She was hot. She smelled of sweet flag and mint, which even the intense smell of Huon’s mescolanza couldn’t mask.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready. You won’t let go of me? You won’t let me fall?”

“I’d sooner die.”

“Don’t die.” She sighed, turning her head back and briefly brushing her lips against Reynevan’s. “Don’t die, please. Live. Cast the spell.”

Weh, weh, Windchen

Zum Fenster hinaus

In omnem ventum!

Hop out of the window

It won’t touch a thing

The bench leaped up and shifted under them like a skittish horse. In spite of all her resolution, Nicolette was unable to suppress a cry of terror. Neither, indeed, was Reynevan. The bench rose two yards in the air and spun around like a furious spinning top. Huon’s workshop blurred before their eyes. Nicolette pressed her fingers over Reynevan’s arms entwined around her and squealed, more from eagerness than anxiety, he could have sworn.

Meanwhile, the bench shot straight through the window, into the cold, dark night. And immediately dived steeply down.

“Hold on!” yelled Reynevan. The rush of air pushed his words back into his throat. “Hoooold oooon!”

“You hold on! Oh Jeeesuuus!”

“Aaaaaagh-aaaaaagh!”

Just as the Nuremberg padlock gave way and the beam thudded down, the door to the tower flew open and the Raubritters poured out onto the stone staircase. They were all armed and enraged and so blinded by bloodlust that Buko of Krossig, who was first across the threshold, stumbled on the steep steps and fell straight into a pile of muck. The others leaped on Samson and Scharley. Samson roared like a buffalo, fending the assailants off with wild swings of the axe. Scharley, also roaring, fought them off using a halberd he had found by the gate. But the advantage—and the combat skills—were with the Raubritters. Retreating before the venomous thrusts and treacherous slashes of swords, Samson and Scharley fell back.

Until they felt the hard resistance of a wall at their backs.

And then Reynevan flew past overhead.