After escaping the city, they’d started in . . . some direction. Still in her ferret state, Jane clung to Gifford’s shoulder while he rode their stolen horse out of London as fast as they could go. Pet ran on ahead of them, leading the way. To where, Jane couldn’t tell. It was away from Mary’s soldiers; that was all that mattered. The roads would be the first place anyone would look, so they diverted into the forest. The hooves of their stolen steed beat the ground in a relentless tempo. Hounds bayed in the distance, making Pet lift her nose to the wind. It seemed their pursuers gained on them. Jane huddled in the curve of Gifford’s neck, terrified and exhausted, as they veered here and there, lost in the dark, dark night. Gifford hunched lower over the horse. Jane scrambled to adjust her weight, but he scooped her up and held her against his chest. “I have a plan,” he said. Wonderful. Jane loved plans. He glanced down at her. “It’s a good plan. I think.” Jane bit him—not hard—urging him to just get it out.
