Chapter Fifteen

I burst into the tower.

They must have heard me coming up the stairs, because both boys are looking toward the doorway. The serene flicker of the torches only agitates me more. I am coated in shame and snow. Chunks of it fall to the floor as I halt before Journal.

“I’ve been keeping things from you,” I blurt. I’m not sure which is the driving force making me confide in him over everyone else—the guilt or the memory of our friendship.

Journal is slow to react. Straightening, he sets a book down on the desk and takes in the sight of me. The snow around my feet starts to melt.

“Handkerchief, would you give us a moment?” he asks the boy politely. Handkerchief doesn’t hesitate, but I feel the weight of his stare as he walks past.

The moment he’s gone, I move forward, clenching my hands into fists. The picture in Victoria Room’s house is branded on my mind, inescapable and permanent. I look at Journal and wonder how I didn’t remember him as Henry Wisely. Now that the knowledge is there, it’s all I see. The hands that once held more elegant books than the one on that desk. Clothes that were flawless in their tailoring. Features that were once vibrant with affection, not death.

“I can’t remain silent anymore,” I manage. “I feel like I’m going mad.”

Calmly, Journal pulls the chair out, a silent instruction to sit. Only then do I comprehend how my legs are shaking. “Tell me,” he says simply.

I do. I tell him everything.

About Tintype, the memories, the door. Everything that transpired fifteen years ago, except what I’ve remembered about Smoke. “There was more to go through, but I worried the daylight would expose me,” I finish, settling back with a weary sigh.

All this time, Journal has listened without a word of interruption. Now he shakes his head. He tucks his hands behind his back and begins to pace. “Incredible. Just incredible. I wonder why it took you fifteen years to wake?”

“I don’t know. But now I wonder if the magic has something to do with my lack of decomposition.”

Journal purses his lips. His expression is nearly identical to the one in the picture. My sense of guilt is overwhelming. I fiddle with my skirt and swallow. “Journal, there’s something else you should…” But I trail off, blinking rapidly. The tower wavers and fades. I fight the memory. At first, Journal doesn’t notice. He’s talking to himself, absorbing the new information I’ve given him. His bent head gleams. I try to focus on that, on those shimmering strands, but the memory is stronger. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the tower to retreat.

Journal must finally realize something is wrong. He calls my name. His voice grows fainter and fainter. I wonder why he’s never able to share in the memories with me, as Smoke sometimes is. Perhaps it has something to do with my own will.

I feel the change happening again, the past closing in. Just before nausea grips me, it’s almost as if there’s been a gust of wind or there are sparks on the air. Under and Journal melt away like the snow still clinging to my stockings. Then my head swims and it’s all I can do not to heave. Eventually, as it always does, the feeling passes.

I am in a bright drawing room. A gentle fire warms the air, and the walls are decorated in patterned wallpaper. The furniture is stylish and refined. I glance down at the clattering cup of tea in my hand. Steam rises from the black surface. I am wearing a lavender dress, and beneath it the whalebone stays of a corset restrict my already shallow breathing.

“My father…” I begin. I stop. Begin again. “My first thought was that it can’t be true. That is, you wouldn’t have asked him without speaking to me. Did you?”

Henry’s jaw clenches. He stands before the fireplace. In a nervous gesture, he tugs at the bottom of his waistcoat. “It’s true.”

The fire pops and hisses as a log falls. Outside, a carriage goes by. The neat clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestones is the only sound between us. I pluck at my skirt, pinching skin in the process. Pain radiates through my leg and I try to hide my wince. Part of me is aware that the quiet has gone too long, and I fumble for something to say. The rattling increases, and I lean forward to put the tea down. My gloved hands clasp painfully in my lap. “I don’t understand,” I say at last.

“We’re a good match, you and I.” There’s a note of pleading in the way he says it. “Our parents approve. They’ve been expecting this for years.”

“Henry, it’s not that I… This is not how I wanted…” Once more, I fail to find the right words. Now frustration clogs my throat. Of course the match occurred to me, but it hadn’t lasted longer than the space of a few breaths. This boy is my friend. He doesn’t make my heart beat faster or my dreams difficult to leave.

Henry comes close and seizes my hands. His palms are clammy. “I can make you happy. I accept you for who you are and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure—”

“I don’t want acceptance,” I cry, yanking free without thinking. I surge to my feet. “I want someone who knows me and celebrates it.”

Hurt flashes across his face. Henry purses his lips and withdraws into himself. “I can see you’ve had a shock. Perhaps you just need some time.”

I don’t know what happened next; suddenly everything is cracking and ripping. I reach out to grab Henry, my mouth forming his name, but he’s already gone. In the space of a moment, I find myself grappling at the air.

Someone takes hold of my hand. My senses return and my surroundings solidify into the gnarly walls of the tower. I look down at Journal, who’s kneeling in front of me with an expression of concern. “What did you remember?” he asks, somehow knowing. The twine at the back of his neck is coming undone.

An overwhelming sensation of loss clogs my throat. I move his hair aside with gentle fingers. It doesn’t surprise me, somehow, that Journal is the one I was promised to. And even though I don’t have the memories of how we died, or whether the marriage actually happened, that particular bond between us feels intact. Journal’s lack of knowledge about the engagement doesn’t make it any less valid. I’m ashamed of the girl I’d once been, who was able to display such a lack of faith or loyalty.

Journal waits for an answer, but I can’t bear to lose his friendship all over again. The truth would most assuredly do just that.

“Nothing. It was nothing.”

…

Laughter pours from the doorway of the tavern.

Hidden in the shadows, I peek inside. Almost everyone in Under is there. Now that they know how to dance, it’s been impossible to get them to stop. The sound of Ribbon’s laugh rises above the crowd, exactly the reassurance I need. She won’t be searching for me. Retreating, I whirl and run in the direction of the river.

My eagerness and desperation for the truth has increased, despite the risk in slipping away. At the door I turn the key in the lock and slip into the passageway, reaching the mausoleum without difficulty. Leaving footprints in the frost, I poke my head outside to make sure no mourners are here to witness my exit. Only the solemn trees and woeful headstones gaze back. I step into the night and begin the journey to the largest house in Caulfield.

Like before, the old woman answers just moments after my knock. She swings the door open and raises her gray brows. “Back again so soon, Miss White?” She doesn’t remark upon the hour this time.

“I was hoping you had more information for me,” I say, shivering on her front step. The coat Mary gave me is hidden in Under. In my haste I forgot to fetch it, and I pray Mrs. Room doesn’t notice my clothing.

“Well, come inside, then. You’re letting the cold in.”

Once again Mrs. Room leads me up the stairs and to the room full of history. “Make yourself at home,” she invites, though it sounds more like an order. “I’m going to fetch my knitting from downstairs. Be back in a moment or two.” Her footsteps retreat, and I move to the table where the picture of Journal stands. I allow myself to look at it for just a few moments before putting it down and going to the next. This image is so faded and grainy that I can’t make out the faces. It’s a family portrait of a young girl and a clean-shaven man.

I hold it close, squinting. There’s something familiar about her face. The shape of it, perhaps, or how it’s partly turned away. As if she didn’t want anyone to notice her.

Startling me, Mrs. Room’s voice comes from behind. “Those are the Talbots. Lovely family. Very charitable. They took in a girl when she had no one. I can’t seem to recall her name…”

Before she’s finished speaking, I feel my gaze widen in recognition. Of course, it’s Kathleen. And the man standing behind her, with the square jaw and the hard eyes, is the father she’s so afraid of in my memories. So I was a ward of her family. When she called me her sister, she meant a sibling of the heart, not in blood. One more piece to the puzzle falls into place. But there’s still so much left.

“There was quite a scandal surrounding the family, if I recall. It was so long ago. If you want to know more about them, I think I have a few other belongings in that pile.” Mrs. Room settles in a rocking chair and begins to knit. The click-click-click of her needles fills my ears as I turn, and something inside me sinks at the sight of all the crates and trunks. Well, there’s no time to waste. Squaring my shoulders, I lift one off the stack and begin sifting through it.

Minutes later, a new sound disturbs us from our tasks. The knocker.

Mrs. Room sets her project aside and frowns. “Who could that be?” she mutters to herself. Pressing her hands to her thighs, she heaves herself up. Bones and floorboards creak when she leaves. I continue sifting through artifacts of the past and attempt to listen at the same time. There’s the telltale moan of hinges as Mrs. Room opens the front door and voices echo through the house. One of them is distinctly male.

Unease creeps through me, but I tell myself there’s nothing to be afraid of—no one knows I’m here. I kneel to keep digging for the truth. But then there comes a scuffing noise, like a heel scraping over the floor, and I lift my head again.

Journal stands in the doorway.

I drop a photo album in shock. It falls with a clatter. “What are you doing here?”

His chair and clothing are stiff with frost. He looks more ill than he did in Under, as though he’s just climbed out of bed against the doctor’s orders. At least, I hope that’s what anyone who might see him will believe.

“I found you using the details from your accounts,” Journal says unrepentantly, inspecting the room with obvious curiosity. A pang of realization hits me that I must’ve left the door ajar. You imbecile, Key, I silently fume. Before I can reply, he adds, “There’s been another murder, and Ribbon is going frantic looking for you. She thinks you’re the one who was killed.”

“Blast!” I rush to the door, knowing there will be time for questions and arguments later. Journal moves to follow, but I see the way he looks back at the room, longing in his eyes. Urgency overpowers any uncertainty or guilt, and I seize his elbow to drag him out. We burst into the hallway and keep going.

Mrs. Room, halfway up the stairs, halts at the sight of us. “Finished so soon? I thought—”

“I’m so sorry, but we must go,” I cut in, still clutching Journal. He opens his mouth, and I tighten my grip to silence him. “Mr. White and I just received some dreadful news.”

The old woman hurries to accompany us outside. “Oh, this is your husband? I didn’t realize. And how unfortunate, I hope it’s nothing serious!”

Shouting empty reassurances back at her, Journal and I break into a run the moment we cross the threshold. A square of yellow light stretches over the ice as Mrs. Room watches us go. Soon we leave the cluster of houses behind, moving out of her sight. “Did you go through the village?” I demand, imagining all the lights and people that could have exposed him.

“No one noticed me. And while I was outside debating what to do, I hid behind a hedge.”

Praying that he’s right, I lead him along the outskirts, taking the longer route in order to avoid prying eyes. Journal is strangely silent. Just as we pass a pond, the surface glinting in the moonlight, something hard hits me in the back of my head. Alarmed, I whip around. Journal stands in the middle of the empty road. The corners of his mouth twitch. His hand drips with swiftly melting snow, and comprehension makes my eyes narrow.

Just like that, the tension between us evaporates. “We don’t have time for this!” I insist, even as I bend to scoop together a ball of my own.

“I know.” He grins now, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile. In that moment, he looks like the child I grew up with. “But it’s been so long since I’ve been around snow!”

I start to reply, and Journal shocks me once again by darting off the road and onto the pond. “What about Ribbon?” I call frantically. He acts as if I haven’t spoken, whooping as he slides on the frozen water. Glancing in the direction of the cemetery, I hesitate for an instant, then relent. I fight through the shin-deep mounds to reach his side. The moment I step out, Journal gives chase. He’s like a completely different person, and part of me would rather linger and speak with him. But I run, as I’m supposed to, attempting not to fall while evading his grasp. Soon enough, his hands wrap around my waist and he hauls me back. I scream.

Turning, we latch onto each other as though our lives depend on it and spin in wild circles. I shriek with laughter, struggling to keep my balance. Both of us are panting as though we’re out of breath, and the air swirls with white clouds. When I lift my head, still smiling, I expect to see Journal laughing, too. Instead, he’s staring at me with one of his odd expressions, and for the first time, I know what it is.

Awe.

The moment I have the thought, everything begins to quiver. “Oh no,” I moan, bending over. The nausea is particularly vicious. Unable to stop it, I retch.

Journal’s hands tighten around mine. “Key, what is it?”

He says something else, but the words come from a vast distance. As always, the feeling gradually passes. When I stand upright, I expect to see a memory that takes place in the ice and snow. Instead, I’m back in the Wisely household, seated in the same infernal chair as before. Henry and I both stare at our cups of tea in another agonizing silence. The grandfather clock mocks us. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Perhaps we could browse the library,” Henry finally suggests.

Relieved, I almost jump from the chair. “I would like that.”

Without another word, he rises. I follow suit, thinking he’s going to offer his arm, but he turns and walks out of the room. After a moment, I trail after him. He leads me past the stairs and down a hallway, toward a door tucked in the back. The busy sounds of a kitchen drift in our direction. Henry twists the knob and stands aside, his gaze firmly on my shoes. This is a room I’ve entered dozens of times before, but now, I hesitate at the threshold. It doesn’t feel as welcoming as it used to.

Silently, I tell myself not to be so foolish. I step inside.

Any other day, I would go to the bookshelves and voice some of the titles, intending to read aloud from whatever we chose. Henry would scoff and come up with reasons why it was the wrong one. After a time, though, we’d find a volume we both liked the sound of.

In an effort to return to those happier days, I move to the shelf. The sound of purposeful footsteps startles me. I turn to watch Henry sit at the desk, open a leather-bound book, and begin to write in it. As if he’s completely forgotten me, his mouth puckers in concentration. Disheartened, I trail my fingers along the edge of a shelf and walk the perimeter of the room. When I glance at Henry again, I catch him staring. He quickly looks down at the book in front of him.

“Will you read to me?” I ask impulsively.

Two spots of color appear on his cheeks. “This w-wouldn’t interest you,” he stammers, slamming it shut.

“And why not?” I tease. Wanting to see the text, I circle the desk and stand beside him. As Henry frantically shoves the mysterious volume into a drawer, my skirt brushes against his thigh. A flush crawls up his neck, joining the blush, and Henry’s entire face is red now. I step back, but something in him seems to have cracked open.

“I wasn’t entirely forthcoming with you,” he blurts.

I back away. My instincts come alive and tell me that I won’t like what he’s about to say. “What do you mean?”

He forges ahead as though he’s riding into battle. “When you learned of our engagement and we spoke, I told you it was a good match.” He stands but remains where he is, fingers splayed on the desk as if to balance himself. “But the truth is, I wanted this more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I have for a long time. Frankly, I’ve memorized every tiny detail about you. The curve of your neck, the way your brow lowers when you’re reading a passage you find interesting, the shape of your fingers where they grip the page. Yes, I know you see only friendship between us. I reassured myself that once we were married, you would come to feel love.”

Words elude me; they may as well have become birds and flapped off. I stare at him openmouthed. “I—”

“It began when we were just children. The first time I saw you, I only caught a glimpse. But it was enough. I was sitting on a bench in the park when your carriage went by. You had your head out the window, and your face was lifted toward the sun. Your eyes were closed and you were smiling. A governess was shrieking about decorum, but you ignored her. I wanted more than anything for you to open those eyes and see me. When you didn’t, I made inquiries to discover your identity. I didn’t rest. And eventually I succeeded. Imagine my surprise when I learned your family lived in the house next to mine.”

At last, he falls silent, and I swear I can hear that damn grandfather clock again. Tick. Tick. Tick. Henry stares at me, his dear face so hopeful and earnest. Afternoon sunlight pours through the window behind him, setting half the room aglow. The tranquility of it belies the chaos warring inside me. My lips quiver. What can I possibly say to such a confession?

When it’s clear the silence has gone on too long, I make a vague gesture. “Henry… I didn’t know.”

With that, the study crumbles like ashes. There’s a moment of disorientation, then I’m on the ice again, midspin with Journal. Slowly, we slide into a standstill. Neither of us moves. This time I find the courage to ask him. “Did you remember?” I whisper.

His heart is in his eyes. “Yes.”

But he still doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that I fell in love with someone else.

“We should g-go.” Pulling away, I focus on our feet and straighten my skirt. I don’t wait for him to answer before hurrying off in the direction of the road. Henry’s eyes bore into my back all the way to the graveyard.

He opens the gate and steps aside. We trudge past the headstones, then silently enter the mausoleum, the distance between us charged. I don’t look at him again, even when we reach the door to the passageway and plunge into darkness.

We use the wall for guidance, but the journey back into the earth is slow going. Without a torch, the path is more treacherous, abruptly dipping and dropping. I put all my concentration into the next step. After a while, a distant part of me begins to suspect something isn’t right. Frowning, I pause and listen. There’s a fluttering sound in the stillness, but the tunnel is so resonant that I can’t tell if it’s coming from ahead or behind us.

“Journal, did you hear that?” I whisper.

He’s closer than I realized, because his breath fans tendrils of hair around my face. I jump. “No. What is it?”

We both go silent, waiting for something to stir in the oblivion, but there’s nothing. Did I imagine the sound? “Never mind,” I murmur, starting forward again. Journal’s hand touches mine on the rocky wall. Jerking away, my toe collides with something jutting in the path and I stumble. He grabs me in an attempt to help, but I wrench myself out of his hands. “I’m fine!”

Journal doesn’t snap back, and I childishly wish he would. The guilt has become a bitter taste in my mouth. He deserves to know the entire truth, what kind of girl he loved. Yet the idea of saying the words out loud brings a terror to my soul that wasn’t there even when a knife was poised over my tongue.

We keep walking in stilted silence and finally reach the second door. Cautious as ever, I make sure no one is near the roots before emerging.

The instant we land on the other side of the river, I expect Journal to depart in the direction of his tower. He doesn’t. We both head for the clamor that is undoubtedly coming from the square.

Standing at the front, Ribbon spots me straightaway. She leaps down from the crate, but the dead are so consumed by their anger and fear that they don’t clear the way for her. As she fights to get through, I see the body by the wall. Like all the others, it has been burned. Someone else who had begun to remember and paid the price. Who did I touch? Who did I condemn in one unthinking moment?

Ribbon pushes past the last of the corpses in her way. “Thank heavens,” she cries, throwing her arms around me.

“I found her in one of the unoccupied rooms. She was so focused on her book that she didn’t even hear me say her name,” Journal lies smoothly.

My friend instantly begins admonishing me, and her arms are so tight that I feel my bones grind. “Ribbon.” I pause. She doesn’t release me. “Really, I’m all right. You can…” I trail off when I catch sight of Shilling’s face, who has moved to cower by us. Everyone else within my line of sight wears similar expressions of terror and astonishment. One of them makes a cross on their chest. They all seem to be looking up.

“What is it?” I ask, finally detangling myself from Ribbon’s embrace. “What is everyone staring at?”

Wordlessly, Shilling points.

A familiar sound echoes around us. With the chalky taste of dread in my mouth, I glance toward the earthen sky. At first, it looks like nothing but a swift shadow. But then the shadow squeaks.

“A bat, it’s a bat,” the others are whispering. For a moment I’m confused—has this happened before?—but no, of course they’d still know what a bat is. Our stolen memories don’t affect basic knowledge.

The little creature flaps its wings wildly, panicked by this starless and strange world it has found itself trapped within. I remember that moment in the dark when a small sound pierced the stillness. It must have followed us through the tunnel.

This is my fault.

Lowering my chin, I meet Journal’s gaze. He’s looking at me instead of the bat, and his mouth is tight. We’re both thinking the same thing. Whoever my attacker is, whoever has been trying to keep me from discovering the truth of Under and so desperately tried to snatch the key from around my neck during our last encounter, will draw an inevitable conclusion at the sight of that bat.

They will know I have opened the door.