Page 126 of The House Saphir
“There!” cried Armand, pointing at the house’s pitched roof, each side steeply sloped and dotted with chimneys and the dormer windows that jutted out from the attic. But she didn’t care about that. Her attention was caught by the ground, so far below that it swam in her vision. Dizziness overtook her, and she slid down, her entire body trembling.
She needed to get out of this tower.
She couldn’t get out of this tower.
“There’s a trellis on the wall over there.” Armand crouched in front of her, grabbing her shoulders. “Beneath that dormer. We only have to climb a short way to get down. The fire hasn’t reached that side of the house yet.”
“No,” said Mallory. “I am not climbing out onto a roof.”
His fingers dug into her. “You have to.”
She cursed up and down and inside out, every curse she could think of, as her brain struggled to find another option, any option.
And she knew, with sudden certainty, that she was going to die in this house. She would be Bastien’s final victim. Someday, another con artist would give tours and satisfy their guests’ dark curiosities with tales of how Mallory Fontaine had burned in the tower of the House Saphir. Or how she had plummeted to her death. They would show a drawing of her skull, smashed on the pavers below. Blood spilling from her ears—
“Mallory, look at me.”
She did.
“All you have to do is trust me,” he said. “Can you do that?”
She didn’t know. A part of her whispered that it would be easier to succumb to the fire than to risk a fall. Part of her knew that her limbs would never cooperate if she forced them to climb over that ledge, with the ground so very far away…
“Mallory.” His voice was strained now, pleading. “Please.”
She swallowed, her saliva tasting of smoke, and forced a shaky nod.
He yanked her to her feet before she could change her mind. “I’ll go first,” he said, already slinging one leg over the rail. “Follow behind me and do exactly what I do. Anddon’t look down.”
Smoke was blackening the sky as Armand swung his other leg to the rooftop. He waited for her to follow, her knuckles white as she clutched the rail, her arms already trembling. One leg went over and then the other, searching for the lip between the balustrades.
There was a small step down to the roof. Armand reached up a hand to steady her.
It was impossible. There was no way. She would never make it. She was going to fall. She was going to die.
“One foot at a time,” he coaxed. “I’ve got you.”
“Don’t,” she said through gritted teeth, “tell me what to do.”
A pause, before he said quietly, “I wouldn’t dare.”
She exhaled through her nostrils. Her eyes stung. Tears blurred her vision.
But one foot came down. And then the other.
“Good. I’m going to bend down now, like this.”
She followed the movement, having to pry her own fingers from their death grip on the rail in order to lower herself onto hands and knees, straddling the crest of the roofline.
“Now we’re going to crawl in this direction. Slowly. Are you breathing? Don’t stop breathing.”
Shehadstopped breathing, and wasn’t sure how he could tell.
She filled her lungs, then coughed to dispel the smoke. The air had grown hotter. Another crash from inside rocked the house.
“Maybe we shouldn’t take it quite so slow,” Armand said. He was below her on the roof, having put his body between her and the sharp descent.
It was so steep. And the fall was so far.
