Night had long since fallen, and Baz still sat in the dingy toolshed with his arms around Gemma. She’d drifted to sleep at one point, but he suspected she wasn’t truly at ease. He certainly wasn’t. He wouldn’t feel relieved until they were back at the Dread Master’s safe house with their deaths having been confirmed to anyone hunting for them. And he likely wouldn’t feel truly at peace until they were settled under false names somewhere away from London and free from the reach of Gemma’s murderous family.

It had been hours since he’d heard anything from the outside.

The time had come.

Moving carefully and quietly, he woke Gemma from her fitful rest. They rose from the spot they had occupied for hours. Hunger, fatigue, and thirst were taking a toll on him, and he was certain Gemma felt it as well. But they couldn’t stop yet. Not until they were safe.

He opened the door of the toolshed, careful to make no noise. She slipped out beside him. He closed it again. They were alone. The small slice of moon hanging in the cloudy sky provided just enough light to carefully navigate by but not enough to illuminate them. They followed the edge of the wall, which would take them behind the chapel but also spill them out onto the street eventually. They were one dim walk away from freedom.

They hadn’t gone more than a few steps, placing them behind the chapel, when the sound of tools stopped Barnabus short.

“Sounds like a shovel,” he murmured.

“The church’s gravedigger ain’t going to be working at this time of night,” Gemma whispered.

“Would a resurrectionist ply his trade this early in the evening?” It was dark, yes, but it was hardly the middle of the night.

“Not unless they ain’t got any other choice.”

The sounds of digging continued. Barnabus didn’t want to think overly much about what that meant. Whether he put a name to the danger or not, he couldn’t deny it was past time to get out of the churchyard.

They inched their way along the wall. As they emerged from the back end of the chapel, keeping to the darkest shadows, Barnabus searched the churchyard, dimly lit by moonlight. He didn’t need to look long.

Two men stood over a grave, a pile of dirt beside them. They had made a lot of progress. The dirt appeared loose, not clumps like it would have been if the grave weren’t a very new one.

“That’s ours,” Barnabus said in a tense whisper.

“The wall, Baz.” Gemma’s strained whisper was filled with worry. “On the corner of the chapel.”