“They’re on the run.” émeline picked Touraine’s bindings apart with the bayonet. “All right, sir?”
Touraine groaned as her arms and legs sprang apart with relief, settling back into their sockets. She felt like soft candy stretched too far.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” émeline let Touraine hold her arm as she stood. “Pru’s going to fucking kill you, sir.”
“Is she the only one?” Touraine searched her face.
émeline cocked her head apologetically. “Tibeau might be in line, yeah.”
“Excellent. Sky-falling excellent.” She limped out of the room, her hips grinding back into place.
The rest of the building looked like the guardhouse. Rooms square around a courtyard in the middle. They were on the second floor, and a rotting, latticed railing clung to the stone pillars. There weren’t enough lanterns in the corridor to lift the shadows, and the stars shining through the courtyard didn’t offer much light. The courtyard fountain was dry.
Musket fire shattered the fountain’s ornament in a spray of shards and dust, a burst of thunder followed by pattering rain. They hunched behind the rail, and émeline dragged her down the corridor. Only slightly better protection than standing in an open field.
Another shot and someone below screamed in pain. émeline knelt behind a pillar to fire back. Touraine dropped to the floor, hunting for the gunman. They fell into the roles so seamlessly that her blood sang with the beauty of it.
“One shot.”
émeline nodded.
Touraine poked her head up to look at the corridor on the other side. A dark figure craned around another pillar to look down into the courtyard.
She ducked back. “On your left, third pillar—”
“Got it.”
One deep breath, then émeline turned, waited, fired. The rebel fell. The women moved again, down the hallway, to the stairs.
Each breath Touraine took was a wince. She didn’t hear the other footsteps. She didn’t turn until she heard a sharp, surprised gasp. Touraine spun, ready to help émeline finish off their attacker.
The bayonet of an ancient musket stuck out of émeline’s stomach. Her eyes and mouth were wide, fishlike with shock. Even the rebel looked surprised at what they had done, their eyes wide above their hooded veil. The blade glistened wetly with blood in the dim moonlight that came in through the courtyard.
Touraine was the first to recover. Without thought, she shoved the rebel toward the rail. Sharp pain, dangerous pain in her ribs where her first captor had kicked her.
Touraine registered the wet suck of the bayonet as it lurched from émeline’s body, and the other woman’s yelp of pain and surprise. Then the snap of the railing. It gave almost instantly under the rebel’s momentum. Finally, the sick thud as the rebel hit the stone floor below.
“Sky-falling fuck.”
Though Touraine’s brain hadn’t caught up, her body knew the motions. She ripped off her coat and pressed it against émeline’s wound.
“ émeline?” Touraine murmured. “ émeline, you’re all right. I’ve got you.” Even though a voice in her head whispered You aren’t safe here over and over.
Touraine’s heart buzzed in her chest as she did the sums. It wasn’t safe for them to stay, to get a medic to émeline here, but running away would only run her closer to death. émeline’s blood smelled earthy and metallic—shit was mixing with her blood. The bastard rebel had gotten her in the bowels.
They were saved by the last person Touraine wanted to see as she tried to press émeline’s guts whole. Tibeau stormed up the stairs, holding his rifle across his chest as he scanned for fallen Sands. He saw them.
“Tour, you bastard.” In an instant, he scooped émeline into his arms, cradled against his chest. “We have to get her help,” he growled, setting off at a lope.
“Beau, if we move her—”
Touraine let her protests drop. Here or there, now or later. What did it matter? Grief settled over her. They were too used to hope’s quick flicker to spare the words for arguments or questions when each second could mean the difference between life and death, but Touraine still had one, more important than everything—
“Where’s Pru?”
“Held sniper. She cleared them, so I sent her back.”
“Not clear enough, Beau,” she growled back.
Tibeau looked stricken, and Touraine wished she’d kept her mouth shut. He’d never forgive himself for this. She wouldn’t forgive herself, either.