Chapter Thirteen

It begins.

The music draws them to the tavern. As a result of Ribbon’s lessons or the need to forget the murders—just for a few hours—their excitement is even more obvious than it was before. There’s no hesitation to start the dancing. I stand behind the bar where I can avoid being trampled and Ribbon comes to stand beside me. “Did anyone fetch Brooch?” I ask.

Across the way, a boy bows and asks a girl to dance. She covers her mouth with skinless fingers and giggles.

“She had no wish to come,” my friend answers. She doesn’t look away from the crowd. Yellowed teeth flash in the light and skirts fly from the fervor of their movements. I watch the terrible loveliness of it all, smiling when Ribbon is coerced into a haphazard waltz with the reverend.

Toward the front, the strange band plays. The harmonica crows over the stomping feet and clapping hands. A young man attempts to play the fiddle, but without much luck. It sounds much worse than it did in its predecessor’s hands, the bow shrieking and whining over the ancient strings.

Still, it is better than nothing.

Politely declining a request to dance, I devote myself to being an observer. Courtesy of Handkerchief, since Journal was not present upon my arrival yesterday, the walls are decorated with odd items from their tower. A painting, the pages of a book with words that faded long ago, tree roots. I try not to fidget as I wait for Smoke to reappear. Earlier, upon his arrival, Ribbon had sent him on an errand for more decorations. Now I’m so intent on spotting him, in fact, that I nearly miss the newcomer slipping inside. No one else seems to see him as he drifts through the crowd. They are so unaffected by his presence, in fact, that I begin to doubt my own instincts. But then something catches the light. Though he stands across the room, shrouded in shadow, the gleam of those buttons is unmistakable.

Tintype.

If I don’t speak to him now, I never will. Either his ability to disappear or the suspicion on his head will see to that. I make my way in his direction and ignore the irritated glares people give me. Somehow Tintype senses my approach, and our gazes meet for an instant before he turns in an attempt to run.

Moving quickly, I seize his sleeve. “I need to know more!” I demand without preamble, not bothering to lower my voice. Everyone is watching the dancing, and the music is far too loud. “You’re my father. From what I remember, you denied me that. There’s a debt between us. I need more information about the curse.”

“Not here,” he mutters, trying to pull away again. His eyes shift. “I just came to see what all the fuss was about.”

Something hard and desperate comes over me. “You’re hiding from Eye Patch and the rest of the men, aren’t you? Do you suppose if I scream and announce your presence, you’ll live through a trial? Not to mention seeing the curse put to rest?”

The mention of this ceases his efforts to leave. Tintype—I can’t think of him as my father—steps forward so his lips are next to my ear. Our faces are so close I can see the flecks of color in his irises and smell the rot on his breath. “Dear girl, I can’t tell you anything,” he insists. “My own memories are few. You must remember on your own. I’ve done what I can to help you along.”

Just as I am about to argue, the music changes. The harmonica becomes a mournful sound, almost lonely. As if it has seen brighter rooms and sung to warmer gatherings. Laughter dies and conversations cease. Slowly, people leave the floor and others step into it, clasping each other close. Much closer than Ribbon’s teachings allowed.

I look back up at Tintype, more determined than ever to coax the answers from him. “But how—”

He stiffens, his gaze focused on something behind me, and I twist to discover what has his attention. Immediately I see that Journal is here and he’s fighting through the crowd. His gaze meets mine for an instant. When I turn back, Tintype is gone.

I suppress my frustration by patting my hair and smoothing a wrinkle on my skirt. Spinning again, I find myself face-to-face with Journal. “Hello.” There’s a note of uncertainty in my voice that is impossible to mask. “I hope you don’t mind that Handkerchief lent us some of your things. I would have waited for your permission, but he informed me that you might not be back for some time—”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t mind. That’s not why I came tonight.”

“Oh.” I hesitate. For the thousandth time I hear Ribbon’s voice in my mind, putting life into something I never allowed to take so much as a breath. He’s quite taken with you. “Is something wrong?”

Someone shoulders by, causing Journal to stumble forward. He finds his balance just in time, but our bodies brush. He stammers, uttering words like perhaps and dance, and suddenly I realize what he is attempting to ask. I watch him struggle, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth now. All my frustration with Tintype is forgotten.

“Would you do me the honor…” Journal begins. He clears his throat and rakes his hair back. “That is, I would very much like it if…”

In response, I take his hand. It is larger than I thought it would be, engulfing mine like I’ve thrust my fingers into a bucket of water. I lead Journal through the wall of people observing the dance. They glance our way, and I see several do a double take when they realize who I’m leading to the middle of the floor. Facing Journal, I put one hand on his shoulder and the other in his. He positions his free hand on my waist. The space is confined, and we’re only able to dance in short sways and slight turns.

We’ve been on the floor for a few moments when Journal takes an unnecessary breath, as though to prepare himself. He speaks quietly. “You’ve been honest with me, and my conscience demands that I do the same. It wasn’t fair, what I said the last time we were in the tower together, because I knew you were telling the truth. But there’s a pattern in the killings and I’d finally begun to see it. Key, the pattern is this—anyone who starts to remember their past is killed shortly after. Your confession terrified me. I hoped that if you questioned yourself, the memories would either cease or you would never speak of them again.”

Whatever I’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that.

I automatically move through the steps of our dance as I think about Journal’s revelations. His theory makes sense; why else would someone attempt to kill me? Perhaps they overheard my conversations with Kathleen—it’s never clear whether I’m speaking out loud when I experience the memories—or saw me drifting through the alleys. The thought has not even finished when a new kind of terror grips my heart. If what Journal says is true, then more people are in danger. Just that afternoon, Spoon had mentioned she remembered her daughter’s face. “Thank you for telling me,” I manage.

Now it’s your turn, the beetle says snidely. You haven’t been as honest as Journal thinks.

To my relief, Journal isn’t finished yet. “I’ve been making discreet inquiries,” he goes on. “My suspicions were confirmed. Each victim exhibited the same behavior, though perhaps not to the same degree. I’ve felt the urges myself. Splinter spoke of docks and ships. Fiddle wouldn’t stop mumbling about a girl named Beatrice. Freckles went mad searching for a job so he could send money back to his family. There’s no way of knowing what else they would have remembered, given time. It seems that anyone who regains a bit of memory dies shortly thereafter.”

More pieces fall into place. Slowly I say, “The first death. The undertaker. You said he was ranting and raving. So he’d started remembering, too.”

Journal nods.

That’s why he kept the contents of the scroll secret, I realize. He didn’t believe the man had killed himself, and he was worried if I read the account of the ramblings, it would awaken something in me. Handkerchief had been protecting me as well, when he stopped Journal from revealing too much.

“There’s something else,” Journal says. Something in his voice catches my attention—a potent mixture of dread and reluctance—and I refocus on him. His hand tightens around mine and I don’t think he’s even aware of it. The music changes, but we keep dancing. Journal visibly struggles to find the words. Just when I’m about to lose patience, he speaks. “It’s you, Key. You’re the link among them.”

I frown. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was going mad trying to find the event or trigger that caused the victims to start regaining memories—especially now, after so many quiet years—and it took embarrassingly long for me to realize what had changed in Under. It was you. My own memories began the very day we met. But how? Was it something airborne? Was it a specific phrase or word?”

“Could you get to the point, please?” I ask impatiently.

He acts as though my words fall on deaf ears. Knowing Journal, they may have. “There was a moment with you that I couldn’t get out of my head,” he says, meeting my gaze. “The first book I lent you. Our hands brushed, do you remember?”

“Of course I…” In a burst of comprehension, I almost jerk to a halt on the middle of the dance floor. My mind goes back, and back, and back. All the way to Splinter and his rough hands on the day of my arrival. Fiddle and the way I grabbed his arm in the tavern. Freckles and his timid tap to gain my attention. Pocket Watch and his comforting pat on my hand.

The truth had been in the scroll—in a supposedly insane man’s words—all along. It’s in the touch.

I’m the reason these innocent people are burning.

But one piece doesn’t fit. That first man to die, the one whose ravings Journal recorded. He’d never met me; I’d fallen long after his demise. When would I have had a chance to touch him?

Perhaps you didn’t. Perhaps he touched you, the beetle suggests.

Oh, God. That’s right. The man was the village undertaker; it stood to reason that he’d been the one to prepare my body. Somehow, a single brush with my skin really does bring remembrance. Dead or alive, apparently. I want to vomit at the revelation. How many times have I touched Doll? Ribbon?

Journal has remained silent during all this. Now I look up at him again, and despite the hypocrisy of it, anger shadows my next words. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could’ve been more careful. For that matter, why haven’t you warned anyone else? It’s obvious that more and more are starting to remember. Staying silent won’t protect them now.”

Just as Journal opens his mouth to reply, something touches my back. Turning, I see that another couple is dancing needlessly close to us. It’s Eye Patch—despite his missing arm—and a woman named Bonnet. He’s watching me intently, as if his partner isn’t attempting a dialogue with him. Eavesdropping in hopes of catching an admission of guilt, most likely.

Noticing at the same time I do, Journal bends his head and lowers his voice even further. “I made efforts to keep you from remembering, Key, because I wanted you to be safe. But warning everyone else might squelch their desire to regain those memories. And that is essential,” he murmurs.

“More essential than survival?” I counter, stepping on his toe. I don’t apologize. There is a war brewing inside me now. The instinct to protect the friends I’ve made here and the desperate need to find answers. It’s clear that Journal has already made his choice; he would sacrifice lives for the sake of those answers. I search his eyes for proof that I’m wrong and find nothing.

Perhaps he sees the revulsion in my face, because he doesn’t answer. A moment later, a familiar voice drawls, “May I cut in?”

We both jump. Smoke stands beside us, a strange look in his eye. For the first time, I’m not eager to speak with him. My fingers dig into Journal’s shoulder again, a silent plea to refuse the request. There’s so much more to say. But he steps back and places my hand in Smoke’s.

The ice has returned to his demeanor. “Thank you for the dance,” Journal intones, avoiding my gaze. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Key.”

When the dance began, I’d thought to tell him that Doll has the scroll again, but now I have no wish to help him. I watch Journal leave the tavern. Without warning, Smoke puts his hand on the small of my back and pulls me close. The place where his palm makes contact feels like it’s on fire.

I lose sight of Journal and automatically flatten a hand on my new partner’s chest to put some distance between us. Unperturbed, Smoke lifts my arm and spins me. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting something,” he says when I’m facing him again. “You looked very serious for an occasion that’s supposed to lift our spirits.”

This time I succeed in pushing him away; we’re being observed and I don’t enjoy making a spectacle. “Not at all. And I’ll endeavor to wear the appropriate expression for this event.”

Smoke cocks his head and gives me an exaggerated frown. “So formal. Which puzzles me, since I probably know you better than anyone else in this hellhole.”

There’s a charged pause. His meaning is all too clear, and I know we’re both thinking of that kiss in the dark. Finally, the discussion I’ve been dreading. I lift my chin and don’t pretend to misunderstand. “What happened between us was a mistake,” I say quietly, however much I don’t want to. “It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He grins roguishly. It’s as if seeing Journal and me together has affected him, uncovered something dark and bitter. There’s no glimpse of the kindness I saw the day he brought me to Tintype, or the blind adoration I experienced in the shadows.

“I’m engaged, Smoke,” I remind him.

“I should think that dying would release you from any prior commitments. Besides, that didn’t stop you before.”

“It does now,” I snap. He has no idea what sort of danger he’s in just being near me. In touching me. And perhaps there’s also a part of me that is trying to atone for the selfish choices I made back then.

Once again the music changes. I almost sag with relief; one more minute and Smoke would’ve seen through my mask. The clapping and stomping returns and the tempo quickens. As excited shouts sound all around us, I step away from him. “Thank you for the dance.”

A muscle works in Smoke’s jaw. “I can think of better ways to pass the time,” he quips. There’s something suggestive in the way he says it, and I glare at him, forgetting my anguish. Then, as luck would have it, a memory chooses that moment to resurface. I know it’s futile to struggle. Expecting it now, I close my eyes against the nausea. It rushes through me like water filling a glass. Distantly, I’m aware of Smoke gripping my waist, offering support as the memory claims me.

Once the dizziness passes, I am not the least surprised to open my eyes and see James. The sight of him unsettles me, though. For once, that wild hair is slicked back and I can see his face fully. He’s wearing tails and his shoes must’ve been recently shined. Mischievous—but alluring—dimples deepen in his cheeks. His cobalt eyes gleam.

With effort, I turn my attention to our surroundings. We’re in a local tavern, made of wooden walls and high ceilings. Beams crisscross the open space above us. The air is heady with the smells of hot food, perfume, and sweat. Unlike the last time, James and I are being watched. Men and women alike stare in our direction. Their whispers fill my ears.

“What are you doing?” I hiss. The lights above us are too bright; it feels like our secrets are revealed to the entire room.

James’s hand doesn’t waver. He stands before me, blatantly out of place among these people. My friends have all backed away, putting distance between them and scandal. “Will you honor me with your hand for a quadrille?” he says, posing the question in such a way that it’s obvious he’s voiced it more than once.

My heart pounds against the walls containing it. “You know we shouldn’t, Mr. Alistair,” I remind him, wishing I sounded firmer about it.

“That doesn’t answer my question. I’ll ask again. Will you honor me with your hand for a quadrille?”

I cast a worried glance around us. Would there be so much harm in one dance? I wonder. Just one. The temptation to touch him again is too great.

Resenting my own weakness, I give in and put my hand atop his. James grasps my fingers, and even through the white kid glove, I feel the heat of it. He flashes that familiar, impish grin of his. With a dramatic gesture, he sweeps me onto the dance floor, right in the thick of it. A yellow-haired girl next to us stares, aghast at our daring. My resolve wavers.

“Mr. Alistair—”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me that anymore.”

For a few moments, I’m caught up in the quadrille. I’ve always enjoyed dancing and James is an excellent partner. As he spins me, I notice some girls tittering in the corner, coyly hiding smiles behind their fingers. “Why are you here?” I blurt, tilting my face up, seeking James’s gaze.

“In the village?” he asks, every movement like liquid. It reminds me of the night I watched him fight.

“Well, I’m curious about that, as well, but I meant with me,” I clarify. “If you look there, nearly ten girls are waiting for you to ask them to dance.”

Truth be told, there’s a part of me that’s wondered—from our very first meeting—whether this is all a game to him. I may be innocent, but I’m not naive. There are men in the world who treat women like rags. Use it a few times, then toss it into the rubbish pit. And a man as handsome as James Alistair must have women throwing themselves at him daily.

Perhaps he guesses at my true motives; James frowns and doesn’t reply, at first. We continue through the steps and motions. I have an inkling that the last time I tried this dance with my fiancé, it wasn’t nearly so natural.

“I have no pretty speeches to offer,” James says once we’re facing each other. His expression is uncharacteristically agitated. “No bits about how I was enchanted by the sound of your laugh or the secrets in your eyes. All I know is that I saw you and I had to know you.”

I almost stumble at his words, for I’ve had the same thought about him. “I confess, I’m disappointed you weren’t overwhelmed by my beauty,” I say lightly, trying to bring James’s smile back.

He remains solemn. “The world is full of pretty girls. In all my travels, though, I’ve only found one like you.”

The world around us has faded. There’s no tavern, no other dancers, not even music. Not because the memory is retreating, but because he makes me forget everything else. I search James’s gaze, painfully aware of every place our bodies touch. “And what’s so interesting about me?”

Of course he answers the question with one of his own. “I could ask you the same,” James replies, raising his raven brows. “Why are you dancing with me when I’m sure there are a dozen others begging for the chance?”

I almost remind him yet again that I’m engaged, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I settle for another truth. “I suppose some things don’t have a proper explanation. They just are.”

“You might be right,” James murmurs.

There’s no chance to reply; just as quickly as it began, the memory blows away like ashes on the wind. We are surrounded by death and decay once more. Smoke and I still stand in the middle of the other dancers, but our circumstances couldn’t be more changed. While I stare, Smoke’s hand tightens on me. I barely notice. “We’ve done this before,” I tell him in a whisper.

“Yes.” His voice is low so others won’t hear. I don’t have to ask whether Smoke accompanied me into the memory again; the answer is in his eyes. I open my mouth to ask him what else he’s remembered.

Just then, tinkling laughter reaches my ears. I turn to see that Ribbon is surrounded by her admirers, distracted by all the noise and attention. Recognizing an opportunity, I turn back to Smoke. “I’m sorry,” I say. Possible lies or excuses fail me—or maybe I just don’t want to give him one—so I leave it at that. He lets me go, but I feel his gaze all the way to the door.

As I slip out of the tavern, there are no ghostly girls or concerned friends to intervene. Equal parts relieved and triumphant, I hasten in the direction of the wooden river. My ears are alert for any sounds of pursuit. Both Journal’s discovery and the latest memory with Smoke are fresh in my mind, and I mull over every word exchanged while I walk. For a few minutes I’m worried this isn’t the right way, but then I hear the humming of the woman with no limbs. Reassured, I grab hold of my skirts and run.

Soon enough the roots come into view. I glance behind me to be sure there’s no one watching, no one lurking. Only the shadows stare back. Having enough sense to claim one of the torches that’s still lit, I hurry forward and climb over the tangle. I hold my arm carefully aloft to avoid disaster, and my feet hit the ground on the other side with a dull thud. I’m shaking so badly that I have trouble finding the door.

Eventually the flame, bright and crackling, reveals that familiar hole in the wall. Tiny, oddly shaped, and full of possibility. I fumble for the key about my neck and it fits perfectly. Taking a step back, I feel light-headed from a rush of doubt and panic and exhilaration.

And the door creaks open.