She can’t even curl in on herself, and when she tries to retreat, her toes can’t find the way. It’s not as simple as crawling backward, it’s not like trying to climb out from beneath a table in a game of hide-and-seek, and the feeling of space behind her, when she finds it again, is terrifying. She can’t see where she is going, forward or back. It’s a single passageway, she has passed no turnings, and yet she is suddenly so confused. She is lost. She is closed in on all sides and simultaneously alone in an empty, vast space.

But no, no, that’s not true, and she knows better. She knows better. She has come through so much, and a little rocky grave is not for her, and when she stretches out one leg, she feels the incline that leads her back up and she knows she can push herself along that way. When she stretches out one arm, she finds a drop-off, but not too steep, not so steep she needs a rope.

She is in a tube. She can retreat. She can advance.

She advances.

Still, she should have brought a light, she thinks, as she passes from the tight confines of the tube into something more open, just a little, where she could gather herself and turn around, go back headfirst. She clutches the bundle of her clothing to her chest and tries to think, one hand on the path home so she will not lose it. A cooling breeze comes from below and to her left, soothes her sweaty brow, helps her put her thoughts in order. If she goes back, there’s a chance she can steal a rushlight, but she will have no way to keep it lit through that tunnel, and no way to light it once she’s through. The same for any candle, though there’s a better chance, if she can find a glass housing to put around it. The nuns will have them, surely, though obtaining one from them seems unlikely. The madwoman’s tower, then? Perhaps, but now the king’s lapdog is her guard dog instead. So no, there is no chance of light.

Which leaves one decision only: Can she go forward in blackness—or will she die if she tries?

There is no guarantee that this path leads to safety, or anywhere at all. But the breeze from below is not only in her imagination. The wind must come from somewhere, mustn’t it? If she goes slowly, if she leaves things behind her to mark her path, if she turns back the moment there is a branch she may not remember later—she can do this. She can go by touch and instinct. She is a slippery thing of darkness, an eel in girl’s skin, and she is brave.