Flight From Blithmore by Jacob Gowans

reached into his pockets, fumbling about, trying to find where
he had placed it. After too much time, he retrieved a small silver key from his
vest pocket and handed it over to her.
    “You
must hurry back to the house, Norbin. Close all the shutters if you can.”
    “Miss
Isabelle, if he asks me where the money is—now your mother is dead—I can no
longer deny my knowledge of its location. I could be arrested if I do.”
    “Then
do whatever you can to keep him out of my mother’s room and away from the back
windows!”
    Without
another word, Norbin turned toward the house, walking and puffing with vigor
that defied his age.
    Isabelle
put the key in the hole and turned. It wouldn’t budge. Grime and other debris
clogged the keyhole. She let out a groan of frustration and dropped to her
knees, using the key as a tiny shovel to scrape the dirt and pebbles out.
Brandol looked on with interest, but said nothing. She tried the key again, but
there was no improvement. She peered over the edge of the hole, but saw no sign
of either her father or Norbin.
    “Here
. . . let me have a go at it.” Brandol jumped in beside her and took the key.
He scraped and blew sharply into the keyhole, occasionally dislodging larger
chunks.
    “Hurry!”
she urged in a terrified voice as she thought she saw a dark shadow pass by one
of the windows in the back of her house.
    “I
ain’t taking my time!”
    Rain
poured down on them while lightning streaked the sky in what promised to be a
terrible storm. Isabelle’s eyes went back and forth from the coffer to the
house, growing wider with her fear. She was no longer certain whether the black
shapes moving past the windows were real or imaginary. Who knew how long it
would take for her father to discover what had happened and then seize the
information from Norbin?
    Brandol
gave a particularly hard blow into the lock which was accompanied by a soft
rattling sound. He blew three more times in rapid succession, and a small
pebble tumbled out. Then he slipped the key into the lock and turned it with a
click. Isabelle’s attention went to the coffer as Brandol opened it. Both of
them gasped.
    Gold
coins filled the coffer to the brim, all emblazoned with a Blithmore crown on
each side. The sight of so much gold had an intoxicating effect. Isabelle had
to resist the urge to handle the money.
    “Brandol,
I need you to fetch me a sturdy sack,” she ordered. “Run as fast as you can!”
Brandol slowly looked away from the coffer. When he did, he appeared dazed. “A
sack!”
    He
climbed out of the hole and sprinted toward the house, leaving Isabelle alone
and anxious. She ducked down inside the hole, peering back at her house over
the edge. She tried to get the hair out of her face, but ended up smearing dirt
over her cheek and forehead. Mud caked most of her dress, ruining it. It
covered her fingers, nails, and palms. What little skin she could see was red
and raw from shoveling.
    She
considered trying to put the gold in her dress and carrying it into Henry’s
house, but the idea was far too impractical. “Hurry, Brandol, hurry!” she
cried. He hadn’t been gone more than two minutes, but it already seemed too
long. Finally, the door to Henry’s workshop reopened, and Brandol returned not
only with a large potato sack, but also Maggie.
    “Is
it true?” Maggie exclaimed, running alongside Brandol to the large hole, but
her question was answered as soon as she looked down. Her hands flew to her
face and covered her gaping mouth. “Oh, great heavens!”
    “Brandol,
what’s the best way to move it?” Isabelle asked.
    “Maybe—maybe
you and Maggie hold the bag, and I scoop the gold in.”
    Brandol
and Isabelle switched places, and Brandol began shoveling the gold. However,
fifteen hundred double gold crowns weren’t easily moved. It was clumsy work.
Isabelle’s trembling hands shook the bag as she kept one eye on her house, gold
pieces fell off the shovel into the mud, and more than once