1 by Charlotte MacLeod

Author:Charlotte MacLeod [Kurtovi, Jamezdin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: 0
Published: 2012-07-14T23:16:19+00:00

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CHAPTER TWELVE

"We're in luck, Professor Shandy. It rained in the night."

"Ungh?" For a moment Peter couldn't recognize the voice, or remember why he was lying on a bed of boughs at the bottom of a rabbit hole. No wonder he'd been dreaming about little cakes labeled eat me. Then it all came back to him. "Oh, Miss Binks. Good morning. What time is it?"

"A while before sunup is the best I can tell you. I've been outside reconnoitering. Observation seems to indicate we're in the clear. The rain must have thrown the bloodhounds into confusion. Do you know, I shouldn't be surprised if that mess you and Mr. Swope made trying to get through Muddy Bottom may have confused your pursuers into believing you were both sucked into the quagmire. You didn't miss it by much, you know."

"Er—no, I hadn't realized." Peter would have been as well pleased if she hadn't told him, though he supposed he ought to be relieved that he was still around to be told. "So you think those goons have called off the hunt?"

"Appearances would so indicate, but vigilance should still be our watchword, don't you think? We must remember it was overconfidence that lost the British the Battle of Trenton."

Peter supposed they must, though he himself didn't particularly want to. He ought to be up and doing with a heart for any fate instead of lolly gagging here among the spruce tips.

The spirit was willing enough, but what about the tensors and flexors? He tested a few muscles, counted his limbs and found them all present as far as he could tell without offending Miss Binks's presumed maiden modesty, and slid out from under the blankets.

Getting dressed was no problem. He'd slept in his clothes on the premise that they must be ruined already, so what difference would a few more wrinkles make? A glance at his pant legs confirmed his assumption. A rub of his chin told him that his whiskers had been waxing while the rest of him waned. How in Sam Hill would he and Swope be able to hitch a ride back to Balaclava Junction looking like a pair of skid-row bums? Asking this elderly spinster whether she happened to have a razor on the premises seemed to him both futile and a trifle indelicate. He prowled along the tunnel to the so-called bathroom and did what he could, which wasn't much.

Cronkite Swope was still asleep. Miss Binks didn't appear to mind a body sprawled on her parlor floor, so Peter decided he didn't, either. He hauled a short log near the fire to serve him for a stool and accepted the cup Miss Binks handed him. It was a mug this time, of thick white ironstone with a blue line around its cracked and discolored rim. The stuff inside looked like black coffee and smelled the way one might presumably expect rabbit-hole coffee to smell. Anyway, it was hot and wet. He took a sip and was pleasantly surprised.

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