She rushed past the torch flickering in its wall bracket, her eye on the doorway, her hand outstretched far ahead of time. Her heart thudded. It seemed she would never reach the latch. She chanced a quick glance behind her. Oh, Saints! She wished she had not. Sir Magnus stepped out of the gloom into the light as he stalked her, his steps measured, his lips set in a grim line. His large hands clenched and relaxed as if they longed to wrap themselves around her neck. The length and tempo of his stride quickened, eating up the distance between them. Her heart thudded. She reached the door. Frantic knowing he was so close, she fumbled with the latch. With all her might, she shoved the door until it was open enough for her to squeeze through. Turning, she pushed with both hands, her feet anchored to the floor. It near closed. With a sharp, loud noise, his boot slammed against the outside edge. She was but a finger's width away from latching it. He thrust it toward her. For all the help it did Muriele, she may as well have been an ant trying to stop a log rolling down a hill.
