Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(98)

So I was out of luck.

Unless . . .

. . . I tried something else. I pulled out the dresser drawers and looked at them good. They were sturdy, too cheap to be oak, but maybe poplar or pine. If I’d stacked them all up together, it wouldn’t have given me a boost bigger than the bed, but if I stacked them on the bed, maybe I’d get somewhere.

Only three of the four drawers were willing to come out, but that was all right. I wasn’t sure I could get even those three to stack up well enough to use, but it was worth a shot.

In a minute or two, I had a rickety setup that might let me reach the window, or might slip out from underneath me and send me crashing to the ground. I’d already gotten knocked out once today and I wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of doing it again, but it was either take that chance or wait around to see what the reverend wanted with me.

So I did my best to steady the stack of drawers, and I adjusted them so that two were on the bottom and one was on the top—and that didn’t give me as much lift, but it was a whole lot steadier.

One, two, three.

The windowsill was in my hands.

I pushed the candle over to the side, so I still had the light, but it was out of my way. I felt around for the latch, and found it. It stuck, because I think it’d been painted over; and the window frame stuck when I gave it a good shove, but that was probably because of the damp air inside and out. And I can hardly explain how happy I was—how I almost laughed, and almost jumped for joy—when the thing skidded open an inch or two, and then another one, and then all the way open.

I wasn’t sure it was open enough to make room for me, but I was going to try it anyway; and if I had to, I could always break up one of the drawers by stomping on it or something, and then use that to smash the glass out. It wouldn’t be quiet, but it might work. I put that idea on the back burner, though. I’d gotten the window open, and that was a start. Now I just had to pull myself up and shove myself out—which was harder than it sounded.

I’d never tried to pull myself up by my hands before, and there wasn’t much to hang on to up there. My fingers slipped around, and my nails cracked when I scrambled along the wood, trying to get a better grip. Once I got a decent handhold, I pulled—I tried to use my knees and my toes to help push me up, and it didn’t work too well at first. So I took off my shoes and stuck my hand through the straps so they could hang on my arm, and I tried again, barefoot this time. With naked toes, I had better luck. I tried again another couple of times and finally I was up! I had my waist on the windowsill, and my elbows were shaking, I swear to God, and my arms were about to fall off, they were so tired from holding my own weight.

I knocked my head against that window, which wasn’t really open enough to let me slither outside, or that’s what it looked like—now that I could see it up close.

I refused to settle for that. I held my position, even though it hurt like hell. I held it and I didn’t move, because outside my door I could hear footsteps.

Maybe I’d made too much noise. Or maybe my time had come.

Something was coming, anyway. I didn’t even want to think it was “someone,” since I’d seen Momma; but then again, when she moved . . . she hadn’t made any footsteps or any other sound. But I didn’t care if this was somebody more ordinary. Whoever it was, it was somebody who believed in Chapelwood and wanted to put me in a yellow dress and force me to take part in something awful.

Or so I assumed. Nobody forces anybody to do anything nice by kidnapping them and locking them in a dark room with monsters.

The footsteps rang louder and louder, with a funny edge to them—almost the kind of echo you hear when you open your eyes underwater, and everything wobbles back and forth, and nothing is clear. It reminded me of how Father Coyle had sounded when he appeared to me in the courthouse, so far away. He might have been on the moon, or at the bottom of the ocean.

Now I was scared.

Before, I was trying to solve a problem, and that kept me distracted from how much danger I was in. Now, I was out of plans, the window looked too small, and someone was coming for me.

I struggled, kicked, and dragged and hauled my body up until I got one knee on the windowsill with my hands. I’m sure it looked ridiculous, but I was leaving that place one way or another—and I wanted to do it alive, so I went ahead and looked ridiculous. Having a knee to help hold my weight made it easier, and gave my arms a rest.

With one elbow, I knocked at the window to see if I could push it out any farther. It only creaked and made a pitiful splintering noise, but it didn’t go anywhere.

How long did I have before the footsteps reached my door? Thirty seconds? Ten?

My mouth was dry as a desert and my arms were aching, and my knee was starting to slip—but I thought, if I could just get one leg outside through the opening . . . maybe I could slide out on my belly, and that would work, even if I went backward out into the yard.

So that’s what I tried, and at first, I didn’t think it was working.

The window’s edge dug into the back of my thigh and tore my dress, but I wrangled my other leg up and over, once I had enough weight up there to balance it. Feetfirst and on my belly, I writhed and wrangled myself through that sliver of an opening, hardly any higher than a loaf of bread. My skirt scrunched up around my thighs, then up over my behind so God and everybody could see my underpants and I didn’t care a bit. Thank God I’ve never been a big woman—which is not something I say every day, because there’ve been plenty of times I wished I was tall and stout and burly enough to defend myself. But not today.