//CLARA//
The stable smelled of piss and that particular ammonia-sweet rot. I pressed my back against the rough-hewn wall, my lungs still burning from our sprint across the kitchen gardens.
Gary's hand found my shoulder, his fingers damp through my sleeve. Hattie's breath came in shallow sips beside me, her small frame tucked into the shadow of a feed barrel.
"Guards," Gary mouthed, tilting his head toward the yard.
I heard them too. Boots on gravel, they were circling the main house.
The cart we'd spotted from the kitchen window sat twenty yards distant, its canvas covering flapping in the morning breeze like a flag of surrender.
"We're not going to make it," Gary whispered, his breath hitching in the frigid air.
His eyes darting toward the main house where lanterns were swinging like frantic fireflies. The light caught the sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the sub-zero wind.
"They're bottlenecking the exits. If we walk out there, we're just target practice."
