Chapter Twenty-One

Father acts immediately. While I continue to shriek, he drops to the dirt and rolls violently. “Don’t let him escape!” he manages to shout. Regaining some of my senses, I kneel and retrieve the knife. I glance at Father to be sure he will recover before turning away.

The river is on fire, and Under is brighter than ever before. Shadows and darkness shrink, revealing the things they have hidden for so long. Our attacker tries to run before I’m able to get a glimpse of his face, but it’s too late. My stomach drops. He scrambles over the roots, heat and smoke rising from his clothes, and disappears into the maze.

“Handkerchief?”

In that moment, I remember him. I picture the boy he was before, always lurking and staring at Kathleen. We were both disdainful and wary of the butcher’s son, mocking the blood-covered apron he wore in the shop. One Sunday, when Kathleen was upset with how James turned away from her, he offered his handkerchief.

I don’t know how the boy hid that scratch from the day he attacked me. Maybe he did what he does best—stood so still and silent, the others forgot about him.

Behind me, Father gets to his feet. “Did you see who it was?” he rasps, adjusting his singed uniform.

I am slow to respond, berating myself for being so blind and disregarding my initial wariness of the boy. “It was Handkerchief,” I say faintly. So he’s been the one acting as Kathleen’s puppet. Apparently even without memories, his devotion never wavered. This means Handkerchief was the attacker in the alley, and he must have caused his own injuries to appear innocent. It was unfortunate we hadn’t thought to put on a play in Under; he was meant for the stage.

Father says something else, but I’m not listening. A new danger presents itself—Journal. He trusts Handkerchief, confides in him. I must warn him that his friend is the murderer.

Without another word to Father, I bolt. There’s a part of the river that has been completely burned away. I leap over the ashes and scorched remains. On the other side, I begin to head for the square, but my gaze flicks up to Journal’s tower out of habit.

There is a silhouette in the window. I stop and frown. Why would he be there? They were just by the pyre, trying to convince the others of my innocence. But it’s him, I have no doubt. Changing direction, I break into a run, making sure to keep to unused passageways.

The distance to the tower has never felt so long or the stairs so numerous. When I reach the top, I expect the worst. Journal stepped too close to the fire, or the mob robbed him of an arm, or Handkerchief has already struck. But there he stands, unharmed.

His back is to me and he looks out the window as if there’s a moon or stars. There’s no sign of the other boy. I release a ragged breath and my knees weaken with relief. I put my hand to the wall. “Journal?” I venture. “Are you all right?” There is something about the set of his shoulders that makes me hesitate in the doorway.

“Fine. The others wouldn’t listen to me or Smoke. They left the square to search for you.”

He still doesn’t turn. And suddenly I know. I know why he came here and why he won’t look at me now. “You remember,” I breathe.

Journal doesn’t answer, but the force he uses to set down a book is all the answer I need. It thuds against the floor. I swallow. Now I recall the letter I left him before going to meet James, written in haste and pain. Forgive me. I’m honored that you asked Father for my hand, and I will always adore you. But this isn’t what I want.

How it must have wounded him, when Journal heard of my body being found in the cemetery…with James Alistair. There is nothing I can say that will possibly ease the pain my actions have caused him. Caused everyone.

In the end, all I can manage is, “I never meant to hurt you.”

Journal jerks around to face me, his nostrils flaring and his eyes bright. “Hurt me? You’ve destroyed me!”

In the life before this, if he had been arguing with the girl before the fall, I might have stayed silent. But I have been struck and deceived and terrified. I have fought and run and sought the truth. I am that girl no longer. “And what of your part in all this?” I demand incredulously. “You were my friend, Journal, but you didn’t even offer the courtesy of a discussion before choosing the path my life would take. It’s little wonder I struggled in staying true to it.”

“You’re right. I’m the one who’s behaved badly here.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a small, bitter smile. “Please, Key, just leave.”

His tone is so final, so broken. Relenting, I turn and take a step toward the door. But then I pause. There’s the soft sound of shuffling papers, a sound I once knew better than any other. It was my lullaby, my harbor, my heartbeat.

I glance back at him and murmur, “I did love you, Henry Wisely.”

He looks up. There’s such longing in his expression that something sparks within me. Then the light in his eyes dies and he turns back to his distractions. “Not enough.”

I nod. It was a silly hope, really. After all, there is no reviving something that is dead. Not even magic can do that.

Just as I reach the threshold, though, I remember why I came here in the first place. I say over my shoulder, “You should know that Handkerchief is the killer. And he isn’t working alone. I’d guess that it’s whoever convinced the others of my guilt.”

The boy goes still but doesn’t look at me.

Tracing his bent head with my eyes, memorizing the outline of his noble features, I slowly retreat. “Goodbye, Journal.”

And I leave his tower for the last time.

…

I sit on my headstone and wait.

The graveyard is strangely beautiful tonight, perhaps because I know this may be the last time I see it. Frost glitters on stone and a cold wind whistles over the snow. Sitting there, making a valiant effort to keep terror at bay, I remember the object still hidden in my pocket. I take the round, golden piece out and open it. The faded image shows a woman. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had a kind face. Her hair was brown and curled, her features pale and soft. We have the same eyes.

I smile faintly and touch my mother’s cheek. In that moment, I remember being told she died having me. I never had the opportunity to know her, but once, when he’d had a bit of drink, Father mentioned that she snorted when she laughed.

The piece closes again with a click. I tuck it away and tilt my head back to enjoy the light spreading through the expanse above me. Morning comes this way, slowly, and I pray I’ll be able to see it. In the distance, a bird calls. Spring is also on its way, it seems.

“Hello, Leah.”

At the sound of Ribbon’s voice, something inside me breaks.

I close my eyes and try to memorize the sounds of a season I will never see. “Hello, Kathleen.”

Her feet crunch in the snow. I tense, but I know she won’t hurt me. Not yet.

“So you remember everything, do you?” she questions lightly, moving to perch on the grave opposite me. Even though her face is hard with cruelty, she is beautiful. I study my friend, and all the shadows in my memories shift until her face is in every one. Smiling, sobbing, screaming. A lump forms in my throat.

It’s clear that the girl I once knew is truly dead. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize her.

She is still waiting for me to answer. “For the most part,” I say bleakly. “I even know the reasons for your actions in Under. The murders and the fire at Mrs. Room’s.”

Ribbon raises her eyebrows with interest. “Do tell.”

The wind strengthens. I make a vague gesture, ignoring the hair blowing across my face. “Around the time of your death, I imagine there were rumors. People whispered the word ‘witch’ and spoke of dark magic. When you fell, it was vital that no one remember any of it, else they would burn you. Handkerchief was still loyal, poor soul. So you ordered him to watch my betrothed. You thought that if anyone would find the truth first, it would be Henry.”

I take a breath. Thank heavens she only met my distant father once, else she would have remembered Tintype’s true identity and harmed him, too.

“Every time someone began to regain memories, you told Handkerchief to silence them. With every death, you fanned the flames of suspicion. That’s why they’re now so convinced I’m the killer.”

For a few moments, the air winding through the trees and stones is my only response. Even the bird has gone silent. I force myself to meet Ribbon’s gaze. She’s…smiling. “Well done,” the girl says. “Truly. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. You were always so clever.”

Her words remind me of a detail that’s been standing out in my mind like a loose string. “You could’ve killed me as soon as I arrived in Under. Why did you stay your hand?”

At this, her nostrils flare. “Because Smoke was your valiant protector from nearly the moment you fell. Every time Handkerchief or I drew near, there he was, obsessing over you like a lovesick fool. Apparently even death doesn’t change some things.”

Danger, the beetle whispers. Fear burns in my veins. I hide it and lift my chin. “I understand why you cursed James and me. You were angry and betrayed. But why all the rest, Kathleen? Why did you make everyone pay the price for our mistakes?”

She purses her lips and squints, as if in deep thought. The leaden sky casts patches of light over her skin. After a few moments, Ribbon focuses. “It was a clumsy curse.” She sighs, running her hand over one of the headstones. “I didn’t realize the extent of my power. And I hadn’t quite learned how to translate the language in the book. I think I shouted, ‘May you succumb to a slow death. May you lose everything that was once dear to you. May you never find peace.’

“But you and James died by my own hand, and nothing seemed to come of the curse,” she adds. “After the night I created it, I had no idea the power lingered inside me. Over the next few weeks, everyone I touched fell down dead in one way or another. Muriel, Irene, Mayor Young, Constable Norton. Then my father was infected with cholera, and that spread, essentially eliminating over half the village. Even I contracted it eventually. And because of the wording in my curse, people lost their memories and awoke in their graves.”

My scalp prickles at the sound of her giggle. Until this instant, I hadn’t truly seen it. The glint of madness in her eyes.

Then, before I can blink, she sobers. “But nature finds a balance in everything. Under was the result, and I believe it was an opportunity to counteract the curse, if I so wished. The key to Mother’s chest was in my pocket when I fell,” she concludes.

I’m struggling to find a safe response when our conversation is interrupted. “Our blood sealed the magic,” a voice says from behind. I begin to whirl in surprise, but my instincts go against putting my back to Ribbon. So I dig my fingers into the headstone beneath me and watch her, instead.

At the sight of the man she once loved—still loves, considering how affected she is by him—her lip curls into a semblance of a smile.

“Oh, good,” Ribbon purrs. “You found us. I left the door open especially for you.”

“Our blood sealed the magic,” Smoke repeats, more forcefully this time. He stops, so close that our thighs nearly brush, but his attention is not on me. His face is turned toward the road, toward the place where he died. He’s holding a torch. “I felt it happening.”

He’s trying to tell me something. Any other person might mistake the razor edge in his tone as bitterness, but I know him. His anger is more potent. No, this is the voice of someone making a discovery. If he felt the spell sealing, could it be he was still alive when I ran from the cemetery that night? Why should the blood be so important?

A gasp catches in my throat. All at once, I understand his meaning.

Another memory flashes of Kathleen cutting her hand during the incantation. I think of the knife jutting out of my back and red stains in the snow. “The blood would undo it,” I whisper. It would only take a drop from each of our veins, regardless of its vitality. So many things end the same way they began, particularly with magic.

Smoke looks down at me and the lines in his face have deepened, making him look older. I have a terrible feeling that history is about to repeat itself.

Thankfully, Ribbon doesn’t hear me. She stands, brushing her hands off in a brisk manner. “Before we begin, I have some inquiries for you,” she announces. “Now, I can guess how you got your hands on my key. Tintype couldn’t have ‘found’ so many trinkets if he weren’t journeying to the outside world—in fact, if he weren’t so skilled at staying hidden, I would’ve eliminated him long ago. But what I don’t understand is how you and everyone you came into contact with seemed to be regaining memories.”

Sorrow curves around my heart like a cold finger. “You forget, I learned the magic alongside you,” I say, though it feels like so many lifetimes ago. “Before I died that night, I had just long enough to do a spell of my own. I spoke words that would counter yours, preserving both my body and my mind. Magic that would do everything opposite yours. If you were a key, I was a door. If you were death, I was life. I had no way of knowing if it would work, but thankfully, it did. The only flaw was how long it took me to waken.”

She tilts her head, hair swinging unbound over her shoulder. “Once again I commend your intelligence. But it won’t save you, sister.”

Dread, which has been a knot inside me, begins unraveling at these words. Smoke’s fists clench in my peripheral vision. He’ll fight at my side, despite the price he’s already paid. Still, I can’t help attempting to reach her one last time. “Hasn’t enough blood been spilled?” I implore her, standing. “Let’s end this, Kathleen. Forgive each other and finally let the dead sleep.”

“Never,” she spits, her guise dropping. Gone is Ribbon, the sweet girl who instills calmness and acceptance into the corpses trapped beneath the ground. The person seething in front of me is wild and full of such wrath that it’s a tangible taste in my mouth, like gunpowder and dirt.

She buries her nails into her right palm, digging for blood. Even cold and lifeless, it’s the only ingredient necessary to awaken the magic.

In response, I let go of my own facades. I am not content to hide behind books or rules of society, and I’m tired of allowing fear to control me. My spine becomes steel, and I meet her churning gaze head-on. “I was more powerful than you,” I say evenly. A warning, though I have no idea if I can do the magic now. “Don’t force my hand.”

“Prove it.”

We dive at each other. Smoke shouts my name, but Ribbon throws her arm out and directs a guttural word at him. He freezes. The moment of impact is jarring, and the pain is so unexpected that she gains the upper hand. We roll through the snow, hitting and shrieking. It’s as though her skin is alive with embers. I try spells of my own, but the power isn’t even a flicker inside me. Then Ribbon is on top of me and I’m sinking. I struggle to regain my freedom, but she is unnaturally strong and holds me down with one hand while I buck and claw.

“Bring the torch to me,” she instructs Smoke.

“No, Smoke, don’t!”

But his expression is slack and vacant. On graceless, plodding feet, he approaches. Ribbon snatches the torch from him and lowers it so that the flame is right beside my cheek. The crackling beast begins eating my skin. Apparently we’re not immune to pain when it comes to fire; agony tears through me. Ribbon laughs when I scream. There is no glimpse of my old friend, no shred left of the girl who taught me magic, hid me from monsters, kept me from loneliness.

“I’m glad Handkerchief didn’t succeed in killing you,” she hisses, leaning so close that I can smell the rot I never noticed before. In that moment, I know the end is near. “It would have deprived me of this moment.”

Just as she begins to lower the flames toward my face again, a new voice shatters the frozen air. “Miss Talbot, if you don’t release my best friend, I’m afraid there’s going to be trouble between us.”

Ribbon is so startled that she pulls back. The torch slips from her fingers and falls into the snow, extinguishing with a wet hiss. Steam rises and I cough, pushing myself up. My vision clears. Ribbon evidently doesn’t view me as a threat; she releases her hold and takes a step toward Journal, menace emanating from every part of her.

Words of power flow from my lips like old friends, and this time I feel them. Living things that seek to do my bidding, drawing their reserve from the blood exposed in my burns. Perhaps the magic answers because I’m desperate to save them, or it’s been there all along and I was the one keeping it at bay. All that matters is how Ribbon turns scarlet, like an engulfed log just before it crumbles in the fire.

She whips back toward me and stares. “It can’t be. It’s impossible.”

There’s no time for Ribbon to form a counter spell; in the time it takes to gather a breath, she bursts into flames.

My gut heaves, but I don’t stop. I keep at the string of words as we listen to her scream over and over, a shrill sound that I know will haunt me until I am truly dead. Nausea grips my stomach—this time, it has nothing to do with a memory—and I take no pleasure in watching the girl burn. She tries to put the flames out by throwing herself into a snow bank, but it’s too late. Finally she goes still, a black and sizzling husk of what she used to be. Only then do I fall silent.

Blood spreads through the snow like a deadly flower in full bloom, and I feel the tingle of old magic; Ribbon’s curse has started to unravel. All it needs now is Smoke’s blood.

As soon as her soul slips free from its tether, finding peace at last, Smoke gasps. He lurches and dazedly takes in the aftermath of our battle. The stench of burnt flesh fills my nostrils; I turn away, fighting the urge to gag. Journal is there, his mouth a thin line. As though we are once again the boy and girl arguing in that study, he opens his arms.

I don’t hesitate to walk into them. He smells like old books and rich earth, and it pushes the scent of Ribbon away. Instead of looking at her remains in the snow, I squeeze my eyes shut. “She always fueled her power with hatred. She never learned that love is infinitely stronger,” I murmur. Journal’s only response is to hold me tighter.

When I find the strength to face the world again, I pull away from Journal and swipe at my cheeks without thinking. But of course, there are no tears to dry. The two of them watch me as I square my shoulders. “Thank you,” I say, finally ending the silence between us. “I owe both of you my life and a great deal more.”

Journal shakes his head. “You owe me nothing. In fact, I hope the score between us can be considered settled.”

“Score?”

“Perhaps I should… I think I see something over there,” Smoke mumbles. Avoiding my eyes, he leaves us, taking long-legged strides through the snow. He ascends a hill and stops beneath a great tree, a lean shadow against the horizon.

Frowning, I turn back to Journal and try to prepare myself for more harsh words. “You were right,” he says, raising his gaze to meet mine. To my surprise, there’s shame hidden within those depths.

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh?”

He nods, a jerky movement that’s unlike his usual grace. “I did take your choice away,” my friend says bluntly. “And in doing so, I drove you into his arms. Perhaps if I hadn’t been such a fool, you wouldn’t have been in the graveyard that night, and none of this—”

“Stop.” I touch Journal’s arm and give him a sad smile. I decide not to address the bit about Smoke; we probably won’t ever agree on that particular topic. “It seems everyone is determined to blame themselves for all this. The truth is, it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Don’t you agree?”

Journal doesn’t smile back, but there’s a tender light in his eyes, and it warms me more than any fire could. “Quite.”

I glance toward Smoke again. He’s fiddling with that cigar of his—the one I gave him in life and he cherished enough to keep in death—and looking toward the brightening sky. I refocus on Journal, and my stomach quails as I gather the nerve to ask, “So are you saying…you forgive me?”

“Only if you forgive me.”

There’s no hesitation in his reply. With those simple words, any lingering guilt leaves my body like smoke from a dying candle. The wind snatches it up and carries it away to a place where it can’t harm anyone else again.

I let out a long, long sigh, and now Journal smiles. He strokes the side of my face with the tip of his finger, then turns toward the mausoleum. In doing so, his gaze collides with Smoke’s. For a moment, they just stare at each other. Then, slowly, Journal nods.

Smoke hesitates a moment before he nods back. They will never be friends, but finally, at the very least, they can respect each other.

I’m about to go to Smoke when Journal stops at the door and faces us again, one hand on the wall, elegant fingers splayed over the stones. “Will I see you below?” he calls.

There’s an unspoken question within the words. He’s wondering if I plan to return or if I’ll take my chances in the land of the living. But my time here was finished long ago, and now that my search for answers has come to an end, as well, I feel ready to start something new. “Yes, you will,” I say firmly. “Be down soon; there’s one more thing I’d like to do.”

Journal disappears into the darkness beyond, bound for Under.

Once he’s gone, I heave my skirts up and climb the hill. Smoke stays silent as I reach his side. Something seems amiss, but our ordeal with Ribbon is so fresh that I don’t want to force him to reveal anything. For a time, we remain like that. Silent and touching. Together and apart. “We never had the chance to do this,” I say suddenly.

At last, Smoke looks at me. His expression is carefully blank. “Do what?”

“Wait a moment. You’ll see.”

For some reason, my words seem to upset him; Smoke purses his lips and looks away again. The beginnings of dawn tint his skin the color of newly harvested wheat. I shift closer to him, thinking to take his hand. “I suppose you’re relieved; the hermit finally knows the truth,” Smoke says abruptly. That telltale muscle ticks in his jaw. “It appears all is well.”

He’s jealous, I realize. Smoke thinks Journal and I have reconciled romantically.

Stifling a giddy laugh, I grab his shirt and yank him to me. Smoke is so startled that it takes him a moment to react. Then he makes a sound deep in his throat and buries his fist in my hair, pulling me even closer.

This kiss is different from all the rest—it’s free of urgency, uncertainty, guilt. I never want it to end.

Alas, I feel the weight of obligation pressing in on me. There are souls, far below our feet, who still don’t know that the danger has passed and there is nothing more to fear. I put my hand on Smoke’s chest, a wordless request.

His grip loosens and he pulls back with obvious reluctance. Just as he did in life, he presses his forehead to mine. He takes a deep breath, contentment in the sound, as though he’s finally come home after a long journey. “Yes, I am relieved,” I tell Smoke, thankful yet again that we don’t need to breathe. Mine would be a bit uneven, were it so. “He’s finally accepted that friendship is all there will be between us. And that my affections lie elsewhere.”

His eyes gleam with understanding. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and I automatically lean into the touch. “Well, this is a bit awkward, then,” Smoke says. “I’m afraid I told Spoon I’d marry her.”

I make a sound halfway between laughter and indignation. I try to pull away, but he won’t let me, his arms tightening in response. Luckily for Smoke, the sun peeks over the edge of the world, like a child hauling itself up by the fingertips. It sets the snow on fire in brilliant hues of orange, yellow, and pink. I go still.

“Look,” I whisper, nodding over his shoulder.

Smoke follows my gaze. His silence says more than words.

A few minutes go by, sunlight and colors pouring over everything like spilled paint. We never had the chance to do this, I’d told him. This was the moment I had meant. Standing in the daylight together. Simple, perhaps, but everything.

As the moment stretches into minutes, Smoke rummages in his pocket and takes that cigar out. I watch him cast about for something to light it with, but the torch died with Ribbon. He swears quietly.

An idea blooms. I wrap my hands around Smoke’s arm for support, put all my attention on the end of his cigar and, under my breath, utter a lilting word.

The magic responds quicker this time, as though it’s been hovering nearby, just waiting for an opportunity. The cigar lights with a tiny spurt of sound, sending a rush of exhilaration through me. A thin tendril of smoke rises into the air. The thing is so dry and old that it instantly crumbles, but still, Smoke inhales as if the experience is euphoric.

His eyes close, and as I admire him, I forget the sun. He has never been more beautiful to me.

Regret threatens to creep in—we had so little time together—but I banish the feeling by tucking myself against Smoke’s side. “I love you.”

Careful to keep the crumbling cigar away, he puts his arms around me. His voice is soft as he replies, “I love you, too.”

There’s nothing else to say, really. Though there’s work to be done, neither of us moves. Not yet. We stand at the top of the hill and watch the sun crest that distant horizon. After so long, we are unafraid. We are together.

And we are so, so alive.