nearby â two boys and a girl, about my height?â
He picked up the menorah and slipped it into a cloth bag with the other items. âI think you had best follow me,
Señhorita
,â he said quietly. âThrough chance or good fortune you have stumbled upon the one person in this place who will do you no harm. The days are no longer safe for open travel, but I can at least guarantee you sanctuary until I locate your friends and move you safely on your way.â
He pointed down the corridor and took her arm in what seemed a polite gesture. Darrell swallowed tightly and hurried along beside him, his hand on her arm firm evidence that at this moment, she had little other choice.
The familiar burn settled deep into Darrellâs leg as the hooded man hustled her along the corridor. There was no time to talk, no time to worry that she was being rushed along by a man who looked like he had walked off the cover of a book still sitting unread in her pack at school. She needed all her powers of concentration not to slip on the damp cobblestones.
Shortly after taking her arm, the man paused long enough to heave open a stout wooden door, banded with iron, that appeared in the gloom of the passageway.She could hear the sound of rushing water somewhere in the distance. The door led into a slightly less gloomy corridor, with torches that flared and flickered at intervals along the wall. Darrell noted with a pang of worry as the door swung silently back into place that it was faced with plaster and fitted so tightly into the wall that the cracks indicating its presence were barely evident in the gloom. Even the ring used to pull it open was recessed into the wall and would be just another lump in the plaster to an unobservant passerby.
âKeep sharp your eyes,â he whispered, âfor if your
companheiros
are here without guidance, they may be lost to us forever.â
Darrell staggered, and the man tightened his hold on her arm. âYou are in pain?â he asked kindly.
She shook her head, misery clogging her throat like a gag.
Give your head a shake
, she thought.
Feeling sorry for yourself is not going to help find your friends.
To take her mind off her fears, she stole a sideways glance at her companion in the flickering torchlight. He wore a long robe of heavy grey wool under an open cloak of the same fabric. The robe was tied at the waist by a rough length of rope, from one end of which dangled an iron ring of keys that clanked against his leg as he walked. The only concession to decoration was tucked into the rope at his waist. Darrell recognized the polished stones and small golden crucifix of a rosary. Hemust be was a priest, then. But a priest with a menorah? Darrellâs head buzzed with unanswered questions. She wished desperately that sheâd taken the time to read Uncle Frankâs book or had listened even a little to the new teacherâs droning history lessons at school.
The man showed no further inclination towards speech but walked swiftly with his reluctant charge. As they hurried along one corridor after another she puzzled over the language he spoke.
We spoke
, she thought, for she had conversed with him as readily as if it had been her native tongue. Not Spanish, as sheâd taken an introductory course at school last year. And yet â heâd called her
Señhorita
...
The air began to feel fresher, but the hall was still clammy, and Darrell tucked her free hand into her long sleeve. They followed a path she couldnât hope to remember. First a left, then two rights and up a twisted spiral stair. Spiderwebs clung in every crevice, and the gritty floor showed no evidence of regular use, let alone cleaning. Darrell was convinced the passage doubled back on itself several times, and she tried to recognize repeating landmarks. Hadnât she seen that particular torch before? And what about that bit of broken plaster?
After ten minutes or so her muscles began to
He picked up the menorah and slipped it into a cloth bag with the other items. âI think you had best follow me,
Señhorita
,â he said quietly. âThrough chance or good fortune you have stumbled upon the one person in this place who will do you no harm. The days are no longer safe for open travel, but I can at least guarantee you sanctuary until I locate your friends and move you safely on your way.â
He pointed down the corridor and took her arm in what seemed a polite gesture. Darrell swallowed tightly and hurried along beside him, his hand on her arm firm evidence that at this moment, she had little other choice.
The familiar burn settled deep into Darrellâs leg as the hooded man hustled her along the corridor. There was no time to talk, no time to worry that she was being rushed along by a man who looked like he had walked off the cover of a book still sitting unread in her pack at school. She needed all her powers of concentration not to slip on the damp cobblestones.
Shortly after taking her arm, the man paused long enough to heave open a stout wooden door, banded with iron, that appeared in the gloom of the passageway.She could hear the sound of rushing water somewhere in the distance. The door led into a slightly less gloomy corridor, with torches that flared and flickered at intervals along the wall. Darrell noted with a pang of worry as the door swung silently back into place that it was faced with plaster and fitted so tightly into the wall that the cracks indicating its presence were barely evident in the gloom. Even the ring used to pull it open was recessed into the wall and would be just another lump in the plaster to an unobservant passerby.
âKeep sharp your eyes,â he whispered, âfor if your
companheiros
are here without guidance, they may be lost to us forever.â
Darrell staggered, and the man tightened his hold on her arm. âYou are in pain?â he asked kindly.
She shook her head, misery clogging her throat like a gag.
Give your head a shake
, she thought.
Feeling sorry for yourself is not going to help find your friends.
To take her mind off her fears, she stole a sideways glance at her companion in the flickering torchlight. He wore a long robe of heavy grey wool under an open cloak of the same fabric. The robe was tied at the waist by a rough length of rope, from one end of which dangled an iron ring of keys that clanked against his leg as he walked. The only concession to decoration was tucked into the rope at his waist. Darrell recognized the polished stones and small golden crucifix of a rosary. Hemust be was a priest, then. But a priest with a menorah? Darrellâs head buzzed with unanswered questions. She wished desperately that sheâd taken the time to read Uncle Frankâs book or had listened even a little to the new teacherâs droning history lessons at school.
The man showed no further inclination towards speech but walked swiftly with his reluctant charge. As they hurried along one corridor after another she puzzled over the language he spoke.
We spoke
, she thought, for she had conversed with him as readily as if it had been her native tongue. Not Spanish, as sheâd taken an introductory course at school last year. And yet â heâd called her
Señhorita
...
The air began to feel fresher, but the hall was still clammy, and Darrell tucked her free hand into her long sleeve. They followed a path she couldnât hope to remember. First a left, then two rights and up a twisted spiral stair. Spiderwebs clung in every crevice, and the gritty floor showed no evidence of regular use, let alone cleaning. Darrell was convinced the passage doubled back on itself several times, and she tried to recognize repeating landmarks. Hadnât she seen that particular torch before? And what about that bit of broken plaster?
After ten minutes or so her muscles began to
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