The trapdoor led to a tunnel. He lit a lantern and helped her down. “I still don’t understand how you survived,” she said, even though her words set off detonations of afterfright. “After seven days of the salve . . .” “I stopped on the sixth day,” he answered calmly, his profile beautiful in the dim, swaying light. “Why?” He hesitated. “I wanted to preserve the remainder of the salve as a souvenir.” He’d lived because he’d loved her. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Did you ever find your friends? I came across Mr. Madison in Kashgar, looking for you.” He shook his head. “I reached Rawalpindi October of that year, well after their return.” “I searched for you,” she said. It sounded quite inadequate, her action. But she’d sought him until she no longer dared to be abroad, with her advancing pregnancy. “Thank you,” he said, after a moment. She had no idea how to respond to that. Fortunately she didn’t need to. They had reached the end of the tunnel, where a flight of stairs led up to another trapdoor.
