AS TALL AS THE SUN IS BRIGHT: CHAPTER TWENTY

​           The cold woke her up. Her neck ached. She could barely move her fingers and her legs were numb. Her mouth ached, too, and something was obstructing her tongue.
            She heard herself moan. Wisps of memory came floating up to the surface of her mind. She had found Jason. But that horrible man with the slick black hair was plotting to pass him off as the king’s son. She was tied to a straight-backed wooden chair with coarse ropes and her lips and tongue were forced out of shape by the handkerchief gag they had knotted around her head. But she wasn’t in the upstairs room anymore. It smelled musty here, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light from a rectangular window high on the stone wall above her, she noticed row upon row of dusty black bottles lining one wall. So this was what they meant by “cellaring her”.

 ​The cold woke her up. Her neck ached. She could barely move her fingers and her legs were numb. Her mouth ached, too, and something was obstructing her tongue.
            She heard herself moan. Wisps of memory came floating up to the surface of her mind. She had found Jason. But that horrible man with the slick black hair was plotting to pass him off as the king’s son. She was tied to a straight-backed wooden chair with coarse ropes and her lips and tongue were forced out of shape by the handkerchief gag they had knotted around her head. But she wasn’t in the upstairs room anymore. It smelled musty here, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light from a rectangular window high on the stone wall above her, she noticed row upon row of dusty black bottles lining one wall. So this was what they meant by “cellaring her”.
         Her first priority now was to get the gag out of her mouth. The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook said you could scratch a gag off if you could rub your face against a wall. If only she could somehow rock the chair over to the stone wall under the window. She tried to thrust herself from side to side but had to stop from the pain in her head, far beyond a normal dehydration headache. It felt as if a spiked bowling ball was rolling around inside. It occurred to her that whatever sleeping potion they had given Jason to drink they had probably given her, too. That would explain the bitter aftertaste in last night’s water and why she fell asleep so quickly. The memory of that water stirred her resolve to get the gag out but at the same time she wondered if it was even worth the effort, not knowing what time or day it was. If the king and queen had made up their minds that Jason was the long lost prince there would be no persuading them it was a hoax, a fraud.
            That’s what she should have said to the Marquis, “You’re a fraud.” Why didn’t she think of these things in the moment? She could never give good come-backs until she was mulling something over hours later. She was right to have said, “You have no right.” He had no legal right. By law, she was a Becker and that made her Jason’s sister. This fraudster was breaking all kinds of laws: kidnapping and falsifying identity, not to mention tying her up which was probably some kind of assault. His twisted logic about creating a win-win-win solution was revolting. As if Rosalyn wasn’t an important part of Jason’s life. Maybe she sometimes felt, or feared, she wasn’t a part of their group, but the fact was she belonged to the Beckers. She had the Becker name. And anyway, weren’t we all related if we went back far enough? Though the Marquis would have no doubt found some way to turn that argument against her.
            She bristled again at what he had said about her family being cheap and lower-class, as if Jason would go from pauper to prince. Jason was always asking, “Dad, are we rich?” or “Dad, are we poor?” He would answer, “No, alas, we are respectably middle-class.”
            Even if they had been poor, her family was all she had. They were the ones who had gone halfway around the world to rescue her from a society that regarded boys as more desirable than girls, at least back then. She knew now that she loved them and they loved her and would do anything to get their children—both of them—back. Unfortunately, it was up to her to get Jason and herself back home, and headache or no headache, that was what she aimed to do.
            With a grunt of indignation, she swung her legs to the side. The chair scraped on the rough floor an inch toward the wall. This was going to take a while.
            An hour later, Rosalyn’s face was scratched and bleeding, but by continually rubbing the handkerchief against the stone wall and wriggling her jaw around she had succeeded in pushing the gag out of her mouth. It had taken her a few tries to realize it was more effective to rub the back of her head than her cheeks, but eventually the pressure began to ease and she was able to spit the pasty handkerchief out. She chewed on her tongue to make some saliva in her mouth—anything to moisten her throat—but even her saliva seemed to be dried up. All those bottles on the wall and she was unable to get at them! Wine usually tasted sour to her, but anything liquid would be welcome. For that, however, she would need her arms.
            She would just rest a little before attempting to rock the chair around ninety degrees. She needed to psych herself up for it. She had almost fallen twice when trying to reach the wall the first time and, as bad as it was being tied up, it would be worse to fall and smash her hands or face on the stone floor. There was no rush. After all, the door to this room was probably locked and even standing on the chair, she couldn’t reach the window above her. She tried not to think about what the Marquis had meant when he said she wouldn’t be telling anyone their plan. On second thought, maybe there was good reason to hurry.
            She was about to start rocking the chair around when she heard a rat-a-tat on the heavy wood door. She froze. Who would knock? If they were coming to torment her, they would have a key. Mustering the little voice she had left she called, “Yes?” and then, a little louder, “Help!”
            There was a scratching sound on the other side of the door before it swung open. There stood Robert, about four feet shorter than he’d been the night before, a rucksack on his shoulders and a crowbar in hand. He rushed over to her. “You all right?”
            “I think so. Really thirsty, and my head is killing.”
            “Hang on, I’ll cut you out.” He dropped his bag on the flagstone floor, took a serrated knife from a side pocket and sawed at the ropes for several minutes. Rosalyn felt her shoulders slump as her leaden arms swung forward. Robert had to grab her to keep her from falling face first off the chair. “Lie down,” he said gently, easing her onto the floor. “Rest your head on my pack.” Every muscle and joint in her body hurt as she slowly tried to stretch out. Her hands were still so numb she was worried they’d never regain feeling. Robert took a tube of ointment out of one pocket and began massaging the feeling back into her hands. His touch was so gentle and soothing Rosalyn felt a giant sob well up in her chest. She wanted to say something, to thank him for coming back before the Marquis and his vicious men did but she was afraid she’d cry.
            “I feel so bad,” he said, his warm hands working on her icy ones. “When you didn’t come down, I couldn’t think of an excuse to go looking for you without getting both of us in trouble and when my uncle finally passed out, it was too late, they already had you. From the back stairs I could make out the gist of what they were plotting. I had to get back and tell Cookie. I didn’t think I could get you out by myself.”
            “Got water?”
            “Oh, sure. Sorry.”
            From the satchel he pulled a glass bottle with a rubber cork and handed it to her. He propped her into sitting position against the chair, but her hands were greasy with the ointment and weak and she nearly dropped the bottle on the floor. Robert caught it just in time. He uncorked it and held it to her lips.
            Cool, sweet water. She drank half the bottle before coming up for air, breathless. “More, please.” It was good to drink, to be unbound, to be with another human being. When the bottle was empty, Robert asked, “Think you can stand?”
            She found she could, but she was still stiff and shaky. Just then a floorboard creaked above them. They stared at each other wide-eyed, then as if guided by the same instinct, moved toward the door which was still open a crack. Someone was whistling, coming down the back stairs. They held their breath. Was the yellow-stockinged footman coming to check on Rosalyn? She closed her eyes and tried to think him away. “Please, make him have forgotten something upstairs. Please let him not come in here.” Robert eased the door shut with his foot, locked the bolt and pulled Rosalyn to the hinge side so that if the door should open, they would be hidden between the open door and the wall. Her stomach tensing from fear and hunger, Rosalyn strained to hear if the whistling was coming nearer. She tried desperately to think of what she should do if or when the door opened. She couldn’t recall if the Worst-Case Scenario Handbook covered this situation. Her mind felt as sluggish as the circulation in her wrists and ankles. All she could focus on was a ray of light, highlighting the dancing dust particles in the air, that shone down in a diagonal line to the floor. It was shining right on a metal ring. A trap door! She grabbed Robert’s arm and pointed.
            In a flash, they were yanking at the ring with all their might. It yielded with a groan and opened to reveal a ladder, going down to a pitch-black, damp-smelling cold-cellar.
            “You first. I’ll close this door,” whispered Robert. “Hurry!”
            Rosalyn stepped into the square opening, bracing herself on the edges, and went down the ladder whose rungs creaked but held her weight. She was relieved to step onto dry packed dirt at the bottom. The whistling sound was right outside the door now and they heard a key scrabbling in the lock. In almost a single movement, Robert swung the trap door closed over his head and slid down the ladder. It was now so dark they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces. Robert whispered, “Move behind the ladder. He won’t see us if he looks in.”
            Above, they heard the door creak open and footsteps as the man walked toward the empty chair. Pause. He must be picking up the gag and cut cords. The chair was being dragged to wall. He might be standing on it to see if she had escaped out the window. Rosalyn realized her captors were no taller than Robert today, which was mildly comforting. Perhaps she could even outrun them since she was the taller one today. On the other hand, if they had weapons, that would be a different story.
            The man pulled open the trap door and Rosalyn stood stock still with her eyes shut. There were two of them and one of him and they could use the ladder to knock him down, maybe. But he didn’t attempt to explore any further and ran out the door without closing the trap.
            Whoever it was had gone to sound the alarm.