Nicolas locked me in. He snuck up the stairs and locked me in and then left.
I want to tell myself I am being ridiculous, imagining myself in one of my own adventure novels. But the fact that I write such adventures allows me the advantage of seeing through machinations in the plot.
He does not believe in my “prophecy,” but I wouldn’t let the matter drop, so he promised to stay away from the spot. When that wasn’t enough, he agreed—far too easily—to allow me to accompany him.
I should have seen through that in a blink, but I’d been too relieved to examine it more closely. I only cared that he wasn’t arguing. I only cared that I could help him.
Yes, you may come, child. Oh, but you must change first. Quickly. I cannot wait longer than fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes? Ha! I did not need so long at all. That’s what I thought, rather than wondering why he was being so generous with the schedule.
Because he wanted time to escape. To lock me in a room and ensure that, by the time I realized I was trapped, he’d be long gone.
Well, Dr. Dupuis, let us see about that.
I yank off my cap and pull out a hairpin. Within moments, the door is open. I step out and slide on something on the floor. When I look down, I see the key.
The key is on the floor. Just outside the room.
Because Nicolas left it there, where I’d eventually find it, snag it and get free. He didn’t mean to trap me forever. Just long enough for him to escape.
I slap my cap back in place and adjust it as I stride out the door. Also, may I just say how much easier “striding” is in trousers? In my mind, I’m often marching with purpose, but when one is wearing five layers of floor-length skirts, striding is primarily a state of mind. Now I can actually walk with purpose, which is fitting, as I have rarely been in a mood to move quite so resolutely.
I am also, let us be honest, in half a mind to run like a mad creature and drag Nicolas from the Reaper’s path, at sword point if necessary. He is walking to his death, and I cannot allow that.
I first saw the echo of his death years ago while accompanying Rosalind and August on a weekend excursion to Thorne Manor. I had been wandering the moors. If one is fond of wandering—as I am—there is no place better to do it. Cutting down empty bridle paths and following sheep across open fields, all the while surrounded by the sort of haunting landscape that inspires the latent poet in my soul. In those wanderings, I met Nicolas Dupuis.
Except I did not meet him at all, did I?
Here’s the quandary I face. I have watched him walk down that road so many times that I feel entitled to think of him as “Nicolas,” which is a shocking familiarity even for one who abhors the stiff formalities of society.
I have seen him on his mission. I have walked alongside him. I have even spoken to him, being glad no one was there to witness it. Pure sentimentality, as he was not even a ghost and able to hear me. Merely an echo of himself, scorched onto that spot, as if the ground itself had been scarred by his untimely demise.
I have seen him. Spoken to him. Researched him. And, yes, I have shed tears for him. I’d hardly be a writer if I did not feel the tragedy of his passing. A dashing young man, dedicated to an idealistic cause, betrayed by his allies, shot in the back by cowards wearing uniforms they did not deserve.
I have the chance to save that man. The chance to avert the hand of fate and fend off the Reaper’s scythe. The chance to protect someone I have come to care about.
Come to care about?
I’ve seen anechoof hisdeath. I do not know him at all. It’s a very pretty story, but stories like his rarely have more than a drop of truth in them. I have been well aware that, in real life, that man whose death I grieve could be a scoundrel and a thief. A proper pirate, which is a far cry from those I romanticize in my books.
I do not know the real Nicolas Dupuis. I never even knew his name. If he is so determined to die, what is that to me?
I could tell myself that... if he had not already shown himself to be exactly what I imagined. Idealistic. Passionate about his cause. A man who does good with his life and is about to be murdered for it, and I cannot allow that. I will not.
I do not catch up to Nicolas quickly, but I have time. It is a five-mile walk, and I am able to move briskly in trousers. The boots are another matter. The ones I found seem to belong to a boy—William’s father, perhaps? They are still a little large, and so I have doubled up the stockings, which seems to help with any chafing. It does mean that my feet grow very warm, very quickly. By the time I’m closing in on Hood’s Lane, my poor soles are screaming for respite. I only pick up my pace, as if to show them that such complaining will not be tolerated.
When I first set out, I told myself I had time because it was still daylight, and I know Nicolas is ambushed walking down a dark road. Yet I have only gone a couple of miles when I realize the sun is sinking behind the cloud cover. Also, those clouds grow steadily darker themselves, and the air crackles from an impending storm.
By the time I reach Hood’s Lane, I am squinting to see my surroundings through the gloom and holding tight to my cap, lest it fly off in the gathering wind. I finally make out the signpost ahead. It’s a decrepit stick of a thing, suitable for a rather decrepit country lane. It does not, of course, say Hood’s Lane. That will come later, after this eighteenth-century Robin Hood dies here. But, if I have anything to say about it, it will never bear that moniker.
A tiny voice inside me whispers that I should have seen Nicolas by now. I know this route well, and I have walked as quickly as one can walk for five miles straight. Surely, he would not be traveling at the same pace.
No, but he is taller than me, with longer legs. He also had a head start.
What if I am too late? What if he already lies dead? What if—?
Enough of that. Just move, Miranda.Move.