The Discovery
The report arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in brown paper and bearing the seal of Thorne twice his foot slipped, and he hung by his bleeding hands whilst the wind howled and Lady Raventhorn cried out from below.
He did not stop. Did not look down. Kept climbing, hand over hand, his eyes fixed on the dark window above.
Fourteen gold threads, he thought, reaching for the next branch. Seven freckles across her nose.
A thorn caught his cheek. He barely felt it.
Nine years. His shoulder screamed as he pulled himself higher. Twenty-nine letters.
The window was closer now. He could see the dark glass, the stone sill, the faint outline of a figure within. She was there. She was there, and she did not know he was climbing toward her through a wall of thorns, bleeding from both hands, mad with hope and desperate with love.
Nine years, he thought, reaching for the final branch. Nine years since she knocked me flat on my back in that stable.
He hauled himself up to the windowsill. Blood dripped from his hands onto the stone, staining the grey with red. Inside, he could see the outline of a dusty settee, a figure curled upon it, golden hair spilling across the cushions like sunlight in the dark room.
He raised his bleeding hand.
He knocked on the glass.