Rough hands roused Mags from a restless sleep. It was pitch black all around her and she was nestled deep into something delightfully scratchy-soft. She inhaled to get her bearings, letting her keen nose tell her where she was. It smelled of damp straw and mold here, and cold, ancient stone.
Gaspard balanced the knife on his finger, at the handle just before it met the blade.
Sunday. Penny and the twins go to church, which gives me at least two hours to figure things out. I go to the furnace room for a pair of scissors and cut the bloody sleeves from yesterday’s shirt. I linger, waiting for Bergdorf.