around him, making his face burn.
He had no idea how to reply. Perhaps this way I donât have toâat least until Iâve thought of something to say . His face still pulsing with heat, he angled his arms, steadied his legs, and bit his lip. Need to concentrate on the rope walk , he told himselfâbecause it was turning out to be harder, much harder, than the one in the park.
The breeze sweeping up from the street was surprisingly powerful, full of the distant sounds of the street below. Harry glanced down, and his heart throbbed as he made out the tiny shapes of people, horses, cabs. The breeze flapped through his clothes, buffeting him about, and each time he lifted a foot from the rope he had to adjust his position, leaning into the gusts so that they wouldnât blow him off. Completely different from the park .
The wind was affecting the rope too, making it quiver, and it bounced slightly with every step. Harryâs heart pounded and the palms of his hands, flung out on either side of him, were damp with sweat. He tried to think of nothing but his feet, edging along the rope step by step, and he kept leaning slightly into the wind, letting it support himâ¦
With no warning, it changed direction.
Harryâs arms flailed. Desperately, he tried to right himself as he tilted off the rope, unable to regain his balance. The wind spiraled around him with its noises of the far-below street, and Harry watched his arms blur through the air, felt his heart hammer inside his chest, and then, just in time, shot out a trembling leg.
The shift of weight tilted him back, just a little. He re-angled his arms, and that helped too. The wind buffeted, his clothes flapped, the rope shuddered. He was balanced again, but only just. His legs were weak and trembling, and his face clenched as tight as a fist . Concentrate. Think of nothing but the rope. And yet, even as Harry tried to do just that, he couldnât help noticing something out of the corner of his eye.
A window in a nearby building. It was level with him, ten stories up. Someone was watching him from it. A face. White hair, white eyebrows, a pair of staring eyes. A pale-suited figure, two hands resting neatly on the windowsill. Whoever he was, he was watching Harry, and something made Harry start turning his head to take in this figure properly, to see him more clearly.
The wind blew. Harryâs arms sprang out on either side, but he was tilting off the rope again. His arms swirled, his heart pounded, his hands snatched at the empty air as he fought to pull himself back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the pale-suited figure had vanished from the window.
Leaving nothing but dark, empty glass.
Chapter 13
Harry had only glimpsed his observer. But the observer himself had seen Harry plainly. Even now, as he stepped back up to the window, he continued to study the boy who, for some reason, was teetering on a rope stretched between two buildings, nearly ten stories up in the air.
About eleven years old. A street boy, from the look of him. A shoeshiner, given certain dark blotches on his clothes and face which the observer had spotted, even at this distance.
The man stood at the window. His suit was elegantly tailored, its cloth cream. Neatly manicured fingers rested on the polished windowsill, then rose to fetch a pen and a small leather notebook from their ownerâs pockets.
The boy had regained his balance. For the second time, he had nearly fallen, but his quick, nimble body had righted itself, and he was wobbling onward, making his way once more along the quivering rope. The man observed this and made a quick sketch of the two buildings and the rope. Next to it, the pen dotted out several lines of complicated numerical code, along with another symbol, a very curious one indeed.
At first, it was just a circle. But the steel nib shaded inside it, until it was black with ink. Further up the penâs length, a finger twitched,
He had no idea how to reply. Perhaps this way I donât have toâat least until Iâve thought of something to say . His face still pulsing with heat, he angled his arms, steadied his legs, and bit his lip. Need to concentrate on the rope walk , he told himselfâbecause it was turning out to be harder, much harder, than the one in the park.
The breeze sweeping up from the street was surprisingly powerful, full of the distant sounds of the street below. Harry glanced down, and his heart throbbed as he made out the tiny shapes of people, horses, cabs. The breeze flapped through his clothes, buffeting him about, and each time he lifted a foot from the rope he had to adjust his position, leaning into the gusts so that they wouldnât blow him off. Completely different from the park .
The wind was affecting the rope too, making it quiver, and it bounced slightly with every step. Harryâs heart pounded and the palms of his hands, flung out on either side of him, were damp with sweat. He tried to think of nothing but his feet, edging along the rope step by step, and he kept leaning slightly into the wind, letting it support himâ¦
With no warning, it changed direction.
Harryâs arms flailed. Desperately, he tried to right himself as he tilted off the rope, unable to regain his balance. The wind spiraled around him with its noises of the far-below street, and Harry watched his arms blur through the air, felt his heart hammer inside his chest, and then, just in time, shot out a trembling leg.
The shift of weight tilted him back, just a little. He re-angled his arms, and that helped too. The wind buffeted, his clothes flapped, the rope shuddered. He was balanced again, but only just. His legs were weak and trembling, and his face clenched as tight as a fist . Concentrate. Think of nothing but the rope. And yet, even as Harry tried to do just that, he couldnât help noticing something out of the corner of his eye.
A window in a nearby building. It was level with him, ten stories up. Someone was watching him from it. A face. White hair, white eyebrows, a pair of staring eyes. A pale-suited figure, two hands resting neatly on the windowsill. Whoever he was, he was watching Harry, and something made Harry start turning his head to take in this figure properly, to see him more clearly.
The wind blew. Harryâs arms sprang out on either side, but he was tilting off the rope again. His arms swirled, his heart pounded, his hands snatched at the empty air as he fought to pull himself back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the pale-suited figure had vanished from the window.
Leaving nothing but dark, empty glass.
Chapter 13
Harry had only glimpsed his observer. But the observer himself had seen Harry plainly. Even now, as he stepped back up to the window, he continued to study the boy who, for some reason, was teetering on a rope stretched between two buildings, nearly ten stories up in the air.
About eleven years old. A street boy, from the look of him. A shoeshiner, given certain dark blotches on his clothes and face which the observer had spotted, even at this distance.
The man stood at the window. His suit was elegantly tailored, its cloth cream. Neatly manicured fingers rested on the polished windowsill, then rose to fetch a pen and a small leather notebook from their ownerâs pockets.
The boy had regained his balance. For the second time, he had nearly fallen, but his quick, nimble body had righted itself, and he was wobbling onward, making his way once more along the quivering rope. The man observed this and made a quick sketch of the two buildings and the rope. Next to it, the pen dotted out several lines of complicated numerical code, along with another symbol, a very curious one indeed.
At first, it was just a circle. But the steel nib shaded inside it, until it was black with ink. Further up the penâs length, a finger twitched,
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