and I was up and out, through the window and perched on the roof.
I paused only long enough to catch my breath before maneuvering around to look back. Stoker was already halfway down again, swarming with the agility of a jungle creature. He positioned himself as before and instructed Eddy how to begin. Their progress was slow, achingly so, and every second that passed felt an eternity, perched as I was on the roof.
Eddy faltered halfway up and Stoker half pushed, half hauled him onto the beam. What followed was one of the most harrowing experiences of my life: the heir to the throne dangling a heart-stopping distance from the stone floor, dependent completely upon us for his safety. Stoker swore with a new vigor as Eddy climbed his back for the last part of the endeavor.
“I am sorry,” Eddy muttered as he reached up to grasp my hands. I leaned back, bracing my feet on a handy ledge and pushing through my legs to pull him free. He came out with a pop like a champagne cork, bouncing onto the roof with a gasp of surprise.
Below, I heard a muted roar, and I peered through the window, expecting to see Stoker still on the beam, but it was empty. Entirely and heartbreakingly empty.
CHAPTER
18
My God!” Eddy exclaimed. “Stoker!”
I shushed him ruthlessly. “We must not draw attention to ourselves,” I reminded him. “Look there!”
I spied Stoker’s hands, wrapped around the beam. I peered into the gloom and saw him, hanging underneath, supported only by his bruised wrists. I said nothing else and I gripped Eddy’s hands, warning him to silence. Stoker could afford no distraction.
Using his body weight, he began to swing, gathering momentum until he was able to fling himself onto the beam. It was a maneuver that would have come easily to one of the great apes, but I had not realized Stoker’s talent for brachiation. He looked supple and athletic as a monkey as he swung—or at least he might have if it were not for the soreness of his ribs. At the last moment, one of them must have taken him by surprise, robbing him of breath and momentum just as he swung up onto the beam. He flew too far, launching over the beam and almost down again, catching himself by one arm and one leg. By sheer force of will he corrected his position, regaining the beam and lying flat, heaving hard. He looked up and saw me then and grinned, giving me a brisk nod.
“Thank God,” Eddy whispered from behind my shoulder. He waved at Stoker. “I say,” he called in an exaggerated whisper, “how precisely do you mean to get from there to here?”
“Give me one minute,” I said to him. I motioned for Stoker to wait quietly, which he seemed perfectly content to do, as it provided him a chance to catch his breath and compose his nerve for the last ascent.
I turned to take stock of our surroundings as I tied on my slippers. The roof was rather flat, for which I was entirely grateful, and edged with a small parapet. A hasty survey revealed a cache of building supplies, among them a rope.
I handed one end to Eddy. “Make this fast around that chimney stack with one of your sailor’s knots,” I instructed. He seemed grateful to have a task and he moved swiftly to obey, whisking the rope through a series of intricate maneuvers until it was secure. Upon further direction, he made a series of simple knots along its length and I dropped it through the window, dangling it in front of Stoker. He grasped it and looked up, his expression thoughtful.
“I said earlier that we would solve the problem of my fitting through the window when the time presented itself. I believe that time is now,” he observed. But I had already considered the predicament and developed a solution.
“Look away,” I instructed both of them. I took up a broken brick, and—wrapping my hand in the edge of my tunic’s overskirt—I used it to shatter the other pane of the clerestory. The dividing lead was rusted nearly through and a smart tap with the piece of brick brought it clattering down.
“If you would care to make a little more noise, I think perhaps the folk down in Gravesend haven’t quite heard you,” Stoker said politely.
“Save your breath to cool your porridge,” I ordered. I was nearly giddy with relief that we had a plan, and one that would work.
But I exulted too soon. Perhaps the sound of breaking glass had alerted them, or perhaps it was simply very bad timing, but just then the door below bounced back on its hinges and Quiet Dan and his fellow villain appeared. The smaller wretch took out a pistol and fired wildly, the bullet chipping a bit of the beam near Stoker’s foot. He did not tarry after that. He swarmed up the rope, swift as a gibbon, thrusting his torso through the window just as another shot went wide.