He tosses a bundle to me and I clutch it to my chest with one hand, the ceremonial blade in the other. He grabs two water bladders from a hook by the door and then pauses, looking at me.

I'm still standing where he pushed me against the wall.

He reaches a hand out toward me and I take it. His fingers trail along the white Binding rope on my wrist and I see a hint of a smile touch his lips. He opens his mouth to say something but I'm deaf with the continuing siren.

I feel the cottage shudder as something crashes into the door. Harry turns from me and grabs Jacob. Slings him over his shoulder. At the door Harry pauses, placing his hand against the wood, touching the Scripture carved into the frame. I want to close my eyes, to block out what is happening. To pretend as if this day has never begun—will never begin.

I try to get a feel for the blade in my hand, for my only weapon. From a young age everyone in my village is taught how to fight for a day such as this. The wood on the handle is smooth and slippery from the dampness of my palm. It feels awkward and unwieldy, and the bag of food throws me off balance.

And then, before I have a chance to rearrange myself, to prepare, Harry throws open the door and we are running.

Even encumbered with the boy, the water, an ax and his own bag of food, he's faster than I am, his steps surer than mine, my terror blurring my eyesight. Argos tangles himself around my legs, not knowing any other refuge, and I stumble.

Our cottage is set back behind the Cathedral, just on the edge of the main living area of the village. Platforms are scarce here and I run for the closest, thrown off by the bulky bag I carry pressed to my chest. My fingers are about to close over the rungs of a ladder when it slips from my grasp, the mist of the morning making the wood slick. I pause and look at the people above

—only half full. The man who pulls the ladder up to the platform just shrugs at me. Not even an apology. Not that I could have heard it with the siren continually pulsing in my senses.

Beside him on the platform men pull at bows, letting loose arrows toward targets somewhere behind me. I can feel the compression of an arrow splitting the air as it cuts next to my head. I don't know if the arrow was meant for me or for something behind me and I refuse to look over my shoulder to find out. Reality is too much to bear at this moment and so I shove it aside.