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and now dangled and flopped as he staggered toward the opening, too weak now to shout, too desperate to stop. His knees were bowing in response to the crazy tilt of the ground.
    Constantine . . .
    He made it as far as the gates before he was at last spotted. In a slow, slowing heartbeat, a flood of robed monks rushed toward him from garden beds and dooryards. Roman crashed to his knees as—thanks be to God—Constantine pushed his way to the crest of the wave and was the first to join Roman in the cold dirt of the bailey.
    So stupid. He was so stupid. Now everyone would see. Everyone would know. Victor would worry.
    â€œRoman,” Stan said, giving him a shake. “What happened?”
    Roman tried to focus on his friend’s face. No one could find out about the Saracen. No one could find out about them.
    â€œBody,” Roman whispered, his nose nearly touching Stan’s. “In the wood.”
    His world went dark then, and the ground rushed toward him over the woman’s limp form. Even in the darkness, he could feel strong hands take him up, could hear Lou crying as he circled overhead.
    * * *
    Isra came into consciousness with a sob. She hurt so badly—her face, her head, her arm; her lungs felt as though they were being shredded with each shallow breath. She tried to writhe onto her side, but a pair of hands on her shoulders stayed her, pushed her back onto the mattress.
    â€œYou canna turn over. Lie still now.”
    Isra wanted to open her eyes, see the woman who owned the strange accent and who smelled of flowers, but her lids were so swollen that trying her hardest only rewarded her with a sliver of indistinguishable light. Her head screamed in protest and so she closed her eyes again and managed a thin whimper.
    â€œI’m certain you’re in a great deal of pain. Perhaps he’ll bring you a draught.”
    Who? Isra wanted to say. Who are you? Where am I?
    The gurgle of water being wrung into a basin filtered through the terrible agony in her head, and a moment later a heavy, icy cloth was pressed to her swollen, throbbing eyes. Isra tried to turn away, but her strength was as that of a newborn babe’s against the steely fingertips that held her temples. She thought her mind must be playing tricks on her, for she was certain she heard a beastly roar from beyond the walls of her prison; a chattering; birdsong.
    â€œShh. Stop that now. I’m trying to help you.”
    Isra tried to lie very still while the frigid sodden cloth seemed to push her eyeballs to the back of her skull. The throbbing steadied, but her stomach roiled. She tried to swallow down the pressure in her throat, but her muscles would not obey, and she knew she would choke to death should she vomit.
    She’d seen it before, after all.
    And just like that, it all came back. Huda’s small, broken body, her dusky skin covered in blood-smeared bruise points that would never fade. The bile on the side of her face, drying in her hair, the smell of sweaty men and spicy incense and fear.
    They’d left her on the floor like rubbish.
    Isra began to weep silently, the slight heaving of her chest enough to set off the bright starbursts of pain once more, but they paled in comparison to the misery she felt in her heart.
    Perhaps a door opened; somewhere behind her there was a sound like wood against stone and, for a brief moment, a cacophony of squawking and growls. Isra didn’t care enough to call out, to try to pull the now lukewarm cloth from her eyes to see who had come into the room. It didn’t matter. Huda was still dead, and she had failed. Perhaps her mind had only been playing tricks on her on the hillside; she hadn’t found Roman Berg and she never would. They would find her and kill her, if they hadn’t done so already.
    The woman must have lifted the cloth herself and was now wiping at her eyes. Isra could feel the crust taking many of her lashes as it was scraped free, slicing