Page 35 of The Art of Theft
The barking and growling continued, coming closer and closer to the bridge. Footsteps, running fast in their wake. His breaths bellowed in his own ears.
There were no reeds nearby. How long could he hold his breath underwater?
And then the dogs ranpastthe bridge. Not over it, but around the lake to the east. He exhaled, his heart pounding. What had just happened? Where were the dogs going?
He lifted his arm, dripping and heavy, and settled a hand on Mr. Marbleton’s shoulder. The younger man was shivering, but placed adeathly cold hand over his to show that he was all right. Together they swam toward the eastern edge of the wide bridge, almost outside of the shelter of its arc.
Another flash lit the sky. Dogs and men raced toward the chapel. No, toward the fence. The sky turned dark again. A long earsplitting crack of thunder overshadowed all other sounds.
And then there was only the din of rain striking the lake and the stone bridge overhead.
When another bolt of lightning radiated its harsh white light, there were no dogs and no men. As if they’d disappeared off the face of the earth.
As if the entire mad pursuit had never taken place.
Eight
Lord Ingram gritted his teeth so that they wouldn’t chatter. The cold burned his nerve endings, an indescribable pain. But that he was feeling the bite of the frigid lake was no small consolation—if he stopped feeling cold, then he would be in real trouble.
Thunder rolled. But now lightning came only as faint flickers inside storm clouds. He couldn’t see beyond his immediate vicinity, and rain slamming down on stone and water made it difficult to hear. Beside him Mr. Marbleton breathed rapidly, as if by doing that he could make himself warmer. But even his breaths shook with cold.
They needed to get out of the water as soon as possible. But the guards and their dogs couldn’t really have disappeared. Where were they now?
He listened for some more time, staring blindly into the darkness, and heard nothing besides the rain. He was just about to clamp a hand on Mr. Marbleton’s shoulder and signal him to move when dogs barked from barely fifteen feet away.
“Taisez-vous!” growled a man, ordering the dogs to shut up.
Lord Ingram pushed Mr. Marbleton down and submerged himself too, the cold on his scalp a shock even after all the time he’d spent treading near-freezing water.
He stayed under water for as long as he could, lifting his head into the air only when pain skewered his lungs and stars burst on his closed lids. Mr. Marbleton broke water at almost the same time, panting.
Lord Ingram gave him a push toward the bank. Under his hand, Mr. Marbleton turned around. He couldn’t see the younger man’s face but he understood his unspoken question. Were they not neck-deep in black-cold water, he, too, would have waited longer. But he had to weigh the risk of discovery against that of hypothermia, and the latter loomed larger with every passing second.
And now he gambled that the men and dogs that passed by would be the only party they needed to worry about, that the others had dispersed to other corners of the estate.
Mr. Marbleton, so quick and agile earlier, had become slow and clumsy. Lord Ingram had to push him onto the bank before climbing up himself. Rain still poured, and would wash away any mud they might have dredged up from the bottom of the lake. He put his flask of whisky to Mr. Marbleton’s lips and made him take several large gulps. Then he pulled the latter upright. “To the garden, then out the side at the nearest fence.”
They ran. Or attempted to. But Mr. Marbleton wasn’t the only one whose body had become unwieldy. Lord Ingram felt as if he trudged on limbs of clay—overwatered clay that threatened to collapse in a puddle. Beside him, Mr. Marbleton’s teeth chattered continuously.
“My God,” he mumbled. “Why am I so sleepy?”
Lord Ingram swore and placed Mr. Marbleton’s arm over his own shoulders. “Move. Keep moving.”
In the middle of the garden Mr. Marbleton tripped. They both went down hard. He didn’t want to get up again. It was almost... comfortable to lie with his cheek on the garden path, as rain needled his exposed skin.
He forced himself up, dragged Mr. Marbleton to his feet, andheaded for the fence at a stumbling jog. Which soon degenerated into a drunken walk. Mr. Marbleton tripped again. Lord Ingram barely managed to catch him.
They were both on their knees in a puddle.Get up, Lord Ingram mouthed. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to put his head down and curl into a ball. Anything but getting up.
Dogs barked. A jolt of panic filled him with a sudden, mad energy. He scrambled to hide behind the low shrubbery that formed the edge of a parterre, Mr. Marbleton following close behind on his own power.
The dogs barked again. Much closer. His heart pounding, he felt for his pistol. His heart pounded even harder when he remembered that his ammunition had been soaked.
Could he hear the dogs sniffing—or was he imagining things?
Excruciating seconds passed. More seconds passed. A whole minute passed and no growling beasts charged at him.
Which could only mean one thing. In their blind groping in the dark, they’d managed to come close to the fence. The dogs had passed on their regular patrol. But thanks to the rain and the fact that they were downwind from the dogs, they had not been detected.
