Page 24 of The Last Crimes of Peregrine Hind
Walking away from the man who was going to kill him was like being pressed with stones. Sandy could barely breathe as he did it, and each breath hurt something deep inside his chest as he dragged it in and then released it. He struggled to keep his inhales and exhales quiet as he crept to the corridor that led to the former monks’ cells. Peregrine’s was easy to find—it had only the essential things inside it, while the others were piled with finery and spoils. Sandy slipped inside.
He had grown up in this corner of Devonshire and knew quite well how forbidding any flight through it would be, which is why he didn’t feel too guilty for taking Peregrine’s extra pair of boots and a thick coat. From the sanctuary, he also took a small satchel with a flagon of water and some bread, a tinderbox, and then a wide-brimmed hat which looked like a relic from the Civil War.
Sandy considered stealing a horse, but the moment he approached the stables, there was a good deal of snorting and stomping and neighing, and he had the sudden terror the noise would wake Peregrine and scuttle his escape before he’d gotten to the lane leading out from the priory.
After taking an unlit torch from just inside the stable entrance, he backed away from the stables and then walked as quietly as he could through the dark yard to the lane. The moon was close to full, but clouds drifted over it now and again, and the world was reduced to rivers and pools of shadow. But Sandy wouldn’t light the torch until he was very far from the priory, not if he could help it.
He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting Peregrine to be charging behind him on one of those noisy horses Sandy had been too timid to steal, but he never was. No one else was on the lane either, and when the lane joined to a slightly wider road, Sandy still had the route to himself—along with the occasional wild pony grazing nearby, which shuffled off whenever he got close.
Sandy breathed with relief as he turned onto the main thoroughfare, which was unoccupied but perhaps riskier, given its more exposed vantages. But it had the important benefit of being somewhat familiar. If that was the bridge he thought it was . . . and yes, if that was his favorite stone circle poking its teeth up into the moonlit sky . . . then he knew where he was. More importantly, he was perhaps only a few hours’ hard walking from Far Hope. From safety.
So why didn’t he feel relieved?
Because you’re not there yet, Sandy told himself firmly. It couldn’t be because he was regretting his flight away from Peregrine. It couldn’t be because he missed Peregrine and being Peregrine’s captive plaything. Sandy had grown up at Far Hope; he was a fully initiated citizen of the Second Kingdom, and he knew the difference between playing and real life.
He and Peregrine hadn’t been playing a game of captivity. It had been real.
Unfortunately, everything else had been real too.
Ignoring the unhappiness that built and built inside him like a wave refusing to crest, Sandy marched on, trotting as fast as he could through the more visible areas of the road, going carefully through the hills and shadowy combes. By his reckoning, Peregrine’s friends would be hunting Judith’s coach some miles east of here, but he still couldn’t take the chance of being found. And it was hardly like Peregrine Hind and his gang were the only thieves in Devonshire. While these moors were too remote and poorly traveled to attract the notice of most robbers, who could ever be sure? There was no point in escaping Peregrine only to die at the hands of someone else—someone who wouldn’t even have moonlight eyes to soothe the unpleasantness of being murdered.
Ignoring the ache in his feet and the chill in his fingers, Sandy pressed on as fast as he could.
He thought he might only be an hour away from Far Hope when he heard it.
Thunder. Thunder when he could look up and see the moon through the thin clouds, and the stars between them.
Someone was on the road and traveling fast.
Sandy reacted as quickly as he could, darting past a boulder and ducking, praying that the shadows would hide him, praying that it was only an ordinary traveler cantering down the road.
But of course, it was no ordinary traveler. When Sandy dared a peep over the edge of the boulder, he saw the huge black horse and the tall frame of Peregrine Hind. He had dropped down as quickly as he could, but when he heard the horse slowing as it approached, he knew he’d been sighted.
Peregrine had found him.
With a bolt of panic, Sandy surged to his feet and attempted to plunge into the murky cut of a nearby brook, but it was no use. A cold hand clamped around his wrist and yanked him back, and then Sandy was pulled into a hard body, a hand coming tight on his jaw to tilt Sandy’s face up to his pursuer’s. The hat toppled off his head and fell behind him and was immediately forgotten.
“You can get on the horse willingly,” Peregrine said, his voice shaking a little. “Or I can throw you over the saddle and walk you back. Which do you prefer?”
The moonlight was coming from behind Peregrine, and so Sandy couldn’t read his expression, or even his eyes, which were no more than glimmers in the dark. But he could sense an implacable fury rolling off the highwayman in waves; he could hear the dangerous tremble in Peregrine’s voice.
Sandy tried to think like he was playing a game of cards, like he was examining his own hand and reading the tells of the other players at the table. Except in this case, he couldn’t bow out of a game gracefully if his cards were too poor to play. He could only keep betting and bluffing.
Or he could cheat.
Yes. He could cheat.
Sandy pulled away and started walking toward the horse, waiting by the saddle as Peregrine followed and gave him a look full of things Sandy couldn’t properly parse. It was too dark. Peregrine mounted the horse easily, and then just as easily helped Sandy up behind him, settling Sandy onto the horse’s back behind the saddle.
Peregrine turned his head and commanded, “Hold on,” and then after Sandy slid his hands around Peregrine’s waist, Peregrine urged the horse into a careful walk.
Sandy was already trying to decide how he’d cheat his way to freedom. Would he act contrite and attempt to elicit arousal or pity? Was he strong enough to hurt Peregrine or push him off the horse? Could he find a way to send word to Reginald once he got back to the priory—or maybe make sure the messenger got a forged note, telling Reginald that the exchange was no longer happening?
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the clapper bridge until they were clattering over it. A bridge that was very decidedly not on the way to the hideout.
“Wait,” Sandy said after a moment. “We’re not going back to the priory.”
“Not tonight,” Peregrine said. “A storm is moving in. It’ll catch us before we make it back.”
