The Seeker - Isobelle Carmody [70]
In the end, I had no choice but to climb painfully back into the hated drain, wrap myself in the coat Rushton had given me, and wait until I could see the silo. It was only slightly warmer inside, and because I lay there motionless, the icy cold soon crept into my bones. I thought of the fever I had only just thrown off, and prayed it would not return.
After a long time, the snow seemed to lessen. I still could not see the silo, but made out a shape that seemed to be the back of the milking barn. Far better to be inside it than in the drain, I decided, and I slid out into the snow. My limbs felt stiff and unwieldy, and when I tried to step forward, my legs were so slow to obey me that I fell headlong into the snow. Cursing and weeping with frustration, I gritted my teeth and forced myself to rise again. Then I began to hobble carefully toward the barn. The snow slowed, and for a moment, eerily, the moon reflected on it. Or perhaps it was a veiled sun. I saw then that it was not the milking barn ahead, but another, smaller shed I did not recognize.
It began to snow hard again. I did not change direction, because I knew that I could not be outside for much longer without falling into a deadly lethargy that would have me lie down and die, imagining I was in a warm feather bed. Reaching the shed, I found that snow had blown against it in great drifts. I had stumbled all around it before I realized with despair that the door must be buried in snow.
“Who is there?” called a voice. I staggered in a circle, trying to see who had called out.
“Is someone there?” the voice called again, marginally closer.
“I am here,” I called, all at once terrified of being left alone. I saw a flash of light and broke into a shuffling run toward it.
“Who is it?” asked the voice, much closer now. Suddenly a face appeared in front of me out of the swirling whiteness. I knew him. It was an unsmiling Misfit my age named Domick. I had sometimes seen him with Rushton, I remembered, and the thought reassured me.
“Elspeth Gordie?” He held the lantern up to my face. “What are you doing here?”
I stood in the midst of the storm, my mind reeling. What could I say? What possible reason could I have for wandering around on the farms? The silence between us lengthened, and I saw suspicion form on Domick’s face.
At last he said, “Well, you had better come back with me. We’ll talk where it’s warmer.”
He struck off to the right, and I followed him closely until we reached a squat, sturdy building I had not seen before.
“What is this place?” I asked through chattering teeth.
Domick bundled me through the door. “The watch-hut,” he said shortly, and hustled me across to the fire. He hauled off my snow-crusted coat and threw a thick blanket around my shoulders, then he piled more wood on the fire.
“Are you numb anywhere?” he asked. Wordlessly, I pointed to my feet. He wrestled off my boots, grimacing at the bloody mess of my knees. Both feet were white and bloodless.
“Frostbite,” muttered Domick, and he began to rub them vigorously. In a short while, sensation returned with burning, painful clarity. Only when I was writhing with pain did he stop.
“You were lucky. Don’t you know anything about frostbite? You could have lost a foot if you’d left them that way,” he scolded.
I shuddered.
He gave me a bowl of warm water to bathe my knees and palms, and when I had finished, he pressed a mug full of soup into my hand. Then he fixed me with a disconcerting stare. “Well, what are you doing out here?” he asked.
I sipped at the soup, then looked up at him. “I’ve run away,” I said, for there was no other answer.
He nodded. “How did you get past the maze?”
I sipped