Chapter Nine
Sweat dripped off Barnaby’s face. There was grit in his eyes, grit in his mouth. He didn’t speak, just panted, and all the time a silent prayer was running in his head: Let them be alive. He worked shoulder to shoulder with Marcus, digging with his hands, grabbing rocks, heaving them aside—and each time he reached into the rubble, he was afraid his groping hands would close on a bony ankle—and each time it was merely a rock, and his breath hitched with relief and he threw the rock aside and turned back to the debris—and felt the fear again.
“I’m through,” cried a gardener who’d been working near the top of the cave-in.
Barnaby straightened, and wiped his face with a filthy sleeve.
Harry’s father shoved past, scrambling over the rocks to the hole the gardener had made. It w
