Cat kissed him, cupping his face in her long hands and brushing his eyes with her lips.
'Come. The wolves may still be about. We will have to be swift.'
They moved out on to the landing together, Cat gliding over the floorboards, Michael's boots clumping loud enough to make him wince. But the storm drowned out the minor noises. The rain had been blown away, but the wind was savaging the trees down by the river. Even here they could hear the tossing branches and aching trunks.
Down to the kitchen, leaving the sleepers upstairs. There was a low red glow in the grate of the range, clothes set out to dry before it. It made Michael shiver to think of leaving the security of the house for the baying night outside.
He collected an old oilskin cape his grandfather had given him, his game bag and a dozen articles to make life in the Other Place bearable: matches, a knife, candles, soap (which made Cat raise her eyebrows) and the shotgun with a box of shells (which made her frown).
Cat went to the scullery and rummaged there, clinking and rustling.
'What are you doing?' he asked in a hiss.
She emerged with an iron saucepan, a large bulging sack and a length of baler twine with which she fashioned a crude sling. 'Provisions and such. Take this, and I'll try the door.'
He was weighed down, struggling and encumbered, and cursed under his breath.
Cat opened the back door a scant six inches, peering out cautiously. The wind pushed hair back from her forehead. It was blue darkness out there, night giving way to morning, the sky swept clear.
'They're gone, I think,' she said at last. 'We can go.'
'Are you sure?' He felt a definite reluctance now, had an idea that this was his last chance, the place where the road forked once and for all. If he went out of that door the homely kitchen would never be as safe again. His world would have changed.
'Come on, Michael!'
Cat was already out of the door, her hair flying and whipping like a live thing and the wind billowing her shift around her thighs. There were leaves spindling and rocketing in the yard like the ashes of some old fire, and the clamour of the wind-beaten wood was a steady roar.
'All right, all right.' He stepped outside, and the wind banged the door shut behind him.
They started across the yard, eyes slitted. He thought of the wilderness he had glimpsed once before, the wide tangled emptinesses, and had a mad idea.
'In for a penny, Cat!' he shouted into the gale.
'What?'
He clanked back the bolt on the half-door of the stables, releasing a warm waft of horse and hay. Fancy stamped invisibly inside.
'We'll take a horse with us, Cat. We can ride it over there.'
'Michael, wait—'
But the idea had him. He fumbled with tack, bridle and saddle, and pushed his thumb in the mare's mouth to open her teeth and slipped the bit in. Cat's urgency had caught him and he worked with speed. It was dizzying to be doing this, this madcap thing, and his reservations were blown away. He laughed as he saddled the startled mare, cinching the girth tight and finally leading her out into the tempestuous yard.
It was brightening, the navy blue of the sky becoming pale over the mountains. Dawn was not far off and his grandfather would waken soon, if he were not up already. Cat gathered Michael's belongings, and they clattered out of the yard like drunken thieves, the mare yanking at Michael's grip on her bridle. She seemed to smell what was afoot.
'Where are we going?' Michael demanded.
'The bridge. Through it is the clearest way.'
The bridge. 'But Cat ...'
She ignored him and ran on like a wind-flung leaf towards the dip where the trees were roaring and the river foamed white in the gloom.
'Damn it, Cat!' He ran after her, the mare prancing at his shoulder. It was harder going once they hit the wet grass of the meadow. He left the gate open behind him, which was unthinkable, but Cat was becoming a livid blur in the trees, leaving him behind.
'Hold on!'
He cursed, stuck a foot in the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle as Fancy circled in confusion. Then he dug in his heels and shouted a wordless cry of exasperation. The mare leapt forward into a gallop towards the trees. They rushed up like a wall, but he did not slow. He bent over her neck as the first branches raked through the air above his head, flaying his face with twigs and briars, and kicked her on.
The ground dipped sharply, and the mare ploughed down the steep slope almost on her haunches, taking short bounds over stumps and fallen trees. Michael let her have her head. She was raised, the ears laid back on her skull and the whites gleaming in her eyes. Her hoofs were skidding and slipping in the muck and leaf litter.
Then she gave a lurch and twist. He had an impression of free fall for an instant, there was an eruption of ice-cold white spray around them and water soaked him up to his crotch. They were in the deep part of the river, and the current was racing them along to where the bridge loomed, as stark and massive as the barbican of a fortress, the water disappearing into its maw.