a rasping breath, and held it by biting her lip. She pressed against the rockface and levered herself up, ignoring Peter’s helping hand. She stepped to the cliff and looked down. The wreckage below was still burning.
The wind shivered the fringe of her dress.
Finally, she cleared her nose with a sniff and drew herself up. “Let’s go.” She turned away from the devastation and limped to the bridge in her bare feet. Peter followed her. The smoke from the wreckage veiled them. Peter looked down. Rosemary didn’t.
They trudged into darkness as the bridge met the tunnel. The click of scuffed stones echoed back at them. After several minutes, the light at the other end eased into view and a fresh breeze cut through the smell of damp soot.
Then their clothes changed.
Peter stumbled, then steadied himself on the tunnel wall. “Another story,” he muttered. “I hope this is the last one.”
He saw Rosemary in silhouette, in a jacket and a knee-length skirt, facing away from him. He stepped towards her. “Hey, are you —”
She turned suddenly and hugged him so hard, his breath left him.
“What was that for?” He held her.
“Promise me something?” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt front. “Stay close. Don’t let me lose you like Puck.”
“Look, you didn’t —”
“Promise me!”
He hesitated. Then he laughed. “Stay close? They’d have to pull me off you.”
They held each other a moment, then Rosemary pushed away. She walked down the tunnel faster than before.
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