Chapter Eight
The shift in awareness came quickly.
Vivienne’s knife was in her hand before she thought to seize it. Blood beginning to pump, heart beating furiously in her chest, she closed her mouth and forced herself to breathe through her nose. She must stay calm. Vigilant. Determine whether the threat was in the hall or outside the window.
Vivienne put her mouth to Anne’s ear, ignoring the tickle of hair on her nose. “They have come,” she breathed.
The girl stiffened, muscles tensing, though she could not know who they were. Terror radiated from her so vividly, so sharply, Vivienne could almost smell it—but Anne did not move.
Good girl.
Vivienne waited for the next sound. Which direction would they come from? She could not move until she knew. Sweat slicked her palm so the hilt of the knife slid against her skin.
Now fear clutched in her own belly. She did not sweat. It was not tolerated. Sweat and terror would make her knife inaccurate.
Another sound met her ears. A scrape. Perhaps a branch on the window. Or perhaps not. There was no tree, and so no branch could scrape.
They were coming in through the window, then.
Again into Anne’s ear she whispered. “When I say so, run into the hall. Hide behind the secret wall in the linen closet downstairs. Take the footman and Mrs. Asher with you.” Mrs. Asher would know to go straight to the closet and to take Anne. They would be safe.
Anne shook her head, and Vivienne heard her breath tumbling in and out in a mad rush.
“You must hide.” Vivienne clutched at her sister’s arm, pressing her fingers into young skin to make her point. Hide! She wanted to scream it, but could not. “Do not come out until I let you out, or until morning, then run far and fast and do not return to England.” It was the best she could do.
There was no time for a proper good-bye.
Swallowing her sorrow, Vivienne rose to a crouch, balancing on the balls of her feet. She took a second knife from her boot. One knife for each hand, hilts solid in her curled fingers. Comforting, even.
She would not be alone when she faced the intruders. She would have her knives.
Vivienne studied the window, the outline of the drapes. The fabric would move, ever so slightly, once they entered. There had not been any movement yet. She had another moment, then, to gather herself for the battle. To center and quiet the mind, to control breath and push away fear and sorrow.
She turned her head to look at Anne and saw the girl’s eyes were wide and petrified. Anne tried to smile bravely, but her smile wobbled and tore at Vivienne’s heart.
She would carry that valiant, trembling smile with her. Always.
“Go.”
Anne’s thin, taut body sprang up, as an arrow might be loosed from a bow. She wrenched the bedroom door open and slipped through, the hem of her nightgown a whisper in the night as it disappeared from view. The candle sputtered in the draft from the door, then was extinguished, leaving a thin trail of smoke.
Vivienne spun on the balls of her feet and set her back to the door, arms raised. There was no light to glint on the blades of her knives. No movement in the air. But she felt the intruders. In the dark. In the night. The drapes had moved while her back was turned, and she had not seen. They were in the room.
The shadow sprang at her.
Her breath stopped. Turning to the side, she shot a leg out, up and high. It connected with the column of a neck. Someone else’s breath wheezed out. She ignored the sound and took satisfaction in the feel of flesh against her booted foot.
Vivienne arced her knife into the air. The man jumped back, but another was in his place. The whisper of a blade slid through the air, perilously close to her side. She did not hesitate. A thrust, a parried slice. Neither made contact, so she leaped forward.
Even as her blade slashed through fabric and skin, air rushed in her ears as the other man sprinted past her. Out the door. To the hall. To Anne. Vivienne spun, flailing outward with her knife, but it was too late.
The man was through the door and away.
With a howl of rage, Vivienne sprang toward the hall. A foot rammed into her back. She slammed into the floor and skidded through the bedroom door. Pain rode up and down her spine, but she pushed to her knees.
She was too slow, too clumsy.
Anne. She must protect Anne.
A shout rang in the hall. “Oi! Who is it?” It must be Thomas, the footman, but he was lame. He could not run well and would not be of use against these men.
On her feet now, pounding down the hall. An enemy in front, another behind who was not fast enough to stop her from finding the servants’ stairs. They were narrow and steep, but she plunged down them as fast as her legs would allow, bouncing off the plastered wall.
A scream came from below. Vivienne recognized Anne’s voice and needed nothing more to spur her forward. Her stomach heaved and pitched, and her breath would not become steady in her lungs.
Jumping the last few steps, she landed in the hall of the first floor. Here, light flickered from a candelabrum lying on the floor, a few scattered candles still burning. She sped down the hall at a full run. Mrs. Asher slumped on the floor, hands clutching at a forehead trickling blood.
The first intruder, tall and wide and muscular, had his arms around Anne in a great, farcical hug. The girl bucked and kicked her feet, but she was no match for him. Vivienne heard Anne’s whimper, the male grunt.
Not Anne. You will not take my Anne.
No time for hesitation, but he was too close to Anne. In the dark she could not separate their shadows enough for the thin blade of a knife—but she could see which part of the shadow was the man. Vivienne kicked out, foot connecting with his kidney. He staggered, and Anne broke free.
Henri’s voice was loud in her memory. When the enemy is down, a spy pounces or risks losing the advantage. Advantage means life. Her foot lashed out again, and she heard ribs crack.
“The closet,” Vivienne called to Anne.
Again her sister did not listen. She dropped to her knees beside Mrs. Asher, sobs bursting from her throat.
“Hide!” Vivienne shouted, leaning down to pull Anne to her feet.
Pain exploded in her head.
Suddenly the world consisted of throbbing agony, spinning stars, and tumbling hair as the neat coil at her nape came apart. The floor rose up to meet her. More pain burst into life in her knees and wrists as she fell. A sharp cry grew in her throat, and she could not keep from giving it voice.
She would not fail.
She could not see properly to throw her knife. Her vision was blurry, but she could see well enough to launch herself at the man who stepped past her toward Anne. More pain in her shoulder as they tumbled to the ground. Dimly she heard Anne’s cry for help as the other man lifted her into the air and began to run toward the front of the house.
The footman’s lurching footsteps came from the other end of the hall. It was too late for his help. Vivienne’s knife thrust in and out of flesh. Again. She could not think of the life taken. There was only Anne and her mewling cries growing fainter as she was carried away.
Vivienne did not look at the intruder whose life was spilling onto the hallway floor, but pushed to her feet, panic roiling inside her.
“Here, Miss Vivienne.” The footman huffed, thrusting a pistol at her. She fumbled with it, unwilling to take even a moment to shove it in her waistband.
Mrs. Asher was on her hands and knees now. Blood matted her hairline, but she was lucid, her breath wheezing out a whispered, “Anne.”
She would heal, Vivienne thought, letting that small relief fill her as she spun away.
“Into the closet,” she shouted to the footman as she raced down the hall. “Take Mrs. Asher. Do not come out until I return or until morning.”
“Aye,” he returned.
If she was fast, she could still reach Anne. Head hammering in tandem with her footsteps, she concentrated on the open front door and steps beyond. On the cobblestone street and the London night.
It was deserted.
They were gone.