Arabella of Mars(11)

The youthful face in the portrait seemed so gay, so happy, so unconcerned. Arabella was the only one in all the worlds who knew how much danger he was in, and she seemed helpless to prevent it.

Even if she could somehow manage to make her way home before Simon reached London, she could not imagine Mother doing any thing to prevent him from carrying out his plan. So mired in propriety was she that she would never make an accusation, much less take action, against him until it was far too late.

No. It was up to Arabella, and Arabella alone, to prevent Simon from carrying out his dreadful scheme.

Decisively, she snapped the locket shut and looked around, seeking a fresh perspective upon the situation. What, she asked herself, would Khema do if similarly trapped?

The door was blocked and guarded. The rough plaster walls and wooden floor seemed too strong to be defeated without tools. The single window was far too small for escape.

Or was it?

As quietly as she could, Arabella climbed up to it, stepping up the shelves from one side of the tiny pantry to the other. The window was no more than a foot and a half wide and nine inches high; it was not made to open, and its cracked and bubbled glass was too filthy for a clear view to the outside.

But the frame … the frame was old, the paint cracked and peeling. And under the paint … the black of dry-rot.

Bracing herself awkwardly across the topmost shelves, Arabella pried at the splintered, rotted wood with her cuticle-knife. Though splinters abraded her skin and lodged painfully beneath her fingernails, a few bits and slivers came away, revealing still more rot beneath.

With grim determination she kept at her task, sending a shower of wood chips sifting down toward the floor. She worried that Beatrice might hear her, but no protests came from without. Her toes and calves began to ache from holding herself pressed against the ceiling, and the shelf pressed painfully against the backs of her thighs.

And then, suddenly, a large sliver came free all at once and the frame collapsed!

Arabella gasped and pressed the cracked glass, now free, into place before it could fall and shatter, nearly losing her footing on the shelves beneath her in the process.

Once she had caught her breath and stilled her beating heart, she gingerly picked the three large pieces of glass from the ruined frame and set them down upon the top shelf.

The cool air of a summer’s evening came through the opening, its blessed breath drying the perspiration which her efforts had brought to her cheeks and forehead, and for a moment she relaxed. But she was still a long way from escape.

She was, she knew, quite tall and exceptionally straight and slender for a girl of seventeen. How her mother had despaired of her daughter’s figure! “It is all on account of this planet’s inadequate gravity,” she had complained to Father. “It makes children grow up weak and spindly.” But in this case her shape might prove her salvation, for she estimated that she might just be able to squeeze herself through the opening.

But what would she find beyond it?

Cautiously she put her head through the window and looked about. The sun had fully set, but the light of Earth’s enormous moon revealed clearly that the window was only ten feet above the ground. And a large bush lay directly beneath, which would break her fall. She thought she might chance it.

But could she trust her instincts?

The force of Earth’s gravity was greater than that of Mars, as had already been demonstrated to her on numerous painful occasions. A leap which seemed entirely reasonable to her might here be sufficient to break her leg, or her neck.

“For Michael,” she whispered, and touched the locket.

She squirmed about, seeking to maneuver herself into a position whereby she would not plunge headfirst from the window as she exited, but very quickly realized that, while her hips might be able to pass through the opening, her black bombazine mourning dress would not.

She paused, breathing heavily, and considered her options.

Her mother would be appalled. But the night was dark, and her brother’s life was at stake.

How she wished she had her thukhong!

Quickly, but as quietly as possible, she descended to the pantry floor. Removing her dress without assistance in the confined space was maddeningly difficult, but she finally managed it. The shift, petticoat, and stays beneath she left on, to protect her skin from the shattered window frame as well as for modesty; the reticule she tucked securely beneath the stays at the small of her back.

Then, staring up at the moonlight that stole through the window opening, she had an idea. She balled up the dress and tossed it onto the top shelf. Then, hitching her shift and petticoat up to her hips, she climbed back up to the top.

Straightening the dress to its maximum length, she removed one of the upper shelves from its brackets and tied the sleeves firmly about it. The remaining fabric extended less than a yard and a half, but she hoped it would make a difference.

Twisting about until she lay face-down across the remaining shelves, she maneuvered her feet out the window, then her legs, then her hips … her hands clinging to the shelf brackets with desperate strength. Once her hips were clear of the opening—with her knees against the outside wall’s rough plaster, and the cool night air caressing her thighs—she hauled on the black dress, drawing the wooden shelf up to her collarbone.

This was as far as she could go without committing herself to the drop.

“Now or never,” she breathed, and with her knees she pushed her stomach through the window. Her weight took her the rest of the way.