The Burning Shadow by Michelle Paver Read Free Book Online

looked at her.
Even if you did escape
, he’d said,
you couldn’t go wandering on your own
. Well then, I’ll be a boy, thought Pirra as she hacked her hair to shoulder length. She would take the cuttings with her, so that her mother couldn’t use them in a charm to track her down.
    With pounding heart, she stuffed everything back in the bag: a block of pressed figs wrapped in vine leaves, some dried lambs’ tongues, eight salted and slightly mouse-eaten mullets; and two bundles of gold bracelets wrapped in linen to stop them clinking—one to pay the wisewoman, the other for herself.
    There. Hylas would have been impressed. Or maybe not. He was used to living by his wits.
    Again Userref stirred in his sleep. Pirra’s heart twisted. She would never see him again. And she couldn’t even say good-bye.
    On impulse, she placed the little wooden leopard on her pillow. Would he understand how much she would miss him?
    Quietly, she drew aside the door-hanging.
    He lay as he always did, across the threshold. Pirra saw that he’d smeared some of his precious green
wadju
on his eyelids, to help him dream of Egypt. She hoped it was working.
    Farther along the passage, her slave girls were snoring. At her evening meal she’d drunk little, and drugged the rest of her wine with poppy juice, knowing they’d finish what was left. She hoped she hadn’t overdone it.
    It was still early spring, and a chill breeze was moaning through the House of the Goddess. The passages were dark, except for the odd guttering lamp. She groped past chambers where people muttered in their dreams, and nearly trod on a sleeping slave. A sliver of darkness slunk toward her, and a cat’s furry warmth brushed her calf.
    Moonlight silvered the Great Court and the olive tree in the middle. Keeping to the shadows against the walls, she made for the far corner. The olive tree watched her go. Silently, she begged it not to betray her.
    Footsteps echoed through the Great Court.
    Pirra froze.
    A priest emerged from a doorway, horrifyingly close.
    Rigid with tension, she watched him make for the Hall of the Double Axe. She heard the faint rattle as he parted the beaded hanging and disappeared inside.
    It was past midnight when she reached the workshops in the western wall, and she was terrified that the woman had gone.
    In the darkness, she banged her shins against a pile of copper ingots, and nearly sent a shelf of clay jars crashing to the floor. Her heart jerked. Eyes glared at her from a corner. She breathed out in relief. The rock-crystal gaze of the ivory god followed her as she crossed to the seal-cutters’ workshop.
    It was empty. Had she missed her chance?
    A shadow detached itself from the blackness, and in the gloom she made out the white magpie streak.
    â€œYou’re late!” whispered the woman.
    â€œI couldn’t get away! I brought the gold—”
    â€œNot now. There’s an olive press in the next room. My cousin left rope. We tie it to the press and climb out. He’ll untie it before dawn, to cover our tracks.”
    By the faint light from a small window, they found the press—two massive grooved stones—and a thick coil of rope.
    Pirra peered out of the window. The night wind blew cold in her face, and she couldn’t see the rocks below. “How do we know the rope’s long enough?” she breathed.
    â€œWe don’t,” muttered the woman.

    The rigging creaked and the sails snapped as the black ship sped across the waves. Huddled in the prow, Pirra drew her scratchy cloak around her and felt the salt spray stinging her face.
    Freedom.
    Where would she go? How would she survive in the White Mountains, far from everything she knew? She felt frightened and exhilarated. It was too huge to take in.
    The rope
had
been too short, and she’d nearly broken her ankle jumping onto the rocks. The settlement dogs had sniffed her suspiciously, but Hekabi had