by Anne Perry
Yet despite knowing that, it was his killing Narraway that infuriated her! She reached for any kind of weapon at all, anything that would distract him so Narraway could use the knife, even once.
The fireplace! Was there anything there for when it was lit? A poker, tongs? She saw none. The window was glass. But she had nothing to break it with. Could she hit it hard enough with an elbow? She’d probably only break her arm.
The Watcher moved forward very slowly, always toward Narraway. Would he speak, demand to be given the papers? Narraway was watching him, waiting for the lunge. Vespasia could see it quite clearly now: he expected to die, but as long as he took the Watcher with him, he would not mind. They were in an upper room. Narraway was prepared to go backward out of the window, away from Vespasia, away from whatever the Watcher could do to her that would be a slow and terrible death.
That was who Narraway was. There were a hundred things about him she liked, but this was the core that would in the end give everything for what he loved and believed.
He was standing now with his back to the window. The Watcher was standing at a slight angle, still, so he could whip around and attack Vespasia if she came too close, if she had some weapon after all.
Narraway moved the knife as if to strike.
The Watcher gave a low laugh in his throat, a terrible, animal sound, and lashed out with the staff. Narraway ducked and the Watcher missed, but not by much. One thrust of the staff could kill.
They were very close to the window now. In its dark glass their reflections blurred into one, lunging and whirling, then separating to evade and strike again.
Vespasia searched desperately for anything with which to lash back at the Watcher. She could see nothing at all. The room was bare. He was moving closer to Narraway, driving him toward the window, each blow with the staff missing by less.
There was nothing for her to do but launch herself at his back, catching hold of his robes and dragging all her weight to throw him off balance. He missed Narraway and struck the wall near the window and the jolt of it came back through his arm, tugging at his shoulder. He staggered, losing the perfection of his balance. His reaction was a fraction of a second too slow. Narraway lunged forward with the knife and it struck flesh.
The Watcher screamed, not with pain but with fury that he had been cut. Ignoring Vespasia as if she were nothing, he drove at Narraway with all his weight and strength. Narraway stepped sideways and ducked down and the Watcher hurtled forward, dragging Narraway with him, and locked together they smashed through the window scattering glass shards into the night, and fell with the Watcher’s cloak floating out like wings. They crashed into the crowd of pilgrims jostling along the street amid howls of fear and anger.
Vespasia stood gazing at the space where the window had been, trying to peer into the darkness at the crowd below her in the Via Dolorosa, everyone pushing and stumbling their way toward Golgotha.
It was seconds before she could see Narraway struggling to get to his feet.
“Thank God! Thank God!” She all but choked on the words, not knowing if she said them aloud. She turned and ran to the door and down the stairs.
The bakery was deserted, the street was crammed with people, but she forced her way through them, not caring who she pushed aside or who else’s feet she trod on as she made her way to the ground below the window.
There seemed to be glass everywhere, but she ignored it crunching under her feet. She found Narraway dazed, and having difficulty keeping his balance, but upright. The Watcher was on the ground, his body smaller than she would have expected. His own staff skewered his chest and leaned at a crazy angle, as if the next person to knock into it by accident would lay it flat, unintentionally making the gaping wound even worse. All they were aware of was the emotions, the passion and tragedy of the place that all history had steeped it in.
She clasped Narraway in her arms and felt a wave of relief engulf her as he held her, tightly, as if he would never let her go.
The wave of people passed them. Vespasia and Narraway leaned against the wall of the bakery and stared up at the sky. The noise ebbed away, and for all they knew, or cared, there could have been no one else there. The sky was bright with stars, and as they stared upward, more blazed suddenly, wildly, across the arc of heaven, brilliant lights that filled the darkness, and then disappeared again beyond the horizon. But those that saw them would never forget what they had seen.
To all who follow a star
THE CHRISTMAS NOVELS OF ANNE PERRY
A Christmas Journey
A Christmas Visitor
A Christmas Guest
A Christmas Secret
A Christmas Beginning
A Christmas Grace
A Christmas Promise
A Christmas Odyssey
A Christmas Homecoming
A Christmas Garland
A Christmas Hope
A New York Christmas
A Christmas Escape
A Christmas Message
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of thirteen earlier holiday novels, as well as the William Monk series and the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt series set in Victorian England, five World War I novels, and a work of historical fiction, The Sheen on the Silk. Anne Perry lives in Los Angeles.
anneperry.co.uk
Facebook.com/AnnePerryAuthor
@AnnePerryWriter
To inquire about booking Anne Perry for a speaking engagement, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at [email protected].
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