Then he went to the window and opened it. The rain outside had gotten worse. His pulse quickened. Its fast rhythm throbbed through the cut in his palm. Harper studied the sheer wall for a moment, then turned back to study the room.

"Quite a climb, isn't it?" Lord Cedric's low voice already carried the tone of triumph.

Harper ignored Lord Cedric for the moment. He strode to the encasement for the dumbwaiter and lifted the little door. The dumbwaiter itself would be in the kitchen, many floors below. A smell of grease and seared steak drifted up from the narrow shaft. It would be tight, but he could fit down it.

Harper turned his full attention back to Lord Cedric. The other man just watched him as if he were studying the behavior of a threatening but infinitely stupid baboon. Lord Cedric seemed content in his knowledge that Harper would never succeed in bringing him to trial. He probably didn't even expect Harper to escape from White Chapel.

"I want to tell you one last thing," Harper said. "I never had any intention of laying charges against you."

"No?" Lord Cedric asked.

"I came here to see you executed." Harper raised Brandson's pistol and fired a shot directly into Lord Cedric's startled face. The silver bullet tore through Lord Cedric's skull in a gush of blood and cerebral fluid. The sound of the shot burst across the patter of falling rain with a resounding clarity.

Harper dropped Brandson's gun and swung into the dumb-waiter shaft. He had to shove with all his strength to get through the small opening. Then he dropped into an abyss. Sharp pain tore through his right hand as he shoved his arms and legs out against the walls of the shaft to slow his fall. Above him the small door fell shut, locking him into darkness. The friction of the walls burned his hands and legs.

He began to slow and, at last, stopped. Carefully he lowered himself, letting his legs take the brute effort of descending the shaft while he used his hands to feel for a door. He could hear shouts echoing from above him. The guards hadn't broken in Lord Cedric's door yet. Otherwise the alarm bells would be screaming through the entire building. He still had time, he told himself. Already the steady count had begun in the back of his thoughts. Second after second slipped past him as he groped in the darkness.

Harper's left hand brushed across the edge of a door. He gripped the narrow lip and shoved at it. The metal bit into his fingers, even through his gloves. The door was locked on the other side. Harper tried again. He shoved until his right hand crumpled. His own blood ran out from under his glove and dripped around his wrist. He wasn't going to be able to pull the lock open.

The door was thin, though. He could probably kick through it. The only problem would be the noise. Harper drew in a deep breath of the stale air around him. He needed to remain calm. Slowly, he shifted his body in the confined shaft. He rested his right leg against the little door. Between the taut line of his left leg and his back, he held himself in place against the shaft walls. The muscles of his legs and back ached, but he didn't dare to shift.

He waited for the alarms to begin their piercing screams. Then he kicked with all his strength in time with the alarms. The tin door dented and then snapped off of its hinge.

Harper pulled himself through the opening, tumbled to the floor in a dark room, and then shot to his feet. He had to reach the steeple tower before the guards organized a floor by floor search. He had already lost precious moments waiting for the alarms to sound.

He cracked the door and looked out into the hall. Three guards rushed past and turned up another hall. They were still gathering in Lord Cedric's room, Harper thought. He still had a chance. The hall was clear. Harper bolted out of the room and sprinted for the steeple tower ladder at the far end of the hall.

He vaulted up onto the iron rungs. His right hand burst with blinding pain and refused to grip. Harper shoved himself up higher and caught his weight with just his left arm. He climbed fast, pouring his fear into the furious speed of his muscles. He hardly gripped a rung before he swung his arm up for the next one. He climbed past one floor, then the next, until he bumped against the underside of the trap door.

He shoved the door aside and pulled himself up into the room. The dim glow of the shadowed moon drifted through the one tower window, illuminating the scattered forms of storage boxes and bare rafters. Harper knelt and pushed the trap door closed again.

"The guards are already searching the grounds." Harper recognized Belimai s voice, but it took him a moment to see him. He stood in a deep shadow between a huge spool of rope and the wall.

"You shouldn't still be here," Harper said between deep breaths.

"Neither should you."

"I had trouble with a door."

"Your hand looks bad." Belimai came closer.

"Does it? I can't see it very well. It feels like hell." Harper curled his left hand around the right one. His glove was slick with blood.

"You aren't going to be able to climb like that," Belimai said.

"No." Harper glanced around the room. "Help me push one of those boxes over this door."

Belimai helped him and then sat down on top of the box next to him.

"So, do you have another plan?" Belimai asked.

Harper dug through his pocket with his left hand and pulled out the confession.

"You take this to Richard Waterstone. He's the editor of the Daily Word. Tell him that he has to print it."

"And you?"

"I'll make a full confession against Abbot Greeley. At the very least, it will cause a scandal. It might even get charges brought up."

"They'll hang you, Harper."

"Who knows, I might get lucky—"

"Don't lie to me," Belimai snapped. "You'll be killed."

Harper wanted to come up with some other plan, but he knew there wasn't anything more he could do. At least if he were arrested, he would have a trial. His statements against Abbot Greeley would be heard and put on record. If he could get Lord Cedric's confession published at the same time, then it might spark a full investigation of the abbot's practices.

"Take the confession, Belimai," Harper said quietly.

"No. I won't—" Belimai stopped short as the noise of boots clanging against the iron rungs of the ladder drifted up from below them.

"You have to go now," Harper whispered.

"I have an idea. Come here." Belimai stood and walked to the window. Harper followed him.

Belimai pulled out his jack knife and then, before Harper could stop him, slashed the blade across his own palm.

"Belimai, what are you doing?"

Belimai thrust his bleeding hand up to Harper.

"Drink it," he said.

Harper stepped back in automatic repulsion.

"We don't have time to argue, and I'm not going to leave without you." Belimai thrust his hand out farther. Harper opened his mouth to refuse, then stopped himself. It would have been utter idiocy to refuse. He wouldn't just be dooming himself, but he would be taking Belimai with him. He lowered his head over Belimai's hand and sucked in a mouthful of blood. It was blazing hot and tasted like it had been mixed with wine. A burning trail spread across his tongue and poured down his throat as he swallowed. Heat flooded through his stomach and radiated out through his body. His muscles felt feverish and strangely fluid.

Harper drew in a breath of the cold air. The scents of gunpowder, sweat, and his own blood hung over him. He could also smell Belimai's hair and the rats lurking in the dark corners of the room.