Chapter Eleven

The man tenses, and I have no doubt that were it not for his leg, he would already be gone. My grip tightens on the piece of paper as I ask, “Who are you?”

He begins to answer, but whatever he says is lost to me. There’s a familiar sensation of falling, and though I try to keep my eyes open, it’s too fast and too dizzying. Then I open them again and I’m standing in front of a house. It’s dusk, the sun barely peering over the horizon. The light is enough to see a man in a uniform walking away. His boots make crunching sounds on the gravel. He takes the proffered reins from a stable boy, runs his hand over the horse’s shining mane. I wait. Finally, hesitating, he turns to me.

This face is different from the one in Under. There are still lines, still marks that give away times of sorrow and hardship, but his eyes are different. I wouldn’t say they have hope, exactly, but there’s more than death and darkness. A sort of…tired determination.

“Please,” I say. Tintype’s mouth is a thin, hard line. I know there’s no purpose in saying it, but I hear myself do it anyway. “Don’t go.”

He climbs up into the saddle, overly preoccupied with adjusting the straps holding his bags in place. The servants have deliberately drifted away, off to other tasks. Packing the rest of my things and covering the furniture. “I can’t,” the soldier answers. He swiftly changes the subject. “I’ve seen to all the arrangements. Mrs. Thompson will accompany you to town later today. Your arrival is expected. Make sure to treat your hosts with respect, dear girl.”

After he finishes speaking, I linger on the steps, certain he means to say more. But he doesn’t offer any promises or sentiments. With a click of his tongue, the man jolts into motion. I watch him go down the road, toward the brightening sky, and into the sudden darkness that doesn’t belong.

I’m back in Under. I stare at Tintype, surrounded by dirt and lies, and another memory returns. A truth that maybe part of me knew all along, from the moment I laid eyes on him. It’s fortunate that I have no need for air, because it feels as if my lungs have contracted.

Though I don’t say the words out loud, Tintype must see it in my expression. “I wondered when you would remember,” he says simply. He isn’t surprised.

My father.

“Why not just tell me?” I demand. I clench my fists, glaring now, torn between a dozen emotions. Anger, joy, sorrow. Even now, grown and battered by far more than a distant father, I feel the sting of his leaving.

Tintype shifts from foot to foot. “To avoid this very conversation. There’s not much beyond that to tell. I knew you would want to know everything. And I have nothing.”

I might have believed him, were it not for the way he’s looking at everything but me. Evading a discussion between us is not the true reason he withheld this for so long. When I respond, my voice is colder than dead flesh. “You were ashamed.”

He doesn’t deny it. Tintype may not have his memories, but he knows as certainly as I do that he was my father in name only. I can still feel the ache as I watched him ride away, echoes of feeling so desperately unwanted.

In the silence that follows, I realize that I’d completely forgotten Smoke. But now the spot beside me is empty. He must have retreated to give us privacy, a surprising gesture. Dimly I realize that Tintype is speaking.

“…my fall, I began to remember. The memories were faint, but I knew that I had a daughter. I saw myself at your funeral. As time went on and you didn’t arrive with the others, I decided it was necessary to take matters into my own hands.”

The revelation triggers something, and just like that I’m back in the grave. Silence, cold, oblivion. Then something happened to make me stir.

“Your voice,” I whisper in a burst of comprehension. Somehow, I’d forgotten those words that drifted down to my resting place. Wake up. Please wake up. “I remember it now. You called to me while I was in the grave. It was the sound of your voice that made me fall.”

He nods. “Long before that, I found the key in one of the alleyways here. Doll eventually led me to the door. Every day I would open it, lock it behind me, and go up to the graveyard.”

“The door,” I cut in faintly, remembering now. “Am I to understand that it’s possible to leave Under?”

“Anyone can if they have the key.”

Tintype says this as though it’s so simple, so obvious. But my mind staggers. All this time, we could have been above. Away from a murderer. Out of the darkness. Feeling ill, I press a shaking hand to my forehead. “I don’t understand. Why haven’t you shared this knowledge? Why haven’t you—”

“Think, girl,” the soldier snaps. “What if they all wanted to go topside?”

It seems that even in death, I long for the approval of my father. Without hesitation, I obey him and imagine it. Every one of the dead—Eye Patch, Smoke, Pocket Watch—walking about in the daylight. Anyone who saw us would be terrified. And even if some of us have family left who’d be able to accept such a bewildering turn of events, what kind of life could we lead? Never aging, never belonging.

Loath as I am to admit it, Tintype’s decision to remain silent had probably been the correct one.

“I apologize for interrupting,” I say stiffly. “Please continue.”

His tone is matter-of-fact as he does so. “Sometimes I walked to town. I couldn’t ask questions or risk being seen, so I just took things from houses to make our lives in Under more comfortable. I also hoped to overhear something about the circumstances of our deaths. I always returned to you before the sun came up. For hours I sat by your headstone and spoke to you. Finally, the night came that I unearthed your casket and put the key inside. I had an inkling that you would need it once you awoke. Of course, I had no way to return because I had given you the only means into Under. So when the way was clear, I followed you through the hole.”

Almost involuntarily, his gaze flicks down. His limp. So there was a cost in waking me.

Sadness fills my throat and makes it impossible to speak. It occurs to me that I should thank him for what he did; without his efforts I could very well still be in that cold grave. Never knowing Smoke, or Doll, or Ribbon, or Journal, or all the rest. But the words won’t come.

Tintype waits for another moment. Slowly, he takes a step back. I know he means to disappear again, and desperation loosens my tongue. I’d been meaning to ask him the first question that should’ve occurred to me—my name—but a more important one arises.

Lunging forward, I seize his arm. “My sister! Do you know who she is; is she here in Under?”

Confusion clouds his eyes. He shakes his head. “You never had a sister. Not that I remember, at least.”

“No, that can’t—”

Tintype pulls free. “My role in this is finished. The townspeople spoke of a curse—it must be true, else why would we be here?—and I had a sense that you might be the one to break it. That’s all I can say. If I remember anything else, trust that I’ll seek you out.”

Part of me knows I should stop him, that I may not have another chance to speak with this man. But I watch him limp away and do nothing. His eagerness to escape makes the wound in my back seem harmless compared to the pain in my heart.

The darkness swallows him and, after that, the alleyway is silent. I linger for a time, hoping Smoke will return. When there’s no sign of him, I begin to make my way back. A new thought pops into my head, though, and I jerk to a halt. The wretched door. I spin back around. “Tintype! I still don’t know where—”

He’s gone, of course.

I swallow a curse and continue on my way. Soon I reach the house that still doesn’t quite feel like home. I stand in the doorway and stare at Tintype’s first message. I remember you. With a cry, I run at the wall and claw it with all the strength in me. Chunks of earth fall at my feet. When it’s done, I drop to the ground and weep. Great, heaving, dry sobs. No tears fall, of course, and it’s never seemed so cruel, the inability to fully grieve. No one comes to comfort me, and I wouldn’t let them if they tried.

Some grieving must be done alone.

After a time, I curl on my side, shuddering. My eyelids flutter. Though it’s not truly possible, I succumb to something that feels like sleep. Wonderful, soothing sleep.

I send a prayer above that I’ll never wake.

…

“Wake up.”

A puff of warm air envelops my face. I open one eye. Moonlight streams through the filmy curtains, and someone is kneeling next to the bed, her elbows leaving indents in the mattress. The girl must see that I’m awake and adds, “Hurry. It’ll be morning soon.” She stands and picks something up from the floor—the book. Then she moves to the door.

Once again, I have no control over the words that leave my mouth. “What are we doing tonight?” I ask, sitting up reluctantly, though I should be eager. I want to ask why she made me believe we’re sisters, who we are, what the end of this story is. But my mouth won’t obey any commands.

Without a candle to illuminate her presence, the girl’s voice drifts from the darkness. There’s a note of excitement in it that belies the solemnity of our surroundings. “I’ve a confession; I started without you. And I’m fairly certain I learned how to do a love spell! Do you remember our neighbor’s dog? The crusty old poodle?” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Well, it was sniffing about the house again, so I brought it up to the attic with me. And once I spoke the words, it’s been enamored with me, I swear! I had to put it back outside to get away from that horrid breath. There, can you hear it whining at the door? The thing won’t go home now!”

The last dregs of sleep are still fading, and I fail to hear most of her confession. Only certain words stand out. “A love spell?” I repeat warily, rubbing at my eyes. I peel the covers away and touch my feet to the cold floor. “I’m not sure about this, Kathleen…”

Shock travels through me. Kathleen. Her name is Kathleen. Dimly I comprehend that she’s speaking again and force myself to pay attention. These memories hold the answers to everything, and they’re too vague and brief as it is. “…worrying!” she insists, so enthusiastic that she forgets there are others in the house. “It’s nothing drastic, just a bit of magic that will make him turn my way. Now come!”

“Make who turn your way?” I ask, finally obeying. I drift after her into the hallway, and she surprises me by taking a right instead of a left.

“James Alistair, of course. The dashing American. He’s not like the other boys, wouldn’t you agree?” There’s a dreaminess to her voice I haven’t heard before.

“Have you two spoken?” I manage. Now that we’re talking of him, my mind goes back to our first kiss beneath the streetlamp. To our long conversation on that bench. I’d known Kathleen was intrigued by James, but so was every girl in town. She’d concealed the depth of her fascination. Realizing that I’m once again missing her words, I shake myself.

“…visited the house once, most unexpectedly,” she tells me. “Muriel was appalled. I think that’s why he didn’t stay long. But it was proof that he once felt the same way I do, or was interested, at the very least!”

The house is unusually bright. Outside, the moon is full. Kathleen is walking away, making it impossible to see her face, but part of her nightgown droops and something on the back of her shoulder catches my eye. The whiteness of her skin is marred by a large bruise.

“What happened?” I ask without thinking, studying the colorful mark of pain.

Her response is sharp. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

Cowed, I don’t speak again, and she leads me down a wide staircase. We’ve entered what is clearly the foyer, and it’s the grandest room I’ve ever seen. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, dripping with pearls and glittering jewels. The walls are adorned in paintings, these more beautiful than ominous, and the marble floor gleams in the silvery light. Gripping the railing, I slow to look at everything.

Kathleen just hurries down the rest of the stairs and opens the door without hesitation. A dark shape launches itself at her. She drops the book as the beast crashes into her. Kathleen grunts and barely manages to maintain her balance. The shadows are so thick it’s difficult to see what is happening. I open my mouth to scream, but then she turns toward me. A slant of moonlight falls over the creature, and I realize that her arms are wrapped around a…poodle. All her efforts go into forcing its frantic tongue away from her face.

“Do you see?” she crows at me. “Imagine the potential!”

I’m gawking. All I can think is, You want to reduce a man to this?

When I say nothing, Kathleen sets the dog down and pushes it back outside. Just as it starts to leap at her again, she slams the door. The dog whines through the wood. My heart hurts for the poor creature.

Ignoring the sounds, Kathleen rushes at me and takes my hands. Of course her face is hidden in darkness. “I want to test it one more time, just to be certain,” she says urgently. “Can you think of another subject we should use?”

“A subject?” I echo. It seems that’s all I’m capable of tonight. Suddenly I notice that our palms are slippery, and I gasp at the sight of blood. “Did you cut yourself for this spell?”

Making a sound of impatience, Kathleen turns away again. She surveys the foyer with her hands on her hips, as though something will appear or announce itself. “Oh, I know!” she gasps. “Wait here. No, meet me in the attic. Bring the book. I have an idea.”

With that, she leaves. The dog continues to cry, and I know I can’t leave it like that. My gaze falls to the book on the floor—Kathleen never lets it out of her sight—and I pick it up to examine the pages. The dog begins to scratch desperately, as though it’s going to dig through the door itself. I glance toward the top of the stairs, worried that someone will hear and investigate. When no one stirs or appears, I focus on the book again. A small voice in my head insists that I bring it to the attic, as Kathleen instructed, but I have no control over my hand as it turns the pages one by one. It stops when I reach an incantation toward the middle. All thoughts of danger dissipate.

Kathleen’s writing appears on the page. Love spell, her scrawl reads. It feels wrong, like a rule has been broken. My mouth goes dry.

There’s a strange lump beneath the page. Frowning, I flip it over and find an envelope tucked in the book’s spine. The wax seal has been broken. Though my conscience twinges at the knowledge that I’m reading someone’s private correspondence, I can’t help myself; I pull the letter out. It’s written in an elegant feminine script. My eyes consume the words:

My darling daughter,

I’ve made it so that you will only find this book when there is a true need. I hope that time never comes. If it has, your father must have succumbed to his violent urges again, and for that I’m sorry. Over the years, I have caught glimpses of it, but he always manages to rein it in. Please don’t hate him. His own father was a brutal man. We learn how to respond to anger at the knees of our parents. However else it may seem, he does love you.

We have ways to help him that the vicar or the physician do not. You are too young to be taught the old ways, but you have power, Kathleen. It is only possible for women to wield it, and this book has been handed down from every generation in our family. Even so, keep it hidden. The world is full of people who fear the unknown.

There is more to be wary of, darling. The words and ingredients within these pages are simply a guide for that power. The true power rests in our blood. Any words of intent that spill from your lips will be rich with it. Use your veins only if there is true need.

I’ve also found that whatever emotion we’re feeling affects the outcome of the spell. Many of our ancestors misused their power and went mad. It can be dark and addicting, if we let it. Keep a clear mind and an open heart, daughter.

I wish there had been more time to properly show you how beautiful this gift is. But there are some things even magic shouldn’t reverse. As such, think of me whenever you feel that prickling in your fingertips and a shift in the air. I’m here, even if my body isn’t. I love you, Kathleen.

Your mother

Slowly, I put the letter back in its hiding place. My mind resembles a ballroom, chaotic with movement and sound and color. Kathleen must’ve found this recently; when she first showed me the book, she hadn’t known anything of its origins.

Before I can truly absorb what I’ve just read, something draws my gaze toward the bottom of the love spell, where there is a smaller block of text. It stands apart from the original words, yet somehow I know it still relates to them. One looks similar to the English version of undo, despite its strangeness. Following a hopeful whim, I read this bit over and over, memorizing it. My blood sings, as if this is what I was born for.

Finished, I set the book down on the table where I know we normally receive calling cards. I have no idea what I intend to do or what I’ve just learned. Still, I don’t fight it. Like the kiss with James, there is an unseen force compelling me.

Walking to the door, I step aside and twist the knob. The dog instantly tries to bolt past in search of Kathleen, but I haul it back by its scruff. As I have no ingredients, I sink a savage bite into the fleshy part of my palm. Red drops swell through the new, ragged openings.

Under my breath, I say the words burning in my memory. A tingling sensation travels my entire body. It feels like I’m falling from a great height. The creature fights me for a few moments, but the second I utter the final syllable, the tension eases out of its body. To be certain, though, I hold on a bit longer. The dog doesn’t whine or struggle. Gradually, I release my hold and ease back on my haunches. It pants happily now and scratches its stomach with its hind leg. Its claws hit the floor. Click-click-click. Then, moving so swiftly I have no chance to avoid it, the dog gives me a sloppy kiss.

I gag and push it away. The poodle sneezes and looks at me with innocent eyes. “She was right,” I whisper, wiping my face with the back of my sleeve. “You do have horrible breath.”

Unperturbed, it gives me one more lick and prances off into the night, those claws clicking against the cobblestones. I stand and watch it go, thinking about the words I can still taste on my tongue. I may not have seen Kathleen’s face or learned anything of the curse my father mentioned, but I know something more. Something vastly important, even more so than the contents of the letter.

I knew how to do magic, too.