They cleared the fence and the forest swallowed them.
Agnes ran. Full speed.
Branches caught her dress, her hair, the skin of her arms. Andrew held on with the desperate grip of a child who had decided the angel was running and the angel's running was his, and his arms were locked and his face was buried and his fifty pounds of starved, terrified body was the lightest and heaviest thing Agnes had ever carried.
She ran for twenty minutes. Past the outer wards. Past the patrol perimeter. Past the scent line where Viremont wolves would stop tracking because the forest beyond it belonged to neutral territory and pursuit into neutral territory required authorization that patrol captains lacked.
She stopped. Leaned against a tree. Her arms were shaking so violently the vibration was transferring into Andrew's body. Her chest was heaving. Her wrists were screaming. Her lip was still bleeding. The cold had turned her fingers blue and her teeth were chattering.
