Heart and Crown chapter 5

Sylvia's betrothal party is rife with intrigue ... and murder

Sylvia

Sylvia returned to her laboratory and checked her plants, fed her fish, organized her latest specimens, and wrote up a report on Becky's growth and development. But always Mark was there in her thoughts: the sadness in his smile, the way his eyes had gone curiously gray, the feel of his arms around her in a polite hug, giving only what was expected of him and no more. He was a gentleman through and through, and it was a crime that he had no better title than esquire.

When a knock rang at the door, Sylvia took her time about answering. Hours spent in the sunlight and the magnetic field had opened her crown chakra, as it always did, leaving her able to feel the people in the fortress around her like lights and shadows. The woman at the door prickled with annoyance and impatience, so it was probably Rosalie, the queen's head maid. She was the one that Queen Joanna sent to oversee politics among the women, and Sylvia had never liked her much. If Rosalie was here, that meant it was time to talk about clothes, dancing, and etiquette. Sylvia took a little time to brace for that.

Composing herself and plastering a smile on her face, she opened the door. "Hello, Rosalie. May I help you?"

The maid was a middle-aged woman with a long, narrow face and a habit of anxiously twisting the hem of her blouse. She did not smile, only looked Sylvia up and down. "Goodness, child, you're filthy. What have you been doing?"

"I just got back from the menagerie," said Sylvia.

"Well! That explains it," said Rosalie. "I am to escort you to the royal tailor and take your measurements for a new dress. Your betrothal party is set for next week, and there's just time for a dress if we start now. You'd better shower, first. You smell."

Sylvia hurried to her rooms and did as she was told, carefully not thinking too deeply. No, if she thought too hard about the direction her life was headed, she would break down, and she couldn't do that. This marriage was to settle a dispute and end a war. 

She absolutely did not think about Mark.

The tailor was a harassed old man with a roomful of tired-looking men and women working at sewing machines. Bolts of cloth stood in racks along the walls, and tables with measuring boards and cutting tools lined the back wall. 

"A new dress, eh?" he said, glaring at Sylvia as if it was her fault. "Betrothal gown? With that hair, I'm thinking blue or green."

"Blue," said Sylvia quickly. She already had a closet full of green dresses and blouses.

The tailor rolled his eyes, but he selected a shade of blue like the sky's zenith at midsummer, then added shimmering pearlescent satin as trim. Sylvia stood on stool as the tailor cut and pinned the outline of a dress around her waist, often consulting a pattern book nearby. Then he took it off and laid it on a table.

"Come back Wednesday for the final fitting," he said, flapping a hand at her. "Go. Shoo."

Sylvia departed, Rosalie at her heels. "I can't tell if he hates people or if he's just an old curmudgeon."

"He hates people, but he loves clothes," said Rosalie, unsmiling. "Come on, etiquette lessons next."

Sylvia gave herself up to these. It wasn’t terribly difficult, as Kelcaster shared many similar rules as New Olympus: how to greet a lord or lady, how to curtsey, how to behave while dancing, eating, and so on. But beneath it all, she found herself longing for her fish, her plants, her kitten, and her best friend who was always there when she needed him.

Her days became very busy. It seemed to her that she was dragged from one end of the fortress to the other, her every spare moment occupied by some new obligation. She only managed to slip out to the menagerie twice in the following week. Each time, Becky had grown visibly, and greeted her with the same exuberance. The game warden told her that Becky never missed a meal and greeted the keepers as friends. "She's too tame, I'm afraid. You'll never be able to release her into the wild."

"I was afraid of that," Sylvia sighed. "Well, I know the other biologists will be excited. My reports are going crazy on the network."

"Oh yes, there's been a procession of academics out here," said the warden. "They want to see you interact with her."

Sylvia groaned. "I'm so busy with politics right now. Maybe next week, once my betrothal party is over?"

The warden agreed to this. Sylvia played with the cat as long as she dared, then dashed back to the fortress in time for a lesson on dining etiquette that she already knew. Being outdoors opened her mind, and she spent the lesson looking at her teachers and the servants who had been dragged in to act as dinner guests. All of their minds were preoccupied with other things, and she amused herself by trying to guess what they were.

The night before the party, when her dress was done, her lessons learned, and numerous other tasks accomplished, Sylvia had dinner with the king and queen.

King Quinlan and Queen Joanna were nice enough, she supposed. If only it had been her own father and mother sitting there. King Kelcaster was great fun and would have kept everyone rolling. But he was hundreds of miles away, building fortifications to protect his territory against the dryptotitans.

"Thank you for your cooperation in this engagement," said Quinlan as they sipped their soup. "My son is difficult at times, but give him his way and he'll treat you well."

"I'll do my best to make him happy," said Sylvia, at her most polite. 

"I'm sure you will," said Quinlan. "I expect you to keep him busy. Too busy to cause trouble, at least until Carl is old enough to begin his duties as crown prince. Having two princes is so troublesome.”

"I’m a botanist," said Sylvia brightly. "I'm hoping to hike all over Viena and gather specimens. Do you think he'd help me?"

"I doubt it," said Joanna. "That boy likes nothing but his horses and his women."

"Dear," growled the king.

"I'm only preparing her.” The queen turned to Sylvia. "He already has three children by three different women. You'll be expected to produce a legal heir for him because none of them are allowed to inherit. Is that understood?"

“Yes, ma’am.” Sylvia's heart sank into her lace stockings. Of course she knew that part. That was part of the whole arranged marriage deal, after all. But if John was a whoremonger, her dreams of a happy relationship with him were dead on arrival. She’d likely be just as alone as she was now, and probably even more lonely, but with greater expectations on her head. She valiantly did not think about Mark and returned her attention to her soup.

“Now dear, you’ll put the girl off her dinner,” said the king. “John isn’t that bad. He’s a bit of a lazy lout, but he’ll treat you right. Now, Carl shows much more promise as a leader, even though he's only nine.”

“Now who is souring the girl’s appetite?” scoffed the queen. “Let me tell you about Viena, dear.” 

The rest of the dinner conversation was about the little kingdom of Viena, the way it was located on the seacoast, the lush forests and rich soil that produced the best vineyards and grazing land in all the settled lands of Catalonia. Sylvia listened politely. She had been to Viena before the war started and had liked it, but she wondered what was left of it once the battle mages had passed through. There had been few photos on the news nets, and Mark had said little. But asking her hosts about it seemed bad manners, so she kept her questions to herself.

“What about you, Sylvia?” said the king in a lull in the talk. “Where have your studies led you lately?”

Sylvia brightened. “Oh, I’ve all but identified a new species of spark cat!” She launched into a long description of Becky, aware that the queen was instantly bored. The king, however, was interested and asked intelligent questions.

As the servants cleared away the dishes, the king and queen rose to their feet. Sylvia followed their lead and curtsied to them properly. “Thank you for the dinner, your Majesties.”

They murmured polite nothings, and Sylvia escaped back to her rooms. There she sat on her bed and stared at her party dress on its hanger in her closet. It was finished and ready for tomorrow night. She’d be wearing it when her fate would be sealed. No, no, she must not think of it like that. She’d be the princess of Viena, free to explore it and care for it. She’d probably be rebuilding it, too, if she knew anything about battle mages.

As she climbed into bed a little later, she pulled out her phone and texted Mark. “Dinner with the king and queen tonight. John has three kids by other women.”

Mark’s response came a few seconds later, as if he’d been waiting with his phone in hand. “Oh. That’s … um.”

“Yes, um. That’s all I could say, too. Mark, tell me this marriage won’t be terrible.”

The app said he was typing for several minutes, but from the pauses, she guessed he was typing things and erasing them. He didn’t know what to say. Finally he said, “What matters is securing peace, right? Happiness is something you choose.”

It was a careful, correct answer. Sylvia knew, logically, that he was right. But behind the words she knew he agreed with her or he wouldn’t have been so careful. She mentally rephrased it for him. Yes, it will be terrible, and I’m so sorry for you.

---

The betrothal party took place in the king's hall, a newer building next door to the fortress. Since the old fortress lacked the floorspace for large gatherings, the previous king had built a lavish hall with polished marble floors, stained glass windows, and walls covered in mirrors to make the huge hall seem infinite. This was where parties and formal banquets were held, and where state weddings happened. Sylvia had been there a few times before, but never as the guest of honor. 

The blue dress fit her exactly and set off her red hair and hazel eyes. The queen's hairdresser had woven a blue ribbon through the intricate braids in her hair, then let the rest of her hair fall in rippling red waves down her back. She had spent so much time in the sun that her red hair was streaked with gold, and it was very becoming. She had also never worn this much makeup before and it added a sparkle to her already vivacious looks.

Prince John wouldn't arrive for another hour, so Sylvia had time to mingle with the other guests. She found her other biologist friends, who were also dressed in their finest. They went off in a corner by one of the snack tables and talked excitedly about Becky's progress and whether she was a spark cat, a hybrid, or a subspecies.

Mark appeared and joined their little party, contributing an observation now and then. All her friends knew and liked Mark. He made a tall, dark figure among the bright dresses of the women, and even the blue and fawn suits of the men. Mark had dressed in a doctor's suit of black coat and pants with no tie. His silver healer's badge was pinned to his jacket, the only bright thing in his dress. Even though he smiled and laughed readily enough, an atmosphere of gloom hung about him. 

It was bad enough that one of Sylvia's friends drew her aside and said in an undertone, "He's not taking this well, is he?"

"No, but what can he do?" Sylvia whispered back. "He's in no position to ask for my hand."

"Would you marry him?" her friend asked. "He's only a healer."

"Oh, I'd love to marry Mark," Sylvia whispered. "But it can't happen, so keep that secret. I have to keep my chin up about John. He already has three children by other women!"

Her friend gasped in horror and the topic was diverted safely from Mark. But Sylvia's gaze kept drifting to him. He stood alone by the snack table now, hands in his pockets and shoulders slightly stooped. His dark suit and hair made him an imposing figure, in addition to his being a few inches taller than everyone else. She wanted to go to him, take his tattooed hands, and assure him that he would be all right, that he'd find someone else. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. She smiled at him now and then, and he returned it, his pale eyes so striking in his dark face. 

The noise of voices around them grew louder, more excited. One of her friends tapped Sylvia on the shoulder. "The prince is here. Better hurry over there, the Duchess of Montsec is waiting to introduce you."

Sylvia hurried through the crowd, lifting her skirts to avoid treading on the hem. A group of men were being shown through the main doors, and she had to be waiting to meet them, preferably without panting like she'd run the whole distance of the ballroom.

She reached the Duchess of Montsec a few minutes ahead of the prince and his entourage. "Deep breaths," the Duchess whispered, smoothing a strand of Sylvia's red hair back into place. "Remember to smile." She had acted as Sylvia’s surrogate mother while Sylvia was being educated in New Olympus and was well suited to introduce her to her husband-to-be. “Whatever happens, you must keep the prince pacified. We don’t want him to break off the engagement due to some slight.”

“I’ll be the friendliest doormat ever to dance a waltz,” Sylvia promised her. She concentrated on catching her breath, and was still breathing a little quickly when Prince John strode up to her.

He resembled his father: short, stocky, with chestnut hair and a square, determined jaw, and looked old enough to be his father's peer, not his son. His suit was a different style than she was used to, a bright green embroidered silk vest worn over a white shirt with billowing sleeves, but it was becoming. A handful of men accompanied him, all nobles of various houses that supported him in his conflict with his father. They were all about his same age, some going gray at the temples, and similarly dressed. They stood out among the New Olympus nobility like pheasants among chickens.

Sylvia smiled and curtsied as the Duchess introduced her. John smiled and bowed, politely kissing her proffered hand. "The honor is mine, madam. Pray accompany me. I must speak to my father." He offered her his arm, and she had no choice but to take it. 

He was the same age as her father, and inside, she was horrified. But outwardly she smiled and nodded to everyone they passed, accepting congratulations graciously. She was the perfect arm candy, her red hair and blue dress accentuating his green vest and pants and white shirt. At one point she glimpsed Mark in the crowd, a stiff smile marring his face. She smiled at him and said inside her head, Oh Mark, if it's that painful, don't smile at all.

His smile vanished and his eyes widened.

They reached the dais where the king and queen sat with the rest of the nobility. One of John's men stepped forward. "Presenting Prince John Viena of Viena province, and Princess Sylvia Kelcaster of Kelcaster territory."

The King nodded, unsmiling. "So, here you are. I see you've found your bride."

"She is quite satisfactory, Father," said John, his dark eyes fixed on the king.

Sylvia gave John a questioning look. He had not spoken a single word to her beyond their first introduction. 

John did not spare her a glance. All his attention was bent up on his father. "I surrendered in the face of your magical butchery, and I will have it known that I am here under protest. Will you grant me my position or not?"

"Now is not the time," said the king with a gesture to the crowd. "Tomorrow, perhaps. Tonight, pray enjoy yourself. Get to know your new bride. I dare say she will keep your hands full."

"Yes, I read her file," said John, still without looking at Sylvia. "Highly educated, highly intelligent, just the woman to keep me in line. Don't take me for a fool, Father. I know what you're pulling."

The heat rushed to Sylvia's face. I'm standing right here, you know.

King Quinlan leaned forward, his eyes snapping. "Do not insinuate anything in front of witnesses, John. I advise you to watch your tongue."

John's men surrounded him and drew him backward, murmuring, "Not now," and "Calm down, this is not the time." The King settled back in his chair, and John allowed himself to be moved away, across the ball room. Sylvia went with him, although his arm felt stiff under her touch, as if he was only escorting her as a formality.

They arrived at the snack bar without Sylvia knowing how they got there. Her friends and Mark had prudently vanished, and she was left alone with her future husband and his men. He finally withdrew his arm and spoke to his men in low voices, turning his back on her entirely. Sylvia stood there, hands clasped, not knowing what to do. She couldn't very well leave him, not at a betrothal party. She was expected to stick to him like a burr and do her best to make friends. Instead, he had shut her out. None of his men looked at her, either. 

But Sylvia had been around rude people before and was undaunted. She moved to the snack bar and helped herself to a slice of cheesecake. She stood there eating it and watching John and his men at their conversation. Even though they spoke in low voices, she could hear them clearly enough.

"... come all this way just to be slighted!" John was snarling. "He will answer for his wrongs or so help me!"

"This is neither the battlefield or the stateroom," said another man who reminded Sylvia of a bulldog. His lower jaw was thrust forward and his bottom teeth stuck up. "You are expected to match with Kelcaster to secure her father's support in the coming conflict. He cannot turn you down once you have his daughter."

Sylvia deliberately took another bite and turned one ear toward this conversation.

"Kelcaster can go hang for all I care," John growled. "The Church will support me. Father will give me an answer before I leave, whether tonight or tomorrow. And if he will not grant me my title–"

"Shush, not here," hissed another man, looking warningly at Sylvia.

John looked at her, too. She gave him a blank smile, as if she had heard nothing, and went on with her cheesecake.

As if by silent signal, the whole party joined her at the snack bar and began piling plates with dainties. Sylvia lifted another tiny plate with a slice of cheesecake, the red cherries on top particularly red and luscious. "Try this, my lord. It's delicious."

He accepted it, along with several cookies and a pile of fruit. "Tell me, Sylvia Kelcaster, has your father a standing army?"

Sylvia didn't like this question. "Of course he does, my lord. He maintains one because of the dryptotitans. They're quite bad up north, but especially during the migration in the fall."

"Has he battle mages?"

"Yes, but it is a small force, no more than twenty or thirty. The mortality rate is high for battle mages."

"Thank God," John muttered. "You've probably been allowed to run wild here without your family's supervision, haven't you? Once we are wed, I will expect you to entertain my nobles and their wives in my absence. No more running about the countryside collecting plants and such nonsense."

"Of course, my lord," said Sylvia, trying valiantly not to hate him.

"Good girl.” He again turned away and addressed his men. "Kelcaster will surely be persuaded …"

They moved away from the snack table in a group, the men now munching from their plates. Sylvia grabbed a few cookies and followed, doing her duty. Inside, she imagined pulling a knife and stabbing John in the back. He expected her to maintain his rule while he was absent, dragging her father into his war. Well, she would rule, all right. She would run wild, as he accused her, and nothing could stop her from riding out to collect specimens. She tried not to despise him, but she did, and each of his men, too. They reminded her of a lot of short, fat toads, all overly-well fed, accustomed to power and using men's lives as pawns.

John seemed to remember her. He turned to her and waved a hand. "Go amuse yourself, girl. I'll send for you when it's time for the betrothal ceremony."

Sylvia curtsied and walked away, looking for her friends and Mark. She found them a short distance away, hiding among the pillars on the east side of the hall, watching her and John. When they saw her coming, they beckoned furiously and drew her into the cover of the pillars and a row of potted plants.

"What's he like?" squealed one of the biologists.

"Oh, he's awful," said Sylvia, standing next to Mark and sliding her hand into his. She hadn't realized how cold and tense she was until his warm hand closed around hers. "All he cares about is my father's military strength. He's over there plotting sedition right in front of us, and he thinks I'm too stupid to understand."

One of her friends handed her a glass of punch. Sylvia chugged it down, hoping it was spiked. She could still see Prince John across the hall, because the other guests weren't going near him or his men. It seemed he wasn't very popular at the moment. She watched as he bit into the cheesecake she had given him and hoped he choked.

"So, more war, then?" Mark said quietly.

Sylvia nodded. "He wants his dad to give him that title, I guess because of how much power goes with it. And if he doesn't get it, he's escalating the war. Algol above, I'm going to be relegated to giving balls for his nobles. He doesn't plan to ever be home. What a rotten husband."

She looked up to see Mark drumming one knuckle against his cheekbone. He noticed her glance and forced a smile.

"You don't have to do that," she said. "Smile, I mean. It looks so painful."

His blue eyes flickered. "You–you said that to me. Across the hall."

“What–I did?” All Sylvia had done was look at him and think clearly.

“Yes,” said Mark. “Were you using your crown chakra? Telepathy is still theoretical, but I think I may have picked up something–”

Across the hall, Prince John abruptly coughed and clutched his throat. Sylvia smirked. “Oh look, he’s choking. I hope he’s embarrassed.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mark impatiently. “Sylvia, have you ever used your crown chakra at all? Tried to read thoughts?”

“Oh, sometimes.” Sylvia watched the prince in growing dismay. He dropped his plate and clutched his throat with both hands. His men gathered around him, and one ran for a glass of water. “Mark, he’s choking really bad. They might need a healer.”

“What?” Mark looked up, saw the prince in distress, and bolted. His long legs carried him across the hall in a few bounds, where he knelt beside the ailing man.

“You gave him that cheesecake he was eating,” said one of her friends. “What’d you do, salt it with Strychnine?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Sylvia said in growing anxiety. “I’d eaten a piece of cheesecake just like it.”

“He’s turning purple,” another of her friends observed. “Oh look, Mark’s going full chakra healing. I’ve never seen him work before. Do his tattoos always light up like that?”

“Usually.” Sylvia ought to run to John’s side, ought to help Mark somehow, but something held her back. If she had really given John poisoned food … if John died … She glanced around for an exit door. There ought to be one on this side. Yes, there it was, about twenty feet away. She set off toward it at a walk, foreboding catching at her with shadowy claws.

Her friends were busy watching Mark and John and didn’t notice at first. Then they rushed to catch up. “Oh yes,” said one, “you’d better clear out of here fast. I don’t think Mark will be able to save him. Come on!”

Her friends opened the door for her and stood around it, pretending to talk, screening her from sight as she slipped out. One by one they dispersed and walked toward different exits.

Sylvia took off her high heels, and carrying them in one hand, sprinted for the fortress. It was a warm spring evening with a hint of coolness in the air. She followed the side of the king’s hall to the fence at the back, which she followed behind rows of carriages until she arrived at the fortress’s wall. She typed the passcode at the small gate there and entered the dark passage inside.

From there it was a simple matter of racing to her room by way of the back passage, which nobody ever used, unbuttoning her dress as she went. Once she reached her room, she tore off her dress, flung it under the bed, then pulled on her regular clothing as fast as she could. Tough pants, heavy shirt, hiking boots, a scarf to wrap around her bright hair. She grabbed her satchel out of the closet. Usually she used it to carry samples, but tonight it would hold belongings. She packed with feverish haste, her hands shaking, trying to stay calm enough to think of what she’d need. They’d be sending soldiers after her any minute now.

I think I assassinated the prince. I handed him that cheesecake. But what if it was meant for me? Anybody could have eaten that one slice. It was the prettiest one. Am I supposed to be dead? Or was it meant for John? 

Even in the midst of her panic, an icy cold part of her mind stayed clear. This part of her mind knew exactly what to do. Even though her heart was racing until she could scarcely breathe, she slung her satchel over her shoulder and sneaked out of her room, taking the stairs to the kitchens, and from there, out of the fortress through the delivery gate. It was deserted out there, but shouts rang in the distance. The hunt was on.

She ran along the hedges and landscaping that bordered the fortress’s grounds until she gained the street, where she slowed to a walk. No use attracting attention. She walked along the busy street, blending with the other pedestrians, head down, looking like one more tired laborer walking home for the night.

As she turned onto the road leading toward the menagerie, several men on horseback entered the road at the far end, scanning the crowds for her. She kept walking and turned the corner, putting them out of sight, but her heart began to beat wildly. They were hunting her, and she had no proof that she didn’t poison the prince. Because she did poison him. But she had no time to wonder how. Right now she had to get to safety.

The menagerie was deserted, as it usually was at this hour. The guard at the gate greeted her and went back to his book. Good, he hadn’t gotten word to look for her, which meant that the search hadn’t extended this far yet.

She hurried to the paddock with her kitten and unlocked the gate. Her call of, “Here, kitty kitty!” seemed more shrill than usual. It brought Becky at a run. The kitten seemed to have grown another size since Sylvia had seen her last. The fluffy baby fur was falling out, to be replaced by sleek adult fur in tawny gold with black spots. The cat’s shoulder was higher than Sylvia’s head, the legs longer than she was tall. 

“Come on, Becky,” Sylvia chirped, stroking the huge cat’s head. “We’re going for a little walk. Come on, stay close to mama.” She led the cat out of the gate, and keeping one hand firmly twined in the scruff of her neck, jogged with the cat back toward the menagerie gate. Becky loped beside her, not minding the hold.

When they reached the guardhouse, the guard dropped his book and leaped out to bar her way. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing? You can’t take that animal out of here!”

“Oh, please get out of the way,” Sylvia panted. “I’m under orders to take her out and release her, and I have to do it before full dark.”

The guard stepped hurriedly aside. “All right, then, Sylvia. But if that beast causes any trouble, you’re the one liable for damages.”

“I know, thanks,” said Sylvia. “Goodbye!” She raced away with the cat into the dusk, headed for the outer gates. Hopefully they hadn’t closed them yet, hopefully she still had a chance.

It was a mile to the outer gates, and in the sky, Algol blazed in a vast crescent across the sky. Its shadowed side had a faint bluish glow from starlight, and around it the stars shimmered. Her crown chakra began to open under the influence of the planet’s magnetic field, and she began to calm a little. There was nobody out here but the stars, the road, and the grassy fields on either side. Becky still loped beside her, her breath rasping a little from Sylvia’s grip on her neck. Her mind was a bright star to Sylvia’s mental sense. She reached toward that star with her mind and stroked it, trying to reassure it.

To her surprise, the cat’s mind reached back. A sense of pleased purring filled Sylvia’s mind. We run, yes? Fun, yes?

The icy, logical corner of her mind was astonished at this, but also pleased and curious. I’m communicating telepathically! I did it with Mark by accident, and now I’m talking to Becky!

She concentrated on making her thoughts as simple as possible. We run from bad men. They want to hurt us.

The purring grew louder. Nobody hurt you, Mama. I not let them.

They rounded a bend and came into sight of the outer gates. Sylvia’s heart sank. The gates were closed, and the guards were moving around them, setting the bars in place. Dismay filled her mind like the sourness of bittergourd.

Bad men? Becky halted and her ears shot forward.

Bad men, Sylvia confirmed, taking a moment to try to catch her breath. The outer fences were fifteen feet high and built of brick, with another layer of barbed wire on top that was canted outward to repel invading xenofauna. There was no way out except by the gate.

She stood there in silence, panting, holding onto Becky’s fur, trying to figure out what to do now. If she couldn’t get to the safety of the woods, then she’d eventually be caught. The acres of land around the outer wall was kept clear cut to provide little shelter for invading predators. She and Becky would be caught. Becky would be shot, and Sylvia would be dragged back to stand trial for the murder of John Viena … and she had no proof that she didn’t poison him. Because she did.

Abruptly Becky’s thought struck her mind, loud and fast. The purring had stopped. I take us away from bad men.

The cat turned and butted her head into Sylvia’s midsection, knocking her down. Before Sylvia could even grasp what was happening, the huge cat seized her by the back of her jacket, lifted her off the ground, and set off at a quick run. Sylvia’s instinct was to kick and struggle, but she kept as still as she could, her legs curled to her chest to avoid scraping the ground. The cat held her firmly, her teeth clamped on the fabric. She was carrying Sylvia as a mother cat might carry a kitten.

The cat ran at an angle to the distant fence, moving away from the gate and its guards, headed toward a secluded corner without lights. Sylvia timed her breathing to the beat of the cat’s paws and tried to listen to Becky’s mind. But Becky was not thinking to her. Her green eyes were bright and unblinking, running by instinct, moving to escape.

They reached the foot of the wall. Becky crouched for a second and leaped fifteen feet to the top of the brick wall. There was a narrow ledge there between the posts that supported the angled barbed wire. The huge cat balanced there, her tail swinging in circles. Then she leaped over the barbed wire and dropped to the ground outside.

The cat dropped Sylvia at the last second, so they hit the ground together with a thump. Before Sylvia could regain her feet, the cat snatched her up again and was off, this time at a faster run than Sylvia had ever seen. They fairly flew up the hill north of the wall. 

They plunged into the outlying trees of the forest, and Becky slowed to a trot, head swinging as she peered from side to side. Then she dropped Sylvia and stood listening, ears swiveling like satellite dishes, nostrils flaring.

Sylvia cautiously climbed to her feet. Her neck and shoulders were chafed from hanging by her clothes, but otherwise she was unhurt. She hesitantly stroked Becky’s head and immediately felt the purring in her mind again. We safe now? came the cat’s thought. No bad men here. Nothing but food.

We must go further away, Sylvia thought. Into the woods where there’s food and bad men can’t find us.

The purring increased in volume. Becky rubbed her head against Sylvia. Then together they walked on into the darkness.