I reach the signpost and peer down the long road. There is no sign of Nicolas, but I am not certain I would see him in this gloom. Brambles and gorse bushes line the lane, adding to the darkness and isolation. Anything could happen along such a road at night.
One thing I can see clearly is the road itself. The weather has obviously been dry and dusty, the earth in need of that coming storm. The lane unspools like a pale ribbon through the moor, and it is clear all the way to the rise farther down, which is beyond the point where Nicolas met his end. If I do not see his body, then he is not dead.
He has gone another way. He may not have believed me, but he was cautious enough not to tempt fate, as he said.
I stand at the mouth of the road, still peering down it, catching my breath and letting the sharp wind cool me.
The crisis has been averted.
What next?
Well, first, I’ll want to rest, take off these boots and stretch my feet. Then I suppose it’s back to Thorne Manor before this storm hits. Back to Thorne Manor and through the time stitch. My work here is done.
I tilt my head, considering that. I arrived in exactly the nick of time to save, well, Nick. Nico. Nicolas. I am not certain I believe in Fate. Yet this is more than mere coincidence. Some power conspired to put me here at this time, in this place, which is a truly wondrous thing and—
Thunder cracks, making me jump. Lightning flashes over a distant field, and for one moment, it is daylight again. In that moment, a figure crests the hill down the lane. A figure with a sword at this side and a rucksack over his shoulder. It’s Nicolas. Walking the wrong way. Comingtowardme.
I stare, certain I am mistaken. Then I remember how he said he was meeting his compatriot at a crossroads and, after my warning, he would take the other road to get there. He’s circled around and come the other way, and now he’s heading for that intersection, within sight of anyone lying in wait.
There’s no one at the crossroads. Nicolas slows, as if that is not what he expects. After all, he’s late, isn’t he? First, I delayed him, and then he circled to come in another way. His compatriot should be there, waiting, and he’s not.
Because it’s a trap, Nicolas. You see that, do you not?
I don’t stand there, gawping down the lane. I move quickly, ignoring my sore feet.
Look, there is a young lad strolling down the road. We cannot ambush young Dupuis in full sight of witnesses.
Nicolas doesn’t see me. He’s stopped in the intersection, peering down the other road, first one way and then the other. Thunder cracks again. Nicolas tugs out his pocket watch and shakes his head.
He does not see a trap. He sees only a missed connection. Has the other man left? Or has he not yet arrived?
I pick up my pace. Something moves ahead. Bramble bushes rustle at the roadside. Nicolas doesn’t hear it. He’s squinting back down the way he came.
Two uniformed figures step from the shadows.
I open my mouth to scream a warning when something moves in the hedge to my left. A figure steps out, a long-barreled musket in hand.
The assassin. Nicolas’s killer... exactly where I’d seen him in the echo, a shadowy figure emerging from the bushes behind the young pirate, gun rising to shoot him in the back.
Only that gun isn’t aimed at Nicolas. It’s aimed at me.
4
Icannot see my attacker’s face. I see only a slight figure, swathed in shadow, just as it is in the echo vision. The gun barrel rises. Rises straight at me.
I let out a yelp and start to run. My foot twists, and I stumble just as the gun fires with a deafening blast. White-hot pellets strike my arm, still raised as I fall.
A snarled shout erupts down the lane.
From where Nicolas is.
I have failed. All this, and I still failed to help him, and now someone has shot at me.
Someone isstillshooting at me. As I scramble to my feet, the musket muzzle rises, reloaded and ready to fire again.
I run for the bushes. At the last second, I remember they are brambles. I don’t care. Cannot care. I close my eyes, and I dive into them as the gun fires again. Then I am scrabbling through the thick, thorny brush.
Another shot fires. The pellets scorch past, hitting just enough to light my thigh afire. I keep going until I’m on the other side of the bushes. A dark and open field ahead calls, shouting for me to run, just run.