London Below, Friday Evening
They're behind her, and it's been four days of this. Five? She's lost track. Run, hide, try not to squeak at every sound, every footfall. She opens every door she passes and a few that aren't there at all, tries to make each lead just a little bit further away, and yet... they always seem to find her. Bright-eyed, ginger-bristled Croup and quiet, lurching Vandemar.
This morning their hired knife-hand had crept upon her while she tried to sleep, and... there's blood, as there was in the dream. Some of it's hers, from the wound on her arm and the scratches where she's fallen against rough brick as she ran. Some of it's hers because it was there to meet her when she opened the door in the center of his chest and his heart fell out in her hand.
They've found her, and the last turn she made was the wrong one. Flat up against a cold brick wall, her face pressed to it, her breath ripping itself from her lungs. It hurts, as it all hurts except the bits that she can't seem to feel anymore. Door's so tired of this, so... tired.
"Oh, bless my little black soul, Mister Vandemar, do you see what I see? I spy with my little eye, something that's going to be--"
There, over her shoulder.
"Dead in a minute, Mister Croup."
Not. That. Tired.
Temple and Arch. If it's the last door I open. Somewhere, anywhere *safe*.
...Somebody.
The hand that still has feeling in it pressed against the brick, she opens a door.
_
[Dialogue and the basic plot of the scene taken directly from the novel, though the narrative is re-phrased.]
This morning their hired knife-hand had crept upon her while she tried to sleep, and... there's blood, as there was in the dream. Some of it's hers, from the wound on her arm and the scratches where she's fallen against rough brick as she ran. Some of it's hers because it was there to meet her when she opened the door in the center of his chest and his heart fell out in her hand.
They've found her, and the last turn she made was the wrong one. Flat up against a cold brick wall, her face pressed to it, her breath ripping itself from her lungs. It hurts, as it all hurts except the bits that she can't seem to feel anymore. Door's so tired of this, so... tired.
"Oh, bless my little black soul, Mister Vandemar, do you see what I see? I spy with my little eye, something that's going to be--"
There, over her shoulder.
"Dead in a minute, Mister Croup."
Not. That. Tired.
Temple and Arch. If it's the last door I open. Somewhere, anywhere *safe*.
...Somebody.
The hand that still has feeling in it pressed against the brick, she opens a door.
_
[Dialogue and the basic plot of the scene taken directly from the novel, though the narrative is re-phrased.]