The second man’s pistol swings up, his finger moving to the trigger. And I do the one thing I can. I give the most “damsel in distress” screech I can manage, which is more genuine than I care to admit. I would much rather say I leaped out, sword in hand. But sometimes, screaming really is the right response, particularly as, even if I had a sword, it would not fare well against pistols.

Both men fall back at the sound.

“What the devil was that?” one says.

“It sounded like a woman,” the other responds.

I crawl away from the hedge, staying well hidden.

“Help!” I cry out. “Please, help! I have been beset by brigands!”

When there’s no response, I add, “I know I heard voices. Please help me, good sirs! We are wealthy travelers, and my husband shall pay you well for your aid.” I sniffle. “If he has survived the attack. I fear he has not and I am already a widow.”

A rich widow. A rich young widow. Surely, that is a tempting prospect. Unless, in my panic, I have overdone it. Yes, on second thought, I have definitely overembellished my tale of woe.

“Where are you, good lady?” A voice comes.

“I-I do not know. It is so dark and—”

As if on cue, thunder booms. Then there is a yelp. A shout. A gunshot.

I scramble behind the low wall. A figure appears at the hedgerow. Diving through the hedgerow.

It’s Nicolas. I push myself to standing and wave my arms over the low wall. He sees me, stops short and then veers my way. He reaches the wall, vaults over it and drops.

“Thank you, lad,” he whispers. “I—”

A bolt of lightning illuminates my face. His eyes widen. “You!”

“Yes, me,” I hiss. “Now do you regret not listening to me?”

“I listened—” He cuts himself short and motions for me to do the same.

“Where did he go?” a man says.

“Through a hedgerow, obviously. Unless he is truly a devil and vanished in a puff of sulfur.”

“I know he went through a hedgerow,” the first man snaps. “I mean, which side of the road.”

“You go that way. I’ll go this.”

Nicolas lets out a curse in French. I would love to ask the translation, if the world weren’t tilting, darkness edging in from all sides.

“Come,” he whispers. “We must get farther—”

He blinks at me. I follow his gaze to my blood-soaked sleeve.

“I was shot,” I say. “There is a third man. I do not believe it struck an artery, but I feel a bit light-headed.”

Nicolas lets out a string of curses now, some English, some French.

As he opens his mouth to say more, the clouds finally split, and the rain comes, pounding down, as if punishing us for its imprisonment. Nicolas speaks, but I hear only the rain and the wind, and even those become muffled and indistinct.

“I-I fear I feel rather unwell,” I say. “We should take shelter soon.”