Chapter Twelve #2
He did not move at once. For a few seconds, he remained crouched within the cramped tunnel, his hand pressed against the loosened stone, his breath held, fearing any sudden motion might undo what they had accomplished.
The air against his face was different—alive in a way the prison’s stagnant atmosphere had never been—and it stirred something deep within him, something he had long since buried beneath necessity and endurance.
“Darcy?” Lucien’s whisper came from behind, edged with impatience and anticipation alike.
“We are through,” he replied.
Carefully, deliberately, he eased the stone outward just enough to widen the opening.
He leaned forward, angling his body so he might see beyond without dislodging the carefully balanced stones that concealed their work.
The view was narrow, constrained by the thickness of the wall, but it was enough.
The sea stretched before him, dark and restless beneath the night sky, its surface broken by the faint glimmer of reflected starlight.
The ground below the opening dropped away sharply—no more than a meter, but enough to require care.
To one side, rising stark against the darkness, stood a guard tower, its outline unmistakable.
A lantern burned faintly within, casting a dim circle of light that swept slowly across the ground as the sentry within moved.
Darcy withdrew at once, his mind already turning over what he had seen.
“There is a drop,” he said in a low voice. “Not far, but enough to warrant caution. And a guard tower to the east. We must avoid it entirely.”
Lucien exhaled, the sound almost a laugh. “But we have done it.”
“Not now,” Darcy said, though there was no true reproach in his tone. “We will not risk everything by haste.”
They worked then with renewed care, loosening the surrounding stones just enough that they might be removed swiftly when the time came while leaving them in place so that nothing would appear amiss from within or without.
Each stone was tested, shifted, then carefully reset until the opening was prepared but hidden, ready to yield at a moment’s notice.
When there was nothing more to be done, Darcy replaced the final stone and leaned back, his body aching from the strain, his hands raw and unsteady.
“We return,” he said. “Tomorrow night, we leave.”
Lucien nodded, the eagerness in his expression undiminished. “Tomorrow night.”
They retraced their path through the tunnel, sealing the passage behind them as they had done so many times before.
This time, however, the knowledge of what lay beyond altered everything.
The walls seemed less oppressive, the darkness less absolute.
There was an end now—a point beyond which the prison no longer held dominion.
Darcy lay upon his pallet that night, though sleep did not come easily. His mind moved restlessly, returning again and again to the image of the sea, to the cold air upon his face, to the narrow opening that stood between captivity and freedom.
Tomorrow.
He would see the stars for the first time in years, blocked from view at his cell window by a towering turret.
The next night came with a stillness that seemed almost deliberate. The world itself appeared to hold its breath.
Darcy and Lucien stood within the narrow confines of the cell, the dim light offering just enough illumination for their purpose. Between them lay the crude implements they had fashioned—tools born of necessity, now turned to a different task.
Lucien examined Darcy critically, his head tilted to one side. “You are a sight,” he declared. “We must do what we can, or no one will mistake us for anything but escaped prisoners.”
Darcy huffed a breath that might have been amusement. “I fear no amount of trimming will entirely remedy that.”
“Perhaps not.” Lucien was already at work. “But we shall aim for something approaching respectability.”
They took turns, each assisting the other with what care they could muster. The blade was dull, the task imperfect, yet when they had finished, the difference was unmistakable. The worst of the wildness had been subdued, their appearances rendered at least passable.
Lucien stepped back, studying Darcy with a grin. “There. You look almost like a gentleman again.”
Darcy lifted a hand, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Mayhap I shall keep it.”
Lucien laughed. “A new fashion, then. You may set a trend.”
“Let us first survive,” Darcy returned.
They gathered what little they possessed—the knife, the chisels—and prepared to depart. Lucien sealed the entrance to his tunnel with practiced efficiency, ensuring that nothing would betray their absence too soon. Together, they moved to Darcy’s cell, where the final passage awaited.
The stone was drawn into place behind them as best it could be managed, concealing the opening. Darcy went first, navigating the narrow tunnel with steely determination. The air grew cooler as he approached the outer wall, the faint scent of the sea growing stronger with each inch.
At last, he reached the end. He pressed his hands against the prepared stones and pushed. One shifted. Then another. The final rock gave way with a suddenness that sent it tumbling outward. It struck the ground below with a dull, unmistakable clatter.
Darcy froze.
Behind him, Lucien stilled as well, both men suspended in breathless silence. Darcy’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat loud in his ears as he strained to detect any answering sound—any sign that they had been heard.
Nothing came. No shout. No movement. Not a single alarm. Slowly, cautiously, Darcy exhaled. He eased himself forward, widening the opening just enough to pass through. Then, with careful precision, he slipped out, lowering himself as far as he could before releasing his hold.
The drop was brief but jarring. His feet struck the sand, the impact sending a sharp vibration through his legs. He recovered quickly, moving at once to the shelter of nearby boulders, crouching low and pressing himself into shadow.
A moment later, Lucien followed, landing beside him with greater ease than Darcy had managed.