led to what used to be the upper level, where the king would have had his apartments.
Now, in the absence of floors and walls and a roof, there was just the “wall walk,” where visitors could pace their way around the tower’s perimeter and look out across the city. Miranda’s parents, of course, went nuts at the prospect of a 360-degree view because — she’d often observed — anyone middle-aged thought that gazing at views and gardens and distant horizons was the most interesting thing in the world. But even Rob was eager to bound up the twisting staircase, despite its close confines, to reach the top of the tower.
Miranda lingered downstairs for a while, reading the information signs and trying to imagine what this level of the castle looked like hundreds of years ago. William the Conqueror had built the hill but not this stone tower, she read. The original tower was wooden, and known as York Castle. It was replaced by William’s descendants two hundred years after it had burned down twice.
The flagstones beneath Miranda’s feet weren’t exactly flat, and the uneven slope seemed to be giving her sea legs. She felt wobbly, and for a moment she worried shewas actually sliding backward toward the entry gate. This was strange. She’d been walking around York all day, along cobbled streets and uneven pavements: She should be used to this by now.
“What is wrong with you?” she muttered to herself. They were in York, not California; the ground couldn’t possibly be moving. It couldn’t possibly be … rumbling. The distant sound she heard couldn’t be coming from deep within the earth. It was probably a train, or a truck crossing the river.
“Come up, honey!” Her mother was leaning over the railings two stories above. “You get an amazing view of the Minster from here.”
Miranda stumbled rather than walked to the spiral staircase, annoyed with herself for being so clumsy. She also wished that the soles of her boots were thicker. Icy darts were prickling her feet.
At the top of the stairs, Miranda took a few tentative steps, all too aware that the wall walk sloped as well. It felt as though it was drooping toward the empty space in the center. There were railings, of course, but they seemed very insubstantial — flimsy, even — now that Miranda was up so high. The ground beneath her feet still felt weirdly fluid, not firm and stonelike at all. Rob and her parents were wandering around with no problem, leaning over the low outer wall, taking pictures. They weren’t sliding around or desperately gripping the railings, as Miranda was now. What was happening? Was this what people called vertigo?
With each step, Miranda felt as though she was about to be tipped into the abyss. The stones beneath her feet were alive, writhing and twisting out of place. Tendrils of frigid cold laced up her legs. Just a few steps away, the members of her family were pointing things out to each other; Rob was crouching to balance his camera on the outer wall. Miranda didn’t have the strength to cry out. All her energy was focused on staying upright, of not being jerked over the railings and down, down, down to the mossy stones below. Some force was tipping and dragging her, and she couldn’t stop it. With both her hands trembling on the slippery railings, she faced the pit of the tower, willing herself to stay upright.
“Don’t look down,” Miranda told herself in a cracked whisper, trying to ignore her rising panic. Her skin was pulsing, prickling with cold, even though she was wearing a woolen jacket, jeans, and thick socks under knee-high boots. She had to step away from the brink. She had to throw herself on the ground if necessary, and claw her way to safety, fingernails digging into the crevices between the stones. The one thing she should
not
do was look down.
But she was so dizzy now, so disoriented, Miranda couldn’t help it: She looked down. At first her head flopped and her eyes couldn’t focus. Rather
Now, in the absence of floors and walls and a roof, there was just the “wall walk,” where visitors could pace their way around the tower’s perimeter and look out across the city. Miranda’s parents, of course, went nuts at the prospect of a 360-degree view because — she’d often observed — anyone middle-aged thought that gazing at views and gardens and distant horizons was the most interesting thing in the world. But even Rob was eager to bound up the twisting staircase, despite its close confines, to reach the top of the tower.
Miranda lingered downstairs for a while, reading the information signs and trying to imagine what this level of the castle looked like hundreds of years ago. William the Conqueror had built the hill but not this stone tower, she read. The original tower was wooden, and known as York Castle. It was replaced by William’s descendants two hundred years after it had burned down twice.
The flagstones beneath Miranda’s feet weren’t exactly flat, and the uneven slope seemed to be giving her sea legs. She felt wobbly, and for a moment she worried shewas actually sliding backward toward the entry gate. This was strange. She’d been walking around York all day, along cobbled streets and uneven pavements: She should be used to this by now.
“What is wrong with you?” she muttered to herself. They were in York, not California; the ground couldn’t possibly be moving. It couldn’t possibly be … rumbling. The distant sound she heard couldn’t be coming from deep within the earth. It was probably a train, or a truck crossing the river.
“Come up, honey!” Her mother was leaning over the railings two stories above. “You get an amazing view of the Minster from here.”
Miranda stumbled rather than walked to the spiral staircase, annoyed with herself for being so clumsy. She also wished that the soles of her boots were thicker. Icy darts were prickling her feet.
At the top of the stairs, Miranda took a few tentative steps, all too aware that the wall walk sloped as well. It felt as though it was drooping toward the empty space in the center. There were railings, of course, but they seemed very insubstantial — flimsy, even — now that Miranda was up so high. The ground beneath her feet still felt weirdly fluid, not firm and stonelike at all. Rob and her parents were wandering around with no problem, leaning over the low outer wall, taking pictures. They weren’t sliding around or desperately gripping the railings, as Miranda was now. What was happening? Was this what people called vertigo?
With each step, Miranda felt as though she was about to be tipped into the abyss. The stones beneath her feet were alive, writhing and twisting out of place. Tendrils of frigid cold laced up her legs. Just a few steps away, the members of her family were pointing things out to each other; Rob was crouching to balance his camera on the outer wall. Miranda didn’t have the strength to cry out. All her energy was focused on staying upright, of not being jerked over the railings and down, down, down to the mossy stones below. Some force was tipping and dragging her, and she couldn’t stop it. With both her hands trembling on the slippery railings, she faced the pit of the tower, willing herself to stay upright.
“Don’t look down,” Miranda told herself in a cracked whisper, trying to ignore her rising panic. Her skin was pulsing, prickling with cold, even though she was wearing a woolen jacket, jeans, and thick socks under knee-high boots. She had to step away from the brink. She had to throw herself on the ground if necessary, and claw her way to safety, fingernails digging into the crevices between the stones. The one thing she should
not
do was look down.
But she was so dizzy now, so disoriented, Miranda couldn’t help it: She looked down. At first her head flopped and her eyes couldn’t focus. Rather
Similar Books
