The window was small and narrow. The kind that existed in bathing chambers for ventilation, and the architect who had designed it had never once considered the possibility that a pregnant woman in silver burns would need to fit through it.
She crossed to it. Pushed it open. Cold air hit her face with the specific hostility of a winter night that had been waiting for exactly this moment to remind her that escaping a building was only step one and surviving the climate was step two.
She looked down.
Five stories.
The wall below the window was stone. Old stone, rough-cut, carrying the particular texture of masonry that had been exposed to weather for two centuries and had developed the kind of surface that was either excellent for climbing or excellent for dying, and the distinction depended entirely on the skill of the climber and the mercy of the gravity.
Agnes looked at the window. Looked at the five-story drop. Looked at the window again.
