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Rodin crawled for about half an hour, although he could not tell how far he had travelled. The tunnel twisted gently, sometimes dipping, at other times rising. The fabric underneath his body continued the whole time, and Rodin was thankful for that small comfort.
A thought came to him—if the Dome’s assassins knew of the house and the tunnel to the quarry, did they also know of this second tunnel?
Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. It made no difference. The pragmatist in Rodin took over. He could only go one way. Whatever awaited him at the end of the tunnel was out of his control. He would do what he could to ready himself, but he would not waste his energy worrying about it.
While he breathed, there was hope. There was no advantage to be gained through worry.
The tunne
