Then she heard a loud rolling squeak from somewhere above her— like the sound of a closet door that had slipped off its track. She pulled her feet under her and struggled upright again; she looked up and waited. A moment later she heard heavy footsteps on the wooden planks over her head; the steady shafts of light were suddenly shattered into a thousand bits of confetti, and pieces of dirt and straw drifted down on her head. Someone was standing directly over her now. She rammed her shoulder against the wall but it made no sound at all; she jumped up and down and stamped her bound feet, but the dirt and straw absorbed the impact. On the third jump she came down askew and lost her balance, falling silently onto the floor. She looked up and saw the figure’s shadow moving away—he was leaving! In panic she filled her lungs with air and emitted the loudest muffled scream her sealed lips would allow—a kind of piercing groan that savaged her vocal cords but made dismally little sound. She did it again and again until her voice began to fail—and then she saw the ceiling begin to move.

It lifted from one end, opening like the lid of a lunchbox; dirt and straw rained down everywhere, and she shut her eyes and turned her face away.

“You’re awake,” a man’s voice said. “I was beginning to wonder if I hit you harder than I thought—not that it matters much.”

She instantly recognized the voice—it was the man in Nick’s car. She squinted and looked up at him; she could see nothing but a towering silhouette standing and staring down at her.

He squatted and dropped down into the room beside her.

Alena scooted away until she collided with the wall; she felt as though a python had just been dropped into the pit.

“It’s an old threshing floor, in case you’re wondering. Sorry about the rats. Have you bumped into any yet? Sorry—maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned them.”

She used the wall to struggle back to her feet again.

The man stepped closer and looked her up and down, then held up one finger and wiggled it. “Let’s see the head.”

She turned away.

He grabbed her by the jaw and jerked her closer. He twisted her head to one side and ran his fingers roughly over the crown of her skull—it hurt terribly.

He rubbed his fingers together. “You’re okay—not even a drop of blood.” He turned her head forward again and brushed the hair back from her face. “The Witch of Endor,” he said. “So how come people think you’re a witch? You look pretty much like any other woman to me—better than most.”