Page 127 of Shadowfox
It sounded mad.
But it might also be the only plan mad enough to work.
The house creaked as Sparrow moved in the kitchen. I heard the clink of a tin mug, the grind of spoon against ceramic, and Egret’s low voice asking if there was any more of the god-awful chicory coffee.
I eased away from Thomas, brushing a kiss against his forehead before I slipped from the room. Sparrow stood barefoot at the stove in a stolen cardigan, her hair twisted up and still damp from a cold rinse. Egret was perched on the countertop like he’d grown roots there, boots swinging.
“Morning,” I muttered.
“You mean strategically ambiguous middle-of-daylight,” Sparrow replied, handing me a mug of something bitter and hot. I hefted the mug in salute.
“We calling this breakfast?” Egret asked.
“We’re calling it not dead. It’s tasty. You should enjoy it,” Sparrow said.
I nodded toward the back door. “What’s our status?”
“I haven’t seen any patrols nearby,” Egret said. “I watched through the attic vent. It gives a decent view of the surrounding neighborhood. The streets are sleepy, but I suspect checkpoints have doubled on the ’Pest side.”
I sipped. “How are we even going to get to the pilgrimage group?”
“That’s the part I’m working on,” Sparrow said, drying her hands. “But first, I’m going to run an errand.”
Egret raised an eyebrow. “Define errand.”
She gave him a smile so sweet I didn’t trust it. “Just a quick visit to someone who owes me a favor.”
“And this someone wouldn’t happen to have state-rationed opiates?”
Her smile widened. “I guess we’ll see.”
She slipped out before anyone could stop her.
By midafternoon, I’d started pacing. Again.
Thomas hadn’t eaten much, and every time he shifted, I saw the pain twist through him like barbed wire. Egret tried distracting him with logistics, with bus schedules, priestly aliases, the existential horror of nun habits—but he struggled to focus.
Then the door creaked open.
Sparrow entered like she always did—zero drama, just a sudden presence. Her coat was slung over one shoulder, boots caked in mud, hair frizzy from the cold. She dropped a small brown bottle into Thomas’s lap without a word.
I looked down, then up. “What . . . is this?”
“Relief,” she said, grinning.
I blinked. “Where the hell did you get it?”
Sparrow smirked. “Let’s just say Dr. Sárosi at the clinic on Váci út is very concerned for my spiritual health. I may have convinced him that I was plagued by nightly visions and unrelenting fever. Poor man practically offered to carry me home.”
Egret, from the open doorway, sounded incredulous—or jealous. It was a fine line. “You seduced a doctor for drugs?”
“Don’t be crude,” she said, pulling off her gloves. “I seduced anurse. The doctor just signed the paperwork.”
Thomas laughed, then winced. From the look on his face, his shoulder didn’t appreciate the humor.
Sparrow winked at him. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”
It felt as though the entire city was staring at us, watching our every move, pointing an accusing, bitter finger in our direction. Every street corner we passed, every alleyway shadow we skirted, every glint of glass in a second-story window—it all felt like it was glaring, like the Soviets had stretched Budapest on a rack and were tightening it one notch each day.
