Ash & Bramble by Sarah Prineas Page A

fit. “Well, they’re wonderful. Thank you.” She bends and puts the coil of rope over her arm and gathers her things into her apron. The candle escapes again and rolls away. As she stands, a square, paper-wrapped package that smells like gingerbread drops to the floor. “Oops,” she says.
    He bends to pick them up. “I’ll carry them for you,” heoffers, because he can’t bear to say good-bye to her quite yet. “Just to the Jacks’ workroom. They said to tell you that your grappling hook is ready. They’ll have a sack you can use, too.”
    She gives him the wicked grin she gave him once before and hands him a small velvet bag that makes a metal clinking sound when he takes it.
    â€œThis, too. It’s gold from the Spinsters,” she tells him. “I’ll need money when I get to the Before.”
    She really believes she is going to get out.
    He knows she won’t. But he puts on his coat and stows the bag of money in his pocket, and, carrying the packet of gingerbread and a few candles, follows her out of his workroom.
    N OW THAT THE moment has come, my candle flame of hope has flared into a bonfire. Marya had nothing, she’d been broken, and she’d made a desperate dash for the wall. But I have a plan; I have supplies. I am going to make it, and then I will come back for Shoe and rescue him and all the other slaves from this place.
    I lead Shoe through the dim hallways of the fortress and down the stairs, where I turn left toward the Jacks’ workroom.
    From behind us comes a rush of footsteps. Before I can turn to see what’s going on, Shoe has grabbed me and dragged me into another, darker hallway. I start to protest, and his hand comes over my mouth. I can feel the calluses on his palm and fingers, rough against my face. “Shhh,” hebreathes into my ear. The footsteps clatter past the end of the hallway. Releasing me, he edges to the corner and peers around. Then he leans his shoulder against the wall. “Something’s happening.”
    â€œI have to go on,” I say, gripping the corners of my apron.
    He gives me a grim nod, and after peeking around again, pulls me out of the dark corridor. Silently, keeping our ears pricked, we ghost through the hallways to the workroom of the Jacks of all trades.
    Holding the corners of my overloaded apron with one hand, I slip the thimble on my finger and try the knob.
    â€œQuietly,” Shoe whispers.
    I nod and open the door the merest crack.
    The room inside is chaos. The sound of the Jacks’ wailing leaks out the door; I catch a glimpse of sawdust and feathers swirling through the air. One of the Jacks spies me at the door and hurries over. It is our Jack, from before.
    â€œ Shhh , shhh ,” he whispers, glancing over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
    â€œI need the grappling hook,” I whisper through the crack in the door. “And a knapsack, if you’ve got one to spare. What’s going on in there?”
    â€œSurprise inspection,” the Jack replies in a shaking voice. “Wait here.” The door eases closed.
    I lean against the wall beside Shoe. He’s wound tightly, his head cocked as he listens to sounds coming from elsewhere in the fortress.
    â€œIf you squeeze that candle any harder,” I whisper, “it’s going to melt into a puddle of wax.”
    He gives me a dark look and hands me the candle.
    The door opens, and the Jack quickly passes me a knapsack, which I give to Shoe, and then something heavy wrapped in rags. “That’s your hook,” he whispers. “Hurry. They know. They are searching for you.”
    My heart quivers in my chest like a hunted rabbit. Beside me, Shoe has gone as white as chalk.
    From the workroom behind the Jack comes the sound of a guard shouting.
    â€œCurse it,” mutters the Jack. “We’re headed for the post, all of us.” He glances over his