“Enid struggled out of the covers. She had to get MacLean out of the cottage, and she didn’t know how. She couldn’t carry him, couldn’t drag him . . . perhaps the guards below . . . But MacLean was already up. Moving toward her, holding her pink wrapper. With a cry, she tried to catch at him. “Sh. I’m fine.” He fed one of her arms into the sleeve. “Hurry. We’ve got to get out.” It was a miracle. Another miracle, one as great as when he’d opened his eyes and spoken. He could walk! And the fire wa...s going to kill him—and her. The pounding on the trapdoor continued. “Wake up! Wake up! Fire!” Fire. God, fire. Smoke oozed through the cracks in the floorboards. An odd light illuminated the west side of the room. MacLean already had his trousers on. Kneeling at her feet, he helped her with one of her shoes while she stuck her arm in the other hole and tied the belt. “I’m all right,” she said hoarsely. “Go on!” MacLean moved without any sign of distress, as if he saw no reason for haste, as if he dealt with crisis every day, as if he walked all the time.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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