— ELEANOR!! ELEANOR!!
Forwin yanked her back by the arm at once. He pushed her, until she made it. Her delicate face was contorted in agonizing features.
A leap of faith was enough for her to reach the other roof. Forwin took a few steps back, took a deep breath, and broke into a run.
At the last second, dust kicked up from under his feet; one foot reached the air, then the other; but, in the final millisecond, in mid-air, an arrow grazed his shoulder—enough to destabilize him in the fraction of a second he had left to make the jump.
All at once, he fell, rolling onto the wide threshold of the back door.
— RUN ELEANOR, RUN ELEANOR!!!! AND DON'T LOOK BACK!!!
She cried out—"I love you, Hunig!!"—and disappeared, leaping to another roof, then dropping into a nearly imperceptible alley between two houses ahead.
Forwin muttered softly to himself as he panted, spitting out dirt, "Save yourself, Eleanor, save yourself... because I don't know if I can save myself..."
A door opened behind him with a piercing slam.
=== ELEANOR SHELLSTROP ===
"I have to get out of here right now. The news must have spread."
She took out a brown cloth—hidden in her bosom—that Forwin had given her. She wanted to at least try to go unnoticed. She was lucky, as she rarely left the house. While tying the cloth around her face, she noticed chewed pieces of bread on the muddy alley floor—probably left by a dog.
Eleanor thought. She wanted to remember something, but couldn't. She stared at the bread for a while until enlightenment finally struck.
— That's it! — she said, snapping her fingers. — Mr. Durward. He'll help! I'm sure of it.
She covered her face with the cloth and stepped out—not, of course, without looking both ways for curious eyes; although, the Klemora were the reclusive type, and not very curious, I would say. Their business was mainly the fine art of craftsmanship, and having enough materials at home, their lives were set.
She propped her elbow in front of her face indiscriminately and followed the sidewalk to the bakery. On the street, a simple cart with two horses was passing, and a rider further behind. It was already getting dark, and therefore, there was little circulation due to high crime and the fervor of revolutions, where anything could happen in Muntcynigas—not even the king would be safe.
She looked both ways and checked through the window to see if anyone was inside—normally there wouldn't be, but her bad luck was out in full force today.
A thin woman with long, curly hair, and clothes far too chic for someone from the Klemora clan—her name was Brithevade, one of the heirs of Auchberg—besides having a surprisingly erudite way of speaking, was discussing gossip with Dunward.
"Mr. Dunward, you are well aware, I believe, of the escapades of the Thatcher heir, and of the solemn gem of our clan. Yes. She is the one to whom I refer."
"What about the poor girl?"
— It has come to my attention. Yes. That is correct, that the council has discovered the lovebirds' romance. — (she said pausingly) — I believe they visited each of the Shellstrop rest homes today, after reporting to the king. This sort of behavior does not fit in any way with a family from this most precious clan. No, no, no. The death of the mothe—
"That's enough, Miss Auchberg."
— Oh, Dunward, so cordial, allowing me to call you by your first name. Th-ank you. Have a good evening, Mr. Dunward — and she blew kisses into the air.
Eleanor hid again in the alley and waited for Brithevade to disappear down the street. She ran inside in a panic. The door's bell rang, and the intoxicating smell of wheat and hot coals filled the room.
"Mr. Dunward! Sir."
"Yes, yes, I know about the possible visit. Wh—"
"No, sir, you don't understand! They've already been, and I think they're going to keep them both in captivity as punishment, but it just seems like a scapegoat for something bigger, and they'll certainly—"
"Force them to give up everything and 'disappear from here'." — the old man completed.
"Yes," Eleanor breathed, more relieved. It was like taking a weight off her shoulders.
Dunward wiped his hands on a cloth under the counter, passed through the half-door, and went to the main door, tossing the cloth to Eleanor; he stopped, looked both ways, and returned, flipping the old carved wooden sign from: 'Tig'[1] to the other side, where it said 'Loc'[2].
He turned, somewhat exasperated, waving his hands toward the space behind the counter.
"Get in, my girl. Go, go, go."
She passed through the half-door and into a rectangular space, where to both the right (an entrance that led straight down a hallway) and the left (straight to the basement) there was an old, faded wooden door, full of scratches, both physically and in the sound it made.
Dunward opened the door and directed her to a small room through the door on the right. He stopped, and bent his back towards the floor—where a rug lay—rubbing his hands.
He pulled the rug away at once, revealing a trapdoor.
"Forgive me, it's what I have... I've sheltered innocent fugitives from the king in the past and this is where I managed to orchestrate it. I'll have to glue a carpet here to prevent them from noticing if they come to search suspiciously."
"It's alright, Mr. Durward, it's alright."
Dunward shook his head and opened the trapdoor. Old dust rose into the air, accompanied by detaching spider webs and a few scattering ants. A rotten wooden ladder, which hadn't seen daylight in a long time, hung from above.
"Look, Miss Shellstrop, it's not as bad as it looks. Ah! I almost forgot!"
He went off with a little hop to the counter, grabbing two bags of bread of the most varied types.
"Take it."
"How could I accept? You already do so much for me."
"Down there, there's a table, a lantern, a bed, and books. Take the bread, and make as little noise as possible; some of the older gentlemen and ladies (not the young masters and misses) are very nosy; I think they're trying to find someone with problems worse than their own marriage or something of the sort."
"Always in good spirits, aren't you, Mr. Cook?" — they laughed discreetly, and she descended the small ladder; when her feet touched the ground, she called out:
"Thank you! Mr. Durward! Sir, send my regards to your wife!"
He gave a military salute and closed the trapdoor.
He stood up and ran to the basement to get carpets. Before leaving, he placed the rug over the trapdoor, "'One never knows,'" he thought.
He descended the stairs, which were very clean and illuminated by torches—well, he was a very clean and organized gentleman.
He cheerfully hummed tunes from old stories, though he was filled with fear for the young Thatcher and the young Shellstrop.
"The Road goes ever..."[3]
Down below, there were spaces filled with bread-making materials; and next to the cabinets closest to the stairs, there was a wine cellar. In the cabinet beside the cellar, he opened a small door with a Royal-Brass knob and took out a long roll of red carpet and some old glue his carpenter cousin had left there.
As he went up, singing vigorously as always, he felt a strange impression. He looked down and saw a rat walking unnoticed on the stairs. He jumped at that moment, not because of the rat, but because of the bell, which went:
Cling!
"Mr. Dunward! It's the Royal Guard."
[1] Old English for Open
[2] Old English for Close
[3] Excerpt from Lord of The Rings: The Fellowship of The Ring