the shop.
Now, louder:
"In here!"
She saw the door to the kitchen move, as someone tried to open it. The latch jiggled.
Very loud:
"She's in here!"
Antonina stepped to the stove. She wrapped the wet cloths around her hands and gripped the kettle. Stood still, looking over her shoulder. Watching the door.
A loud thump. The door bulged. The latch strained, but held.
Very loud:
"Out of the way!"
Thundering footsteps.
Smash!
The latch splintered. The door flew open. A large body—then another—hurtled through. Three men came piling in behind. All of them were dressed in the rough clothes of street toughs, and all were holding cudgels in their hands.
The first man—the self-appointed battering ram—was already off-balance. He slammed into the upended table in the middle of the kitchen and bounced back, half-sprawled onto the floor. The man coming right behind tripped over him and stumbled to his knees, leaning over the edge of the table itself.
The three men behind him skidded into a pile.
Five men, tangled up, immobilized.
Antonina seized the kettle, turned, and heaved its contents onto the cluster of thugs.
Several gallons of boiling, flour-thickened meat broth spewed over the would-be killers.
Shrieks of agony filled the room. Half-crazed with pain and fear, the five men in the kitchen began tearing at their flesh, frantically trying to scrape off the scalding brew.
Couldn't. Couldn't! The flour made the broth stick to their skins.
Antonina ignored them. More men were in the room beyond. Two of them were jammed in the doorway to the kitchen, gaping at the scene.
She spun lightly, seized her own little dagger by the blade. That one, she knew, was perfectly balanced.
Whipped around.
Father, I need you now!
He hadn't been worth much, that charioteer, but he had taught his daughter how to use a knife.
Taught her very well.
The little dagger flashed across the room and sank hilt deep into the throat of the man standing on the right side of the doorway.
The
Now, louder:
"In here!"
She saw the door to the kitchen move, as someone tried to open it. The latch jiggled.
Very loud:
"She's in here!"
Antonina stepped to the stove. She wrapped the wet cloths around her hands and gripped the kettle. Stood still, looking over her shoulder. Watching the door.
A loud thump. The door bulged. The latch strained, but held.
Very loud:
"Out of the way!"
Thundering footsteps.
Smash!
The latch splintered. The door flew open. A large body—then another—hurtled through. Three men came piling in behind. All of them were dressed in the rough clothes of street toughs, and all were holding cudgels in their hands.
The first man—the self-appointed battering ram—was already off-balance. He slammed into the upended table in the middle of the kitchen and bounced back, half-sprawled onto the floor. The man coming right behind tripped over him and stumbled to his knees, leaning over the edge of the table itself.
The three men behind him skidded into a pile.
Five men, tangled up, immobilized.
Antonina seized the kettle, turned, and heaved its contents onto the cluster of thugs.
Several gallons of boiling, flour-thickened meat broth spewed over the would-be killers.
Shrieks of agony filled the room. Half-crazed with pain and fear, the five men in the kitchen began tearing at their flesh, frantically trying to scrape off the scalding brew.
Couldn't. Couldn't! The flour made the broth stick to their skins.
Antonina ignored them. More men were in the room beyond. Two of them were jammed in the doorway to the kitchen, gaping at the scene.
She spun lightly, seized her own little dagger by the blade. That one, she knew, was perfectly balanced.
Whipped around.
Father, I need you now!
He hadn't been worth much, that charioteer, but he had taught his daughter how to use a knife.
Taught her very well.
The little dagger flashed across the room and sank hilt deep into the throat of the man standing on the right side of the doorway.
The