Chapter Two

I toss and turn, waiting for sleep to come. It doesn’t. The silence is too alien; there should be crickets, owls, wind. Anything but this ringing in my ears. The ground is also miserable without a blanket and pillow.

Smoke left me in the alley hours ago, leaving no instructions besides, “You might as well choose one of these holes for yourself. That’s what they’re for. Just make sure no one else already has.”

I was too timid to ask if he would accompany me, and he didn’t offer. Even after he disappeared, I lingered outside his doorway, but eventually I went in search of a place to claim as my own. It was a frightening process, whispering into the shadows and hoping nothing whispered back. In one of the houses a voice rasped, “Take one step closer an’ I’ll rip yer ’ead off.” I clumsily backed away, almost tripping over my own feet.

It was at that moment I spotted Doll in one of the passageways. She sat in a doorway, holding a lump of rags that wore a tiny dress and had buttons for eyes. She moved it this way and that, as though the doll were shopping for a hat—I envied her ability to pretend so easily. Guilt pricked my heart when I remembered recoiling upon our first meeting.

The child must’ve heard me approach, but she didn’t acknowledge it. I knelt beside her, heedless of getting dirt on my dress. “I’m sorry for being scared before,” I said softly, so as not to spook her. She didn’t lift her head or respond, and I watched her play for a moment or two. Her movements were surprisingly graceful. “Smoke said your name is Doll? But then what do you call her?”

There was teasing in my voice—now she glanced up. Her single eye was brown and shone with intelligence. Someone had attempted to braid her hair, but the silky strands were coming loose. She looked badly in need of a mother or a friend.

Well, now she had one. I knew nothing about being a mother, even if I’d been one in life, but a person didn’t need memories to know about friendship.

“All right, I’m off to find an empty house. Wish me luck.” I resisted the urge to touch the top of her head as I stood. I walked away and felt her watch me go. Hopefully our conversation was a balm on whatever wounds my foolish reaction had caused the child.

Within minutes of this encounter, I did find an empty home. It was three doors down from Smoke’s. With the silence still the only sound in my ears, clenching the key in a desperate fist, I pressed against the wall and slid down. For what felt like days, I sat there and tried to find a scrap of memory from a life before this. Frustration flooded me, threatening to drown everything, so I sought anything else to occupy my thoughts. Following some instinct, I used my free hand to explore every part of my body again. This time I discovered a bump on my temple and a wound on my back, clear indications of my demise.

My death had not been peaceful or natural.

Sensation suddenly radiated through my other palm, and I realized that I was once again gripping the key around my neck so tightly that the ridges were digging into my palm. The key. Why was this the single thing that accompanied me into the ground? Did it have any sort of meaning?

When I still came up with no answers, I gritted my teeth and tried to fall asleep. Unconsciousness, no matter how brief, would provide an escape from all this. I tried to ignore the fact that there were no stars above me—that it could very well be morning, for all I knew.

The only thing that does come is a girl. She peers into the dim at me. “Are you there?” she asks. Her voice is kind, instantly soothing. It feels as if I’ve been drowning and someone has clasped my hand to haul me out of the water.

“I’m here,” I say, sitting upright. The words taste false on my tongue. Am I here? Is any of this real?

She takes a torch down and carries it inside, illuminating both her face and my new home. The single room is empty and cold—just like me.

I glance up at the girl. Despite the fact that she’s dead, she’s lovely. Her hair is dark and long, her skin pale and smooth. She wears what once was a fine gown, as blue as the sky neither of us will ever see again. While I stare, the girl kneels beside me. “Tintype told me there was a new arrival,” she explains. A scent drifts past, a combination of death and…something else I can’t name. Something pleasant.

The girl watches me fuss with my dress, which is wrinkled from lying down. “Oh, were you trying to sleep, dear?” she asks. “We can’t, I’m afraid. Apparently our bodies no longer need rest. I’m surprised no one told you. That’s why I’m here, actually—I thought you might have some questions. Many of us aren’t exactly forthcoming in Under.”

After what happened with Splinter, I’m wary of trusting any other person in this place, no matter how harmless they seem. Perhaps the girl senses my hesitation, because she smiles and says, “I’m Ribbon. Have you found a name yet?”

For what feels like the hundredth time, I wrap my hand around the chain against my chest. “Key.”

“Key,” she repeats, an odd note in the way she says it. Her gaze drops to my hand and an emotion flits across her lovely face. Sorrow?

Strangely protective of the single thing in my possession, I hold it tighter. Once more, Ribbon’s gaze flicks down to take note of the movement. Swiftly she asks, “Do you have any questions?”

Questions. Yes, I have so many. Here in the darkness, I’ve had some time to think, and my confusion has only increased. One concern burns hotter than the rest. With a tentative waver in the words, I venture, “Is there any way to…return? To our graves, I mean?”

To heaven? I add silently.

Pursing her lips, the girl adjusts her hold on the torch. “You want to be truly dead.” She says it like a statement, not a question. I don’t respond. I couldn’t even if I wanted to because of the ball of shame and hope and fear expanding in my throat, and after a moment, she shakes her head. “No, there is no return. Once you’ve fallen, you must remain here. You can’t move on and you can’t go back.” There is pity and regret in her voice now. Maybe I’m not the only one who doesn’t want this existence.

“It’s not all bad, though,” she adds, abruptly belying this last thought. “All of us have something to do down here. Collarino does his weekly sermons. Eye Patch and a few others are always digging out new houses. Spoon is trying to make a garden. A real challenge, mind you, since we don’t get any sun. You just need to find something, see?”

I’m finally grasping the looming reality of it all. For the rest of eternity I will be trapped among these terrifying creatures and surrounded by dirt. Overwhelmed, I bury my face in my knees and wish I could cry. My voice is muffled when I demand, “Then what is the purpose of this? Why are we here? Did I commit a sin that made me unworthy?”

The flame crackles. “That is an answer every single person in Under searches for,” Ribbon says. Without warning, she gathers her skirts and stands. I lift my head and watch her move to the doorway. “Come. I think you should meet someone.”

I blink. “Who?”

She takes the light with her into the alley. When I don’t move, Ribbon gestures encouragingly. In the open like that, more of her is illuminated. A blue piece of silk is woven through her hair. Longing for the warmth of the flame again, I get up and go to her.

Farther down the alley, someone ducks out of sight. Doll?

As we leave my house behind, Ribbon talks. About the others here, about the trick someone played on Collarino recently, about the new chapel they’re digging out. Walking past the gaping doorways feels safer with her at my side. She leads the way with such assurance, never pausing once to determine which path to take. How does she know where to go? Everything looks the same down here.

Suddenly a tearing sound disrupts the stillness. Ribbon stumbles and utters a low oath; she’s stepped on the hem of her skirt. She bends over, holding the light close to the ground, and peers at the damage with a critical eye. “Do you mind if we stop at my room?” she asks me, straightening. “I’ve a needle and thread for these sorts of occasions. One of the other girls lent it to me.”

I muster a polite smile. “Not at all.”

We change direction, and once again, Ribbon fills the silence with mindless chatter. After so much time alone, surrounded by just my thoughts, it’s comforting. She doesn’t seem to expect any response or input, for which I’m also grateful.

We meet others along the way. Ribbon greets every single one, her voice so warm, it’s almost possible to forget the chill in the air. Most glance toward me with open curiosity, and fear fills my throat, trapping any words or hope of belonging. Though Ribbon makes courteous introductions, she keeps them brief, often taking my elbow to pull me along. It’s as though she senses how unsteady I am.

Minutes later, she stops again and ducks inside one of the doorways. A warm light beckons within, and I hurry to follow, not wanting to be alone in the passageway.

Before I’ve entered the room completely, Ribbon has already begun repairing her skirt. I stand at the bottom of the steps, taking everything in. It’s like something from a memory. On the left side of her home is a fireplace. A small flame crackles and flickers—close to dying—feeding on what looks like roots and bits of paper. It gives the space a cozy feel. Shelves have been dug into the earthen walls. There are a few books, but they’re mostly full of various objects. If I squint just so, it would be entirely easy to forget that we’re deep inside the earth.

I can’t help but think she’s brought me here on purpose.

“How long have you been here? In Under, I mean?” I ask, approaching the fire. Either its flames are too far gone or the dead can’t feel much, because the warmth is barely more than a whisper against my skin. I try not to frown as I turn away.

Ribbon sits on a neatly-made bed. A stab of envy pierces me; where did she get a blanket? Oblivious, Ribbon moves a needle through the torn hem with such skill that I speculate whether she was a seamstress in life. “Oh, I stopped counting long ago,” she replies. “Or trying to, that is. It’s not exactly easy when there are no sunrises or sunsets.”

She bites the end of the thread. I continue along the edges of the room and pause in front of the shelves. In the dim lighting, I spot a wooden box with surprisingly intricate carvings. “Were these things in your grave?”

“Gracious, no. There would’ve hardly been any room left for me!” Ribbon laughs. She finishes securing the new thread, puts the needle aside, and stands. Her feet make hardly a sound against the ground as she joins me. Her bright eyes peer at the items as though seeing them for the first time. “No, most of these things were gifts. From Doll, Boots, Handkerchief…”

There are so many. How has one girl inspired such adoration?

Rather than voice the question, I murmur something polite in response. We stand there for a few seconds in silence. Shadows flicker over the strange collection of gifts. After another moment, Ribbon hesitates. I’m not looking at her, but I feel it. “I could be your friend, too,” she ventures.

My first reaction is relief. To have an ally, a rope in the darkness, would make Under a bit less terrifying. Then…suspicion. Though I know it’s rude, I can’t help but say, “Why would you want to be? You hardly know me. I hardly know me.”

“Well, I have an instinct for this sort of thing.” Ribbon pauses again. Out in the passageway, someone laughs. The earth swallows the sound whole. “And truth be told, I also wish someone had made the same offer after I fell.”

Now I turn fully toward her. Ribbon’s face is wistful, almost ethereal in the firelight. Guilt tugs at the cold thing lying in my chest. Here is another girl, like me, who’s found herself in strange and frightening circumstances. If she can be brave enough to offer friendship, and strong enough to choose life, why can’t I? “I’d like that,” I say. My voice is soft, but in the stillness, it feels like another burst of noise.

Ribbon’s smile is instant and radiant. She moves closer to link our arms—I’m so startled that I jump, but she pretends not to notice. “Very good. It’s official, then. Shall we continue on our journey?”

“After you,” I say, smiling back. We leave the shelves behind and make for the doorway. The stairs are too narrow for both of us to climb at the same time, so Ribbon releases me. I follow her outside, and she takes my arm once more, as though we truly are bosom friends. This time, I partake in the conversation as we walk. But part of my attention still goes to the twists and turns of our route.

I’m so preoccupied with trying to find a pattern in them that it takes me a few moments to realize Ribbon has stopped. A shadow falls over us, intricately shaped and larger than anything I have yet encountered. Following my new friend’s gaze, I look up. The tower is made mostly of tree roots, with some boards nailed in here and there. Someone must live at the top, because brightness shines through the makeshift walls. Like a finger pointing toward the heavens.

“What is this place?” I breathe, awed by the unusual beauty of it.

Without answering, Ribbon leads me to an opening at the structure’s base. The torchlight reveals a flight of winding stairs. How is this possible? Intrigued, I don’t hesitate to trail after her when she begins to climb. It crosses my mind that if Ribbon isn’t careful, the dry roots around us could catch fire. She doesn’t seem worried, however, as we wind through the tower.

Eventually we come to a doorway. It opens into a wondrous room, larger than I thought it would be, full of items that I believed lost to me forever. Books and chairs and tables and trinkets and instruments. There is even a small painting hanging on the far wall. Perhaps my future here isn’t so bleak, I think.

The owner of this tower—at least I assume he is, considering there’s no one else around—has his back to us. He must hear us cross the threshold, because he throws some papers down in a fit of impatience. “I’m busy!” he shouts without looking in our direction, then bends and rummages through a different pile on the floor. Four torches hiss and spit from perches on the walls, and I’m relieved they are a safe distance from the kindling that would make this place an inferno.

Unperturbed, Ribbon loops her arm through mine and tugs me forward. “Key, I would like you to meet Journal.”

“Damn it, Ribbon, I said I’m—” The words fade the moment he lifts his head and sees me.

He is a thin boy, a bit on the short side. His clothing is stained and worn, but not so old it’s unraveling. Gray trousers hug his slim hips, which his shirt and waistcoat match. The collar and cravat beneath these are yellowed with age. Cuffs loosely circle his wrists. Dull shoes thud against the uneven floor and I spot an abandoned jacket nearby. His hair is neatly tied back and his eyes—as rich as tree bark after a rainstorm—pierce mine. His features are not handsome, but they’re refined. If I had to make an assumption about Journal’s previous life, it would be that he came from a family who dined on fine china and had servants to do their bidding.

The most notable detail about Journal, however, is the peculiar tint of color to his skin. It’s a sorrowful blue-gray. At the moment of his death, he must have been ill.

When Ribbon makes the introduction between us, an instinct consumes my arms and legs to curtsy. But then our eyes meet, and I forget all about it. Something unexplained passes between us, this boy and me.

“How do y-you do?” I shift uncomfortably from the intensity of his attention.

At the sound of my voice, the boy gathers his composure. “Another one?” he asks, as if nothing happened. But he continues to drink in every detail of my appearance, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. The simple movement is surprisingly graceful. “Extraordinary. And you are remarkably well preserved. You said your name is Key? Well, Key, would you mind helping me with a study I’m conducting? All you need to do is answer the following questions as best you can, and—”

“Journal, she only just got here,” Ribbon interjects. “Let the poor girl be.”

“Of course.” He doesn’t sound happy about it, though. “What can I do for you, ladies?” He begins to pick up the papers he scattered at our arrival.

“Key has some questions of her own, actually.” Ribbon nudges me, her expression urging me to speak freely. I blink.

Something snags Journal’s attention and he plops into the rickety chair by a table. This, too, is made out of roots. “Go on, go on,” he says distractedly. I open my mouth to ask him where he found all these things, but one of the shadows shifts. Journal is still tinkering with something in front of him, but he sees how I go rigid. He twists around to look at the boy standing beside a stack of books. “Oh, don’t worry about him. That’s only Handkerchief. He hardly speaks, and he has no interests beyond myself and his ever-mysterious thoughts.”

His words aren’t reassuring; something about the other boy doesn’t seem right. He’s doughy in appearance, his expression devoid of emotion. His clothing is nondescript and colorless. So I’m not sure what it is that sounds alarms in my head.

I angle my body in such a way that I can see both him and Journal. What had I been about to ask? “No one remembers anything about their lives before?” I say, unable to recall but needing to fill the silence.

“Not a thing.” Journal shoves away from the table and faces me. “I have a theory about that.”

“He has a theory about everything,” Ribbon whispers conspiratorially.

Ignoring this, Journal’s countenance brightens with enthusiasm. He moves his hands as he continues. “Essentially, we are dead. Our bodies do not function as they once did, thus eliminating the need for nutrition or rest. The fact that you’re blinking right now? You only do it because it feels natural, not because there’s a need to. Our physical sensation is nearly nonexistent and we have no recollection of a time before Under. Yet we are moving, we are speaking, we are reacting. Our decomposition halts once we fall from the grave, though it takes some longer than others to wake up. Consequently, they are prone to more…gruesome deterioration.

“But that’s not the point. I believe that, though there is no blood flow and no oxygen reaching the brain, a part of it is still active somehow. Just not the part that allows us to tap into our memories.”

“Magic,” Ribbon says.

The boy rolls his eyes. “Yes, to put it in blunt terms. A combination of magic and science. The fact that the ground and the casket give way only supports this idea.”

My brow lowers as a contradiction in his explanation occurs to me. “Wait. If it’s as simple as part of our brain operating, then how is it I know of the world but not the details of my own life? Aren’t they all considered memories?”

A scowl twists Journal’s features. “Every theory has its holes,” he mutters. “We seem to come back with basic knowledge, though I’m not sure how our personal memories have been excluded. What I would do to get my hands on literature about the occult—” Before he can go on, he’s interrupted by a bellow in the distance. The earth absorbs the sound but not the urgency of it. The boy gives Ribbon an expectant look.

“I suppose I had better go back.” She sighs, turning to the stairs. Her skirt brushes against the wall. “They’re probably ripping one another apart.”

“That reminds me, Lint was looking for you. He needs his ear sewn back on again.”

Ribbon cringes. “Bother. Would you like to accompany me, Key, or stay here and ask your questions?” She pauses with a hand on the edge of the doorway.

If I had a heartbeat, it would pound harder and faster at the thought of being left alone with these strangers. But there’s so much to learn about Under. “I…” When I see that Journal has all but forgotten me again, my anxiety lessens. I clear my throat. “I’ll be fine here, thank you.”

My new friend is either in too much of a hurry to hear the wobble in my voice or chooses to overlook it. “Very good. I’ll find you once I’ve straightened those fools out.”

With that, she leaves us. Her steps echo, and after she has exited the tower, silence hovers like a fog. I shift from foot to foot, trying not to look at Handkerchief or stare at Journal. He doesn’t offer me a seat or attempt to start a conversation. It’s obvious I am not welcome to stay. Even so, I’m reluctant to depart. What do I have to go back to, after all?

Smoke’s face flits through my mind.

Journal has returned to his papers. I clear my throat to get his attention and to distract myself, as well. “If I may ask, how did you come by these things? The books and furniture?”

His reply is distant. He doesn’t look up. “Tintype finds them. He brings whatever he thinks I’ll have a use for.”

“I see.” Perhaps I could ask Tintype for some things of my own, I think. I may as well begin the process of getting settled and finding my place in Under. After all, if there were a way out, it would’ve been discovered by now. There seem to be no other alternatives.

Seconds tick past, and Journal seems wholly immersed in his work. I cast a wistful glance toward the books around his feet. The notion of returning to that dark hovel with no company besides my thoughts is nearly enough to break me. Taking a breath, I force myself to ask, “Would it be possible… That is, would you mind terribly if I borrowed one of your books?”

Journal goes still. Once again I have his undivided attention, and as the moment stretches and thins, I realize his eyes are not simply brown; they also have flecks of green in them. “You can read?” he says finally.

I tilt my head, considering. “Yes.” I have not turned a single page since waking in my grave, but I can see the words in my head. I understand them.

“Very few in Under have the ability. If you are willing, I would enjoy discussing the book with you once you’ve finished.” Without waiting for my response, Journal squats to survey his titles. As the silence embraces us a second time, he caresses the spines. Finally he selects one and holds it out, a book bound with a beautiful indigo cover, like the deepest part of the sea. I smile with genuine pleasure.

As I take the book from Journal, our fingers brush. It’s fleeting, almost inconsequential, yet he jerks away so abruptly that he bumps into the table. Items clink and clatter onto the floor.

“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer, disarmed by his reaction. I backtrack hastily toward the doorway, and Journal stares at me with wide eyes.

Just then a sound comes from the doorway, a heel scraping against the floor. I turn, and something inside me stirs at the sight of Smoke. My grip on the book tightens. He barely spares me a glance, and in this light he’s even paler than before, the wound across his throat starker.

Journal seems to recover; he rakes his hair away from his face and pulls at the bottom of his waistcoat. His voice is stiff as he says, “Smoke. It’s been a long time since you’ve graced my tower with your presence. To what do we owe the honor?”

Smoke delivers the news flatly, as if he’s talking about the weather. “There’s been a murder.”