Page 89 of Go, Rogue

Slowly.

Steadily.

He ignores the screaming pain in his thigh and the unsteadiness of his ankle and the slick of blood now covering his fingertips from the small nicks and cuts the stones give him. They may be smooth on the outside, but the insides of the crevices are sharp and jagged, cutting into the soft pads of his fingertips mercilessly.

He ignores all of it. He will find a way out because he has to. Catherine is out there. Somehow, she’s done it—she’s come for him. And he’s not about to let her go again without him.

He heaves himself up even though his body is soaked in sweat and shaking. He’s undernourished from days of wormy biscuits and moldy carrots. He’s drunk only the water he can get by pressing his tongue to the stone walls for the morning condensation. His weakness doesn’t really matter though—not now. He doesn’t need endurance; he needs to get out of this root cellar.

And if he has to use every last ounce of strength to do it, he will.

This is the last chapter. The final stand.

He inches higher.

His fingers ache. His shoulders and back throb. He’s short of breath and his injured leg screams at him for every excruciating ounce of pressure he puts on it. He’s dizzy and feverish and prone to disorientation—but he keeps moving.

Up a little higher, and then a little higher again. He can see the top of the wall. He’s so close now.

“Elphame, help me,” he whispers.

Please.

He scratches his way up another inch and then slots his hand into a small opening. He grasps hard at the rock—but recoils as something in that dark hole moves beneath his fingertips and sinks its fangs into his skin.

“Arrgh!”

The pain is instant, flooding his hand. And then he’s falling. Screaming as he hits the cellar floor.

No, he thinks. God fucking damnit no!

He’d been so close.

He closes his eyes and lies on his back, dazed by the impact.

No.

He doesn’t have the strength to try again. That was it—the last of it.

“Andrew! Is that you?”

And then a moment later—

“Andrew, can you hear me?”

He opens his eyes slowly. Catherine? Or an apparition of her. One he’s loath to let go.

“Andrew! Hold on. I’m coming down.”

He blinks.

There she is.

A mass of blonde hair falling out of a navy bonnet, dirt and sweat lining her features. Her blue eyes are intent on him and her face has a new smile. He adds it to his catalog as he stares up at her.

It really is her. His Catherine. Her head bent over the grate opening.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll get you out.”