Chapter Ten

The smell of wood and earth fills my senses.

The river of roots guards my back. I’m kneeling next to the wall, exploring the surface with my hands in hopes of discovering some unseen crevice or outline. I become so intent on my task that I forget about the roots, and when I shift, one of the sharp edges snags my dress. The sound of ripping disrupts the stillness. Growling with frustration, I run my fingers along the tear to assess the damage. Bare skin greets my touch. My already-foul mood darkens further. I can’t find the door, I can’t find Doll, and now my dress is shabbier than ever.

“What are you doing?”

I let out a shriek and recoil. Since there’s nowhere to go, I slam into the wall. My eyes narrow to slits as I search through the wooden tangle and spot Smoke lounging against a particularly large root, arms crossed. My ire fades into something else—a combination of wariness and shame. Beneath that, buried deeper than a grave, is desire.

Smoke watches me with obvious amusement, and I wonder if he knows I’ve been avoiding him. “I’m trying to get some of these roots loose,” I lie, raising my voice. “I want to build a bookshelf.”

There’s a pause, and he studies me. I wonder if he sees the girl from the mirror in the attic or the girl who killed him. If only I could remember the truth of what happened that night.

“Well, you’d better find Tintype, then,” Smoke says, his tone mild. “He probably has a few spare blades.”

So he’s not going to mention what I said the last time we were alone. I think I killed you. Relieved and confused, I look down at the roots. I can still feel his penetrating gaze. To occupy my hands, I yank at one of the wooden tangles. “Where does he reside?”

Smoke shrugs. He begins fiddling with his cigar. “Nowhere and everywhere. He can’t be found unless he wants to be.”

“Lot of help you are, then.” My movements become jerkier and the root refuses to budge. “Why are you here?”

“Because you’re not supposed to be alone. Ribbon was worried.”

The guilt within me grows stronger. He says it without judgment, but it’s easy to picture Ribbon standing in my empty room. She’s probably imagining the worst—the killer snatching me a second time and succeeding in his task.

“I’m sorry. I just needed a moment,” I tell Smoke, sounding more like myself. Realizing that part of my side is exposed from the tear, I quickly face him again. “She recently informed me that no one has any scratches. She also mentioned the footprints in the place I was attacked. Or the lack of them, rather.” The killer must have returned to remove all traces of his presence, but the others don’t see it that way. It’s obvious in how they look at me, half contemptuous, half suspicious. In their minds I’m either lying or toying with them, and both are dangerous.

The people of Under are looking for someone to blame, and if the identity of the real killer isn’t discovered soon, I will have more to worry about than finding memories or doors.

Smoke, ever perceptive, watches me and the dark parade of thoughts that are no doubt marching across my face. Abruptly he says, “Come. I know a few places we can look for Tintype.” He puts the cigar back into his pocket and holds his hand out to me.

I frown. “But you just said—”

“Perhaps we’ll get lucky.” Smoke’s demeanor doesn’t waver, and after a moment I lift my skirt to climb over the wooden river. I choose my steps carefully, and once I’m close enough, I take hold of his proffered hand. His fingers wrap around mine firmly and I involuntarily think of our kiss. In that instant, I lose my footing and fall. Smoke catches my waist and slowly lowers me to the ground. The feel of his hands banishes all thoughts. We stare at each other, neither of us moving or speaking.

How can he look at you like that? Especially when you could be responsible for his death? the beetle in my head wonders. Blinking, I finally take a step back. “Thank y-you.”

Smoke stays where he is, head tilted, appraising me again. Why isn’t he furious? Why isn’t he demanding the truth?

“Should we go, then?” I ask, attempting to sound normal. Smoke swings away without replying. As the darkness swallows him, I consider returning to my room instead of embarking on this search for Tintype. But I’ve wanted to ask the old man how he finds items like the ones in Journal’s tower, and he has not appeared since the first murder. I think of how he stared at me. Why is it that no one suspects him?

I rush to catch up with Smoke and ask about it—he’s looking back now, waiting for me—but he isn’t Smoke anymore. Not the one I know, at least. Gone is the faint, crooked smile. The gruesome scar. The sad shadow in his eyes. Instead, after the usual bout of nausea, I blink rapidly and find James Alistair grinning at me through a window. His skin glows in the moonlight, and tendons stand out in his arms as he maintains a grip on the frame. He’s so beautiful, so alive.

Gasping, I bolt out of bed and rush to lift the latch. “What are you doing?” I hiss, narrowly missing his head as the window swings open. “You’ll fall to your death!”

“I received your letter,” he tells me, seeming unconcerned. “I must ask, how did you know where I’m staying?”

Any further words of admonishment die in my throat, and I know I’m blushing. The sight of it just makes James’s grin even wider. There’s a cold wind this evening, and it flattens my thin nightgown against me. I clear my throat and ask primly, “So you received my letter. Good. What shall we do tonight, then?”

Surprising me, James hesitates. He looks down, and I follow his gaze. I’ve been so absorbed in looking at his face that I didn’t notice our hands; we both hold the sill tightly. Our fingers fit in the spaces between each other’s, nearly touching.

Ever so slowly, James moves them closer. “…may not sound all that adventurous,” he is saying, “but the truth is, I should very much like to speak with you all night long. Until the roosters crow and the sun rises, if you’ll allow it.”

I meet his eyes again, and a happy warmth spreads through my chest. “Well, I can’t stay so long as that, but how about until the moon and stars begin to fade?” I ask shyly.

“You have yourself another bargain, my lady.”

The softness in his voice carries a promise. Somehow I manage to say, “I need to fetch my coat. Try not to break your neck as you’re climbing down.”

He replies, but I don’t hear the words as I’m already rushing away. Cautiously, I open my bedroom door and peek in both directions. The hallway is empty, with only shadows and furniture to stare back at me. My heart races. Though I’m tempted to wake the girl who calls me her sister, the allure of James is stronger. I duck back inside to grab a dressing gown, then tiptoe through the house. When I reach the stairs, I fly.

Seconds later, clad in a thick coat, I sneak through the front door. The hinges let out a long groan. I freeze, cringing, but nothing stirs. James is leaning against the house, bold as you please. Once again, he offers his arm. Once again, I take it.

We stroll down the street like any other couple, as though it’s broad daylight and we have nothing to hide. The daring of it makes my heart hammer. For a time we speak of small things, easy things, until we come upon a bench. It’s on the edge of a park, which lies serene and empty. James looks at me with raised brows, a question in the gesture, and I smile. He brushes off a fine powdering of snow and bows with a flourish. Heedless of the cold, I sit.

James follows suit and we face each other. In that instant, it’s obvious his eyes aren’t entirely blue; there’s a ring of gold around the pupil, vivid in the light of the streetlamp.

There’s so much I still don’t know, I think. I want to know everything.

“What would you like to know first?” James asks, laughing a little, and I realize I’ve spoken the thought out loud.

“Tell me how it began. The fighting, I mean.” My words are met with silence. I watch James struggle with himself for a moment or two and guess the reason. “If you’re embarrassed or ashamed, James, please don’t be. None of that matters. Not to me.”

He exhales through his nose, sending puffs of air into the darkness. He puts his elbow on the back of the bench, a deliberate effort to appear at ease, I think. “It’s a funny story, actually,” he says. “I was fourteen at the time. My only friend was a beggar, and I’d slip him some food from the orphanage whenever I could. One day I brought a bit of bread and found him beaten half to death. Turns out he’d been fighting for money. He was supposed to box that very night, in fact, but of course George was in no shape for it. So I went in his place.”

“Goodness. And you’d never fought before? Did you win?”

“No.” The answer is so surprising that I let out a startled laugh. James’s smile is sheepish now. “No one in history has lost more horribly than I did that night. Still, I got a taste for it after that, so I kept going back. Eventually, I did win. I left that warehouse beaten more often than not, but over time that changed. Now it’s how I earn enough for passage from place to place.”

“Where else have you been?”

“Now that’s a story. I first began in Boston, as you know. Then I bought a ticket and made my way to Canada…”

The scene begins to fade. No, please, I think. But it’s no use; between one blink and the next, everything returns to the way it was. Rocks and dirt and darkness.

“Key, what’s wrong?” Smoke asks, frowning at me.

He called me Key, which means I’m truly back in Under. The image of us endures, though. A boy and a girl, sitting on a bench beneath a lone streetlight. Snow falls gently all around them. Stars twinkle above, a full moon shines, and they have eyes only for each other.

The lingering feelings are powerful enough to stir my gray, shriveled heart. Swallowing, I raise my face to his. “I beg your pardon, Smoke. Have you…that is, is there anything you’ve…”

“What?”

It’s tempting to share these brief glimpses of our lives before. But Journal’s reaction is still fresh in my mind; he didn’t believe my tales. Smoke is different, though, isn’t he? He saw something, too.

“Where are we going?” I ask quickly, courage failing me. I start walking, forcing Smoke to do the same or be left behind. “It seems like we’re walking in circles.”

“Tintype has odd hiding places,” he answers, fixing his concentration on the path. “Doll showed me a few.”

A flicker of fear goes through me as I realize how far we are from everyone else. Maybe it’s foolish of me to be so trusting of Smoke, especially if he’s remembered anything of how he died. “Doll?” I echo, ready to bolt in the other direction. If he moves toward me...

“She may not speak, but she has more to say than anyone else here.”

Before I can respond, Smoke slows again. His expression intensifies. My phantom pulse picks up speed, thundering in my ears, and this time when I look ahead, there’s more than dirt and darkness. Tintype is in the alley down the way, sitting directly beneath a torch. His back is to the wall, legs brought up against his gaunt chest. He’s staring at something in his hand. It’s square and metal. I remember Ribbon telling me that he has a picture of his wife.

“There he is,” I murmur, as though he’s a wild animal easily spooked.

Smoke raises his brows. “Well? Ask him if we can borrow a knife.”

“We?” I echo.

“You think I’m going to let you use it? There’s a better chance of you lopping off your own hand than cutting those roots loose.”

I huff, but there’s mirth in the sound. “What poppycock. I could be quite skilled with a knife. There’s no way of knowing until I have one in my hand.”

“I heard you coming,” Tintype says, startling both of us. My amusement dies. “Worse than a herd of elephants, the lot of you.” He tucks the picture back into his uniform and looks at me.

Seconds tick by, thick with tension, and Smoke elbows me. Hesitantly, I step closer. Tintype waits, the buttons on his shirt gleaming. I start to ask him about his talent for finding things, but it doesn’t feel right with Smoke here. “If I may, I would like to borrow your knife, sir.”

Tintype is silent. He’s staring again, and I don’t think he’s aware of it. His eyes are so pale they seem colorless. I don’t know what to say or do, but my earlier sense of foreboding is gone. I don’t know him, and yet my instincts say his interest is not a threat.

Some part of him must have heard the question, though, because Tintype stands. He digs in his pocket and presents a small knife. As the soldier continues to watch me, the folded blade slips from his fingers. It hits the ground with a dull thud.

At the same moment, both of us bend to retrieve it. Something else falls out of his pocket and flutters to the ground. He must not notice, and while he wraps his fingers around the handle, I pick up the tiny piece of paper. The curse must be broken. The handwriting is the same as all the others.

Shocked, my gaze flies up to his. “You,” I whisper.