Ripper kept his head down.

That was probably the best wording for it. He followed rules, avoided crowds, and made sure not to stray into the center of attention. If something was going on, well, it had nothing to do with him. Nothing ventured, nothing gained--nor lost. He was your model prisoner. Didn't make trouble and didn't stick his nose where it didn't belong.

Which was why, when some of the other inmates banded together and blasted holes all over the compound, not a single guard thought to keep an eye on him.

And that in turn was why he now ran unhindered through a field of forget-me-nots while smoke rose in thick, winding columns toward the endless night sky.

How long he'd been running--he'd lost track by now. He clutched a burlap sack against his chest with both arms. Inside that sack were what precious few possessions he had left. His father's hook, and his eyepatch. A pair of real pearl earrings that had belonged to his aunt. A bare handful of gold shillings and a message in a bottle.

His feet bled. His legs ached. His lungs felt like they might collapse any moment.

He kept running.

The forget-me-nots became waist-high grasses. No--wheat? Wheat, it was wheat. The stalks rustled against his legs. He slowed now, stopped, and felt carefully with one foot for the aisle between rows. He found and followed it, and when he found it was dependably straight, began to jog, and then to run again.

Doubtlessly they knew he was gone by now. How long before the first search parties set out? An hour, maybe two? Or were they already out? Would they bring hounds to sniff him out, guns to quell any escape?

His body screamed. Darkness lurked in the edges of his vision--not of the night, but of exhaustion. The only sounds he heard with any reliability were his breaths and his heart, thump thump thumping behind his ribs.

One more step. One more step.

Just one more.

Somewhere, however far, the ocean still called to him. Had called to him for seven years. Even if it killed him, even if it was the last thing he ever did, he would see her again. He would stand on the sand in her surf and mourn for the people who should've stood with him.

And then--if he didn't die--he'd pick himself up and carry on their legacy.

One more step.

Black clotted over his eyes and the world winked out.

Ripper came back to himself in pieces.

First, there was sound: water, close and rhythmic, the hush-and-pull of it. Wind moving through something tall. Then smell—salt and damp earth, a sharpness that cut through the fog in his head. Pain followed last, blooming everywhere at once, loud enough to make him gasp.

He sucked in air and immediately regretted it.

His chest burned. His throat felt scraped raw. Every muscle protested as if he’d been wrung out and left to dry. He lay still, blinking against a sky just beginning to pale at the edges, night thinning into a bruised, uncertain dawn.

He wasn’t dead.

That realization landed first with disbelief, then with something dangerously close to laughter. He swallowed it down. Laughing hurt.

Ripper shifted his fingers. The sack was still clutched to his chest, tied awkwardly around one wrist as if, even unconscious, he hadn’t been willing to let go. Relief washed through him, steadying enough that he dared to move a little more.

Grass—flattened beneath his body. Wheat, maybe. He turned his head and saw the stalks bent and trampled in a wide circle, as though he’d fallen and simply… stopped. No drag marks. No footprints crowding around him.

No guards.

He pushed himself onto an elbow and nearly collapsed again, spots bursting behind his eye. He waited them out, breathing slow, counting heartbeats until the world steadied.

His feet were wrapped in something rough but clean—strips of cloth tied with practiced knots. Someone had tended them. Someone had been careful.

That thought set his pulse racing all over again.

“Easy,” a voice said, low and close.

A figure rose from the grass a few feet away, hands raised, palms empty.

Not a guard.

The woman looked about his age, maybe a year or two older. Her clothes were patched and travel-worn, boots scuffed thin. A scarf hid most of her hair, but not the sharp intelligence in her eyes. She studied him like a problem she hadn’t yet decided how to solve.

“Thought you were dead at first. Decided to give you a chance to prove me wrong.”

Ripper swallowed. “How long?”

“Half a day.” She crouched now, careful not to crowd him. “You’ve been running a long way.”

He let his head fall back, staring at the lightening sky. Half a day. That meant—

“They’ll be looking,” he said hoarsely.

She snorted. “They were. Loudly. Went the wrong direction.” At his look, she added, “You weren’t the only one slipping out last night.”

Hope flared, cautious and fragile. “You helped them?”

“I helped myself,” she said. “Helping you was… incidental.”

Ripper managed a weak smile. “Thank you. All the same.”

She studied him for another long moment, then nodded once, as if coming to a decision. “You can walk?”

“Eventually.”

“Good. Because you shouldn’t stay here.”

She stood and offered him a hand. He hesitated only a second before taking it. Her grip was solid, sure. With her help, he got his feet under him, swaying but upright.

The land sloped gently downward beyond the wheat, and there—barely visible, but unmistakable—was a line of silver on the horizon.

The ocean.

Ripper’s breath caught. His vision blurred again, this time not from exhaustion.

“That’s where you’re headed,” the woman said quietly. Not a question.

He nodded.

She followed his gaze, then looked back at him with something like respect. “Then you’d better keep moving. Tides wait for no one.”

Ripper tightened his hold on the sack, straightened his aching spine, and took his first step forward.

This time, he didn’t take it alone.