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Linduial followed hurriedly after him, wide, frightened eyes flickering back to the chaos in the Hall. Perhaps if she'd stayed she'd have been rescued right away. Maybe Sorn would never have reached her in time to kill her.
Maybe Father's sheep fly around the farm when no one's watching.
A histerical giggle escaped her lips at this mental image as she ran with Scyld across the yard, ducking, weaving. It struck her as faintly ridiculous: the yard seemed deserted, all the tumult and confusion had moved indoors, yet here they were, hiding from no one. This is the sort of time when the wings sprout. No one to see them. Except for us. She giggled again and Scyld gave her an inquisitive look as they crouched behind a horse-trough at the very back of the yard. "Flying sheep," she whispered. "Flying sheep and hiding from no one."
He gave her a concerned look for a moment, then lifted her bodily over the fence at the back of the yard. "Go up into the trees," he directed harshly, reinforcing the order with a little shove. Linduial turned and glanced over the house where she'd spent these last terrifying days. It was almost disappointing, small and dingy and ill-kept. But she was free of it, and that left her giddy. She turned and climbed up the steep hill into the treeline, thick stands of pines almost immediately swallowing her slim figure. We'll go back when it's safe, she told herself as the estate disappeared entirely from view.
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