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With the arc of your approach, the door now looms opposite of you, the light from the lamps outside casting a warm glow around it. With each step, you now move further away from the lights, not further into them ... though now the prospect of getting through the door unheard - or rather, <span class="mu-i">not</span> getting through the door unheard - robs you of whatever relief it might have won you. Though telling it true, it would not have been much. You are near as exposed here as you were on your first stride out from the chimney. You certainly cannot afford the usual hemming and the typical hawing, nor any lingering contemplation. Get to the yard. Get to the stable. Get to the grooms before Machares. Get the Hell out of this hole, and never - damn it, no, you cannot even allow yourself to think ahead. Focus only on the next step. There is nothing else in the Whole but this next step. The roiling, full-body flush of stress and panic and even a bit of guilt and shame - you cannot quite put a name to what specifically you are feeling guilty and ashamed of, though it certainly isn't for want of wares. Rather, you just cannot articulate anything at the moment; you feel as if you are about go up in flames or fall apart at the joints or ...
A step. A pause, perhaps longer than necessary. And then, another step. That is all there is. That is all there can be. A few steps further on, you consider lengthening your strides, but in short order you decide against it. Already, you are striding longer than you usually do, and you have exceptionally long legs to begin with. If you were to go any longer, then it seems that you would be playing with worse odds for making an unsound step. Besides, you are so close now ... just a few more, then the door. You catch yourself leaning in and speeding up; as difficult as it may be, this last gasp must be slower, not faster, lest you bungle the all important door. With all the haste of a drop of dried paint, the final approach is agonizing, but you inexplicably manage it before your heart, knees or anything else gives out.
Holding yourself steady, you strain your ears, listening for wind - or any other sounds on the other side of the door that will give you away once you ease the thing open. As of now, you cannot hear anything ... but to tell it true, even if you did, would it matter? Would you really just wait here, outside of the door on the chance that it would let up before you were seen or Machares made it to his husbandmen? Would you honestly sneak <span class="mu-i">back</span> to the chimney, to find another way through? No, you wouldn't. This is just going to have to work. Of course, you aren't thrilled about the prospect of having to open this door wide enough to allow the riding habit through without brushing up against anything. Now more than ever, you are reconsidering how suited this dress is to this kind of work. Carefully, you let your hand rest on the handle, and allow yourself just enough time for one last deep breath.
