Serath held her breath as she eased open the door to her cell.

            The hinges were old and rusted, and she took care to go as slowly as she could manage, although the excitement was singing through her, and it seemed her entire body was ready to run.

            But no, the door crept open as slowly as a prayer, and to her credit there was not one squeak from the hinges. She slipped past the opening and into the narrow hallway, unlit but for a faraway torch near the end. When she turned she bumped the edge of the door and it closed too quickly; a high-pitched creak filled the air.

            Serath stopped, heart racing, listening for movement from any of the other cells. Nothing. She was fortunate—none of the other novices stirred.

            She picked up the bundle of cloth that contained her few possessions—a change of gown, her mother’s brooch, the food she had managed to steal—and crept down the hallway, moving swiftly.

            The small windows set into the doors of the other cells showed only darkness upon darkness. Everyone should be asleep by now. It was very late, and the nuns and novices would all be up in a few hours.

            Serath had figured this to be the most ideal time for escape: the dead of the night, when the torches would be burning low and even Sister Peninnah, notorious for her light sleeping, would be drowsy and gone to her dreams.

            She had thought she might have had problems remaining awake herself. Her days were full of work and meditation, and the prioress made certain she was never idle. Yet to her relief Serath had felt nothing like exhaustion when she finally lay down for the night on her hard pallet. Even when feigning sleep for the sake of the final check through the cells, she had felt her senses sharp and ready, eager to begin her final hour here.

            She was leaving. She was truly doing it. She was leaving this place, this prison of hers. She was going to use her voice again and sing to the ocean, sing as much as she liked, and there would be no one to stop her, no one to strike her or punish her....

            The end of the world was looming close, but Serath would beat it. She would find her peace outside of these walls before it came.

            Sister Peninnah always slept with the door to her cell open, and the torch was just outside of it. It was her duty to watch over the novices, to ensure they were where they were supposed to be when they were supposed to be there. Serath aligned herself beside the door and cautiously peered in.

            A blur of a form on the pallet. Steady, even breathing.

            Serath passed the door as lightly and as quickly as she dared, her cloak flaring behind her.

            The bishop had been correct about the weather—it was unseasonably warm, and Serath wore the cloak only because the dark color of it would blend better with the night than the pale gray of her gown.

            Done! She was out of the dormitory, she was at the long, open walkway that led from the cells to the main buildings. The sky above her was vast and remote, studded with stars and the moon hidden behind a bank of clouds. Only part of her noticed that the light seemed peculiar, smeared to the wrong color, but that was nothing to think about now. The gate was just a short walk away.

            Serath did not walk. She ran, holding her cloak and her belongings as best as she could, jumping over the uneven stones of the path until she came the great gate itself, tall iron and three heavy locks.

            Tucked away in the bundle of cloth was the most vital element to her freedom: the prioress’s master key, normally hung prominently on a hook in that woman’s private chamber. Her hands found it without the need of sight; it was heavy and ornate, thick brass polished to slickness.

            It had taken Serath nearly two months to find a key close enough to it in style to risk making the switch. The key to the wine cellar now hung in the prioress’s chamber. One close look would reveal the deception, but Serath was betting that the prioress was too distracted with the visit from the bishop to worry much about that key tonight.

            She found the first lock and fumbled with it, shoving the key in place and jiggling it until she was able to turn it. The lock clicked open. Serath removed it from the gate and tossed it to the ground.

            She reached for the second lock.

            A faint glow of yellow light fell on the stones to her left. She whirled around to see the unmistakable movement of torchlight growing brighter from the open doorway of the dormitory. She heard voices. They were saying her name.

            She knew as soon as she turned back to the gate that she was too late. She would not be able to open the remaining two locks in time.

            It can’t be over this quickly, she thought, desperate. It can’t.

            Her body was moving without her will, instinct alone saving her, making her grab up her bundle and bolt from the path, through the knotted undergrowth of the convent garden, throwing the key aside to land in the dirt.

            The garden was large and varied; Serath had spent more time here than anywhere else on the grounds, and so knew which way would hold the most promise for hiding.

            The lights were increasing, the noises of women’s voices growing louder. Serath heard her name being called, exclamations that were almost too dim to make out.

            The far wall. She had to reach the far wall, with its thicket of bushes and vines. A good portion of that corner of the garden was skeletal and dying, and the prioress had decided to let it go fallow for a season. It was there that she should hide.

            “Serath! Serath Rune!”

            So close, so close.... She was running bent almost in two, crashing through bare branches and exposed roots, and surely they could hear her, surely they had seen her by now, darting through the starlight—

            “There!” called someone, and Serath threw herself to the ground, scratching her hands and face, barely feeling it. She came up hard against the outer wall of stone; it knocked the air from her, leaving her dazed.

            They were swarming everywhere now, calling out for her, talking to each other. Even the other novices were joining in.

            She crawled to a sitting position, then leaned her head back, taking in the height of the crumbling stone wall.

            “Where is she?”

            It was the prioress, very near. Serath closed her eyes and covered her face with the hood of her cloak, trying to control her breathing. She heard footsteps pause in front of her, the crackling of a torch.

            “She cannot be far. The gate is still secured. Sister Damaris ensured that right away.”

            The speaker used a calm, consolatory tone, perhaps not wishing to witness the prioress’s infamous temper. Serath knew it well.

            “Wayward,” the prioress was muttering, directly in front of Serath’s hiding place. “Willful. Disobedient, wretched girl....”

            She couldn’t bear not to witness what looked to be the end of her careful plans, so Serath opened her eyes, finding the shadowed shapes of the two women in front of her. Torchlight slipped past the tangle of the bushes, glancing off the woven cloth of her cloak. At least she had that much protecting her.

            “We shall find her,” the other nun said, facing away. “She cannot go far.”

            The prioress was still muttering. Serath could picture the scowl on her face, the deep furrows of displeasure worn into her forehead beneath the wimple.

            “I am beginning to think she is not worth the coin her grandfather sends,” the prioress said. “I am too old to be chasing ungrateful, spoiled novices into the night. Especially this night.”

            Both women paused, looking up to the sky, and Serath finally gave in to the urge to do the same, staring past the twists of stems and vines to see what they did.

            A blood moon, free of clouds now, full and round and deep red. It hung low and sullen on the horizon, a orb of ominous proportions, disfiguring the night.

            She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise, understanding now why the night seemed so strange, why the air felt so heavy in her lungs. The light around her was growing redder by the minute. Sweet heavens, how had she not seen it before? The end was closer than she had dreamed—she would be trapped here in her final hours, after all—

            The prioress crossed herself. The other nun did the same.

            “Hurry,” said the prioress. “We must find this cursed girl and get back inside. The sooner the better.”

            The other woman murmured agreement, and together they moved away, taking the betraying light of the torch with them.

            Serath waited anyway, just to be certain they were gone. She remained perfectly still, listening to the sounds of the convent roused, voices calling her name in tones that ranged from sleepy to irate—thirty seven women in search of one. It seemed the bishop could not be bothered for the hunt.

            Slowly she inched her way up from her position, keeping the rough stones against her back.

            The wall was most dangerous here, farthest from the main buildings, ill-tended and falling to rubble. She imagined it would not be too difficult to scale; the danger would be in the time it took her. The height of it was still impressive. Eventually, she would be seen. Even though the walls of the convent enclosed a significant amount of land, once above the bushes, she would be open to discovery by them all.

            Serath took a deep breath of the warm air, calming herself, then turned and faced the stone.

            She had not climbed in a very long time. In fact, she had not done much in a very long time, it seemed, except meditate on her sins, pray at a cold stone altar, and duck blows from her superiors as she scrubbed and cleaned and implored forgiveness for faults she was not truly sorry for.

            She had guessed correctly about the wall: the loose stones made for easy hand holds, if precarious ones. She took one step up, then another. The hood of her cloak fell away but she had no means to fix it. She could not afford to let go. She had to hurry.

            The bundle of cloth tied over one shoulder bumped against her with each move, a heavy weight that made her balance that much more uncertain. But she must not stop.

            The wall was so tall, taller than she had anticipated. It had been built to repel raiders and pagans, and even after climbing what seemed like an eternity she was barely halfway up. The menacing moonlight washed in her in red shadows, turning her fingers to the color of rawness, the stones to dark crimson. Perspiration made her grip tenuous.

            She should have removed her boots for this. How stupid not to—she was having difficulty feeling for holds through the heavy leather of them. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Stupid, stupid—

            Serath heard a group of women off to her left, coming toward her. Her breath grew shorter, almost panicked. She moved more quickly, careless, and felt her foot slip on a stone that broke free of the ancient mortar, rolling and clattering down to the dirt.

            Serath froze.

            “What was that?” asked someone—Alva, new to the convent, younger than Serath. Her voice was sharp and fearful.

            “An animal,” suggested someone else, in a voice even more filled with fear.

            “Or Serath Rune,” said a nun tartly. “Keep moving.”

            It was finished, so very quickly. Her last hopes, her last prayers unanswered, cut short by one betraying stone. They would find her and keep her here until it was all over. She would never see the sun again; her remaining days and nights would be spent in this hard and unforgiving place—why had she ever thought it would be any different....

            Serath closed her eyes against the wash of crimson moonlight, paralyzed with despair, unable to move to save herself.

            “Oh, sister, what if it was a demon?” Alva’s panic was becoming more apparent. “We should go to the chapel! Look at the moon! God is warning us! This night is cursed!”

            “God will protect us,” retorted the nun, though some of the tartness of before had faded, turned less certain. “Keep searching, child.”

            Serath heard them begin to walk toward her again. When they passed the birch marking the corner of the path, they would find her.

            She would not die here, in this place she loathed. Serath unclenched her hands and found the will to climb again, as swiftly as possible, uncaring of the falling stones now. It was too late for subtlety.

            At the new clatter of stones one of the novices let out a shriek, prompting more from the others. But the nun had more sense, Serath knew, and she couldn’t help but look behind and below her as the woman came into sight.

            “Serath Rune! Get down from there!”

            Serath ignored this, climbing faster.

            Others had sounded the call of her discovery, but it might not be too late—she was so close now, so close, she could make it to the top and leap down if she had to—she would take that chance, because now that they had found her they would open the gate with the spare key and run along the outer wall to stop her—

            And Serath reached the top of the wall and found this was what was happening. The prioress and a core of followers were already stalking toward her outside the convent grounds, fluttering gowns and veils tinged dusky crimson. If she didn’t jump right now they would have her, and they would take her back inside and lock her up again, and there would be no next time—they would keep her locked away until the final gasp of this life, kept in unending silence—

            Serath glanced behind her, at the women gathered near the base of the wall amid the thicket, staring up at her. Most of them were young, wide eyes and open mouths, pure astonishment. Beyond them stretched the compound of the convent, her prison for the past nine years.

            And on the other side of the wall, precious freedom: dark woods glimmering with red-fire moonlight, beckoning her.

            She might break her bones in the fall. Surely she would. But they weren’t close enough yet to stop her, and perhaps she could limp away to hide—

            “Serath! Climb down immediately!” The prioress was coming so near, wrath and fury in every line of her.

            Serath placed one hand on the bundle still slung over her shoulder, so that she would not lose it in her leap. A heated wind came and pushed her cloak and skirts in front of her, drenched red.

            Someone screamed, and the girls on the other side of the wall shrieked again, pointing up into the sky.

            Slowly, reluctantly, Serath looked up, past the blood moon, and saw the stars begin to fall around her, streaks of silver and gold against the indigo night, raining down around them. It was the bishop’s shower of fire, a true portent, unfolding right now in dizzying threads of beauty shot across the sky.

            Serath felt the last of her courage desert her. She stood still on top of the wall, caught in the terrible splendor of the moment, watching the heavens fall to earth.

            From the woods erupted noise and movement where there should be none, a commotion of thick mass, spilling out into the clearing by the wall. The turmoil became riders, many of them, men wrapped in metal and weapons, scarlet and stars glittering off them—the demons Alva predicted made awfully, completely real.

            The prioress and her group stopped, clustered in a tight knot, gaping at the riders.

            Moonlight revealed the crest on the shield of the leader: a red dragon writhing against black.

            “Lord save us, it’s the devil himself,” gasped one of the nuns.

            Serath gazed down at the apparition before her, surrounded by the falling sky, feeling strangely calm at this, what would be the end of everything after all.

            The devil broke away from his group, taking his crimson steed up to the base of the wall.

            “Serath Rune,” said the devil, looking up at her, his face alternately masked and then lit by the blood light and the falling stars.

            She heard the deep command in his voice, felt her body move in response. She sat down on the top of the wall, staring at him, and the unnatural breeze came again and played with her hair, loose and blacker than the night, bringing it up to dance around her face.

            “Come,” said the devil to her, and her feet obeyed him, beginning to descend the wall, and then her hands, and the climb was almost easy now, effortless. Simple.

            She made it down in what seemed like no time at all, her feet touching the soft earth again, and then she turned to face him.

            The devil towered above her on his demon steed, and the blood moon was his, and the streaking stars outlined him to show her only shape and form: huge and solid, utterly black but for the gleam of red on his shoulders and hair.

            “Come,” said the devil again, and he leaned down from his saddle to reach out one hand to her.

            “She is cursed,” whispered one of the women loudly.

            There was nothing else to do. With all the nuns watching, still as death, Serath Rune accepted the devil’s invitation and took his hand, allowing herself to be pulled up into his saddle in front of him.

            The world below her now seemed so small, more distant even than it had from the top of the convent wall. The nuns of Saint Basilla’s dwindled to a shrunken terror, each face revealed to her in pale ovals of crimson.

            The devil placed his arm around her waist, securing her against him. Serath took the bundle of cloth from her shoulder and moved it to her lap, holding it with both hands.

            And he wheeled the demon horse around in the clearing, carrying her to his dark group and then beyond it, out into the blooded woods, the sky still hailing silver and gold around them.

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Excerpted from A Kiss at Midnight by Shana Abé. Copyright © 2000 by Shana Abé. Excerpted by permission of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.