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In the pantry, Amity heard a second whump that rattled things in the walls.

A weariness settled through her mind as she thought, Now what? She wasn't physically weary, because she'd slept soundly for a few hours the previous night in the Bonner house, while her father kept a watch on their bungalow. She didn't want to be one of those girls, the kind without enough fortitude in the face of adversity. It was always nice, however, in the middle of an epic quest, to have a respite with, say, a kindly retired couple—she having once been a maid to a princess, and he having been a former foundry man who had forged armor for the bravest knights—who would invite you into their cottage in the enchanted forest to share their dinner and then have a pipe and a snifter of brandy by the fire, with two good dogs snoring by the warm hearth. After that convivial evening and a safe sleep in a goose-down bed while the dogs stood guard against witches and warlocks, you were fortified and ready to carry on at any cost.

Instead, what she had was a pantry with canned goods and bags of dried beans that made her want to fart just by looking at them. She was alone and afraid and on the brink of being dispirited.

At least, when she dared to take the wet cloth off her face and breathe without that filter, she found the concentration of gas in the pantry was so low that she didn't pass out.

After the second whump, the brief weariness lifted from her because unidentifiable sounds like that always meant something was going to happen. Lord knew what. And whether you were weary or not, you'd better be prepared for whatever was coming.

She got to her feet and took two cans of pears from a shelf, intending to throw them at whoever opened the door.