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The needle hurts like a bitch, especially with the rocking of the winch-platform on the way up, but there really is not anything for it. The belltower is as dark as it ever gets, only sporadically illuminated by the sparks from the spluttering oil, but as you get closer and closer to the hatch, you feel more and more dread. It is perverse, really. The Belfry has been the one place in the Mount – no, in the <span class="mu-i">world</span> that you have ever felt properly safe in. And now … you do not think that you have ever been more scared about the prospect of entering a room in your entire life. In a moment of carelessness, you have spoiled your sanctuary. Oh, to be sure, you are probably jumping at shadows here, not to mention that if all goes well this could very well be the last night that you sleep here … but as a <span class="mu-i">memory</span>, as an <span class="mu-i">idea</span>, it is never going to be an unassailable haven again, never going to be special like it was. It is just going to be one in a long line of bolt holes of varying security that you and father have squatted in over the years.
Ah! Damn these womanly histrionics to the Pits! What does it matter if the memory is tainted or not if you are not alive to recall it, huh? You are seriously considering slapping yourself, when it suddenly occurs to you that if you suspected that someone potentially set up an ambuscade for you in the Belfry, then you would have been much better served by unencumbering yourself and then climbing up the tower silently and going in through one of the windows … not to mention, if someone was in there, all they would have to do would be to break the other half of the winch and you would plummet to your death.
You actually start convulsing with anger at how stupid you have been. At the rate you are going, if you survive these next few days it will be because of nothing more than dumb luck. It takes you a moment, but you get your head screwed back on properly, then you finish the ascent, swearing under your breath and grinding your teeth the whole time. With the jug pressing up against the hatch, you do what you can to calm yourself before in one desperate moment you throw wide the hatch and lunging up into the main room of the first-floor wand first.
Swaying wildly from the unexpected violence of your departure, the winch-platform batters itself back and forth against the floor underneath you, the thuds of the impact echoing up and down the belltower. Beyond that, the room is quiet, and the space is still, save for the spitting of the oil and the bobbing of the jug. However, it is dark in here, and the light from the sparks, though limited, has been enough to keep your eyes from adjusting completely. What you can see does not look like it has been disturbed, but you have been making so many mistakes, how can you trust yourself to make that judgement?
