Chapter Thirteen
They ate and drank sparingly from the hamper; Sir Barnaby was of the opinion that it would be morning before sufficient rubble had been cleared and the roof shored up with timber. He quenched all the candles, including the one in Charlotte’s lantern. The only light came from her own lantern—one single, flickering, golden flame. The grotto became dark and shadowy, but instead of being frightening, it was strangely cozy. Her awareness of the weight pressing down on them had faded. What she was mostly aware of, was Sir Barnaby. They sat with their backs to a wall, side by side, wrapped in blankets. Their shoulders touched—the lightest of pressures, barely felt—and yet Merry was vividly conscious of it, vividly conscious of Sir Barnaby’s quiet breathing, of his presence along
