Chapter Four

I sit with my back to the wall, ignoring the dying flame of the torch, and stare at those words so hard my eyes should hurt. As if there is something I am not seeing, as if there is more to those etchings in the dirt than what appears. I remember you.

There aren’t many who could’ve left this message; Journal mentioned that most in Under don’t know how to write. But why wouldn’t the messenger speak to me directly? Why the secrecy?

Soon enough, Ribbon stops by and urges me to come out. She hovers in the doorway, angled in such a way that the words are not within her line of sight. “It’ll do you good to spend time with others, don’t you think?” she asks.

My grip tightens on my knees. I meet the girl’s gaze reluctantly. “You’re so kind. I just can’t right now, Ribbon. I need to think.”

“Think about what?”

For a moment, I consider not telling her. A lie would be simpler. Easier. But Ribbon has done nothing to deserve my mistrust. “I’m trying to remember something. From before,” I say.

Pity swells in Ribbon’s eyes. “That’s impossible, Key.”

You’re wrong, I think. Apparently it is possible, if someone else has done it. But I don’t want to say this out loud, and eventually, the other girl drifts away. The instant she’s gone, I refocus on the message. My insides feel loose. Twitchy. Hours pass in the dim and the sensation doesn’t subside.

“What is this?” someone asks. I startle at the sound of Smoke’s voice and jerk toward it. My latest visitor stands in the doorway—no, somehow he’s already leaning against it—looking at me with something like disappointment in his eyes.

I bristle at that look. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you waiting for death to claim you?” he clarifies, tilting his head. The movement makes his hair glint in the faint light. “Hate to remind you, darlin’, but that’s already been taken care of.”

It’s a strange feeling, wishing someone would go away and wanting them to stay all at once. “No, I’m not,” I tell him curtly. Smoke doesn’t question me further; he pushes away from the wall, shoves his hands into his pockets, and saunters inside without invitation. Dirt shifts beneath his shoes. He stands in the middle of the room and studies the walls and the ground. I haven’t done anything to make it my own, so there’s nothing to see. A moment later, Smoke fixes his piercing gaze on me. Something inside me shivers.

For an instant, we just stare at each other. I don’t know what to say, but his presence is a welcome distraction. I’m about to open my mouth and blurt something, anything, when Smoke draws nearer and lowers himself to the ground. He stretches one long leg along my right side and brings the other to his chest. His foot nearly touches my hip, and I pretend to be unaffected by the sudden proximity. “Would you like to see some magic?” he asks. Now the torch illuminates only one half of his face, the other cast into darkness.

I’m so preoccupied with the planes and angles of Smoke’s face that his question takes an extra moment to reach me. Though I know it’s impossible, my face feels hot. “M-magic?”

In response, Smoke runs his hand along the ground and gathers a fistful of dirt. I try not to stare at the way his eyelashes cast intricate shadows over his skin. When Smoke meets my gaze again, his expression is so grave that a flutter of apprehension goes through me. “I shall make this dirt completely disappear,” he says. “Prepare yourself. Many a lady has fainted from the shock of this feat.”

The apprehension evaporates. I don’t know whether to roll my eyes or nod. Instead, a faint snort escapes me. Smoke ignores me and holds his other hand out. He touches the side of his fist to the open palm, slowly, and raises it again. He does this three times. Then, in one smooth motion, he tosses the dirt behind him and presents his empty hand to me. “See? Gone,” he declares.

There’s an instant of silence. Then I burst out laughing.

The magician just watches me. Within moments, Doll peers around the edge of the doorway, her dirty face etched with curiosity. “You’d…you’d best show her your trick,” I manage. For the first time since falling into Under, I’m grateful I don’t need to breathe.

Smoke raises his brows at the child. “Is that true, young miss? Would you like to see my magic?”

Her eye is huge as she nods. But Smoke doesn’t move to do the trick; he twists his lips in thought. “Let’s make a bargain,” he suggests. “If you let me wash your face with the water Spoon has saved up, I’ll show you some magic.”

Her small nose scrunches as she considers his proposition. Eventually Doll nods again, albeit with obvious reluctance. Smoke gets to his feet. The girl’s hand is already stretched out, waiting for him to take it, as if they’ve done this a thousand times. His fingers curl around hers, a tenderness in the way he does it. Before they round the corner and disappear from sight, Smoke turns to give me a look. “Just remember. You can’t kill what’s already dead.”

My voice is dry. “Thank you for such a lovely reminder.”

I’m still smiling when the two of them depart. Once the sound of their voices fades, I refocus on the dirt wall across from me. This time, it takes my mind a while to return to the riddle of Under. Eventually, deep in thought, my hand creeps up to the key. Once again I injure myself holding it so relentlessly, pressing the ridges too deeply into my palm.

There must’ve been a reason I was buried with it; most of the others seemed to be left with books, clothing, toys, tokens. Keys unlock things, don’t they?

A strange and urgent feeling seizes me, and I get on my hands and knees. With the tip of my finger, I begin to create shapes in the dirt. Some of them are meaningless, but some almost seem familiar.

Another sound comes from the alleyway, a heavy footstep. I jerk upright, forgetting all the words and shapes. The silence seems to tremble from the force of my fear. It can’t be Ribbon, Smoke, or Doll—they would’ve announced themselves in some way. “Who’s there?” I call after a minute or so, trying to hide the quiver in my voice. Unbidden, an image comes to me of Splinter’s blackened body. I hear Spoon’s voice telling me how his tongue was cut out so he could not scream. Apprehension burns through my veins with all the force of an electric current, and it seems bizarre that it doesn’t start my heart up again. I muster the courage to call out a second time. Just as I begin to, my third visitor shuffles forward and the light creeps over his face. “Oh, Handkerchief,” I say with relief. The feeling is short-lived when I remember how disconcerting I find this boy, Journal’s apprentice.

The boy’s countenance is the same as it was before—pasty and bland. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “I came to deliver this,” he mumbles. He holds a book out to me. “Journal thought you might’ve finished the other one.”

Startled, I take it automatically, stroking the ridges of the pages with my thumb, and a thrill goes through me. “Why, thank you.”

But Handkerchief is not listening; he’s studying the lines I’ve drawn at his feet. There are more than I realized, because he slowly turns around and looks at all of them. There is a lantern, a book, a dog. Then he takes notice of the message on the wall. I don’t expect Handkerchief to make any sort of remark—he hardly speaks, Journal had said—so I’m taken aback yet again when he tells me, “You’re not like the others who’ve fallen.”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

His eyes meet mine, and even now there is no spark of emotion within those depths. He is entirely fact and purpose. “Everyone has accepted this place and what we are. They don’t question the rules. They might’ve asked some things their first day, but after that, they let it go. Yet you sit in this room, drawing in the dirt and still looking thoughtful.”

Hesitating, I shake my head. There is little point in hiding my suspicions, as he has already seen everything. “I’m afraid I must disagree with you, Handkerchief. I’m not the only one who is trying to remember.”

The writing on the wall is proof of that. Someone out there knows more. Much more.

There is a pause as Handkerchief absorbs this. He raises his brows, and despite that being a universal gesture of interest, it still seems false on him. “Really? Do you think so?”

“Yes.” I finally get to my feet, clumsily adjusting my skirt so my shift doesn’t show. “I also believe we’re wrong in assuming we have no memories.”

Handkerchief tilts his head to the side slightly, like a curious bird. “What have you discovered?”

I find it odd that he’s chosen not to acknowledge the message behind him. I’m on the verge of mentioning it myself when more of Journal’s words echo through my consciousness. You can read? Very few in Under have the ability. But wouldn’t Journal have taught him how to do so? Frowning, I decide to follow my instincts again and refrain from revealing too much. “Nothing in particular,” I say, hoping Handkerchief didn’t take note of the silence between his question and my answer.

His face gives nothing away as he turns to go without responding. Just when he reaches the doorway, though, he stops. For the third time during our brief conversation, the boy called Handkerchief surprises me. “Be careful, miss,” he advises, glancing back. “Seems to me nothing good can come of the past. We ended up here for a reason.”

He’s quicker than he looks and vanishes before I can say anything else.

…

Taking two steps back, I hit the wall and slide down until I’m sitting again. At the same moment my bottom touches the ground, the torch quakes as though taking its last gasp. It goes out and the darkness closes in. Wishing I had left with Handkerchief or listened to Ribbon, I silently command myself to get up and find the alleyway. But before I can obey, a wave of nausea crashes over me. I sit there, helpless against it.

As the awful sensation begins to ebb, a hand grasps mine. I’m about to shriek when I realize it’s warm. I make a quieter sound of shock. “Handkerchief, how—” I start, thinking he came back.

But it’s not Handkerchief.

This person is wearing a pale nightgown and holds a candle. Wax oozes down the slender column of white. I raise my eyes slowly. The tiny flame is not enough to illuminate anything above the hollow of the girl’s throat, but her voice is low and urgent as she says, “Follow me.”

She doesn’t leave any other option, for she pulls so hard I am forced to either stand or allow my arm to be yanked off my body. I am so flustered that I don’t ask questions at first. I stumble into the alley after her, and it takes several seconds to understand what I’m seeing.

This is not Under. Instead of dirt and torches, we are in a carpeted hallway. Painted portraits line the walls, and elegant doors stand erect on either side. The girl releases me and rushes ahead. It can’t be real, I tell myself, but even as the thought occurs, my chest feels tight with hope. The wall is solid to the touch. There’s a distinct scent of lemons in the air, as if the maids have just finished cleaning the floors.

“Who are you? What is this place?” I demand, finding my voice at last. The girl doesn’t answer and slips out of sight, the skirt of her nightgown fluttering behind her. “Wait!”

She’s gone. Panicked, I break into a run, my shoes making muffled thumps on the floor. I round the corner and spot the candle; the girl has halted. She still holds it so low that I can’t see her features.

“Calm down,” she chides when I appear. “You’re awake now.”

“Have I been dreaming all this time?” I breathe. My relief is so overwhelming I nearly sag. I’m not dead. I’m not alone in the world. I’m not desperately trying to recover memories of another life. There’s no killer burning people below the ground.

But that means there’s no Smoke either, the voice reminds me. It causes a strange tightness in my chest.

The girl ignores this, seeking my hand again. She holds it tight and drags me through an open doorway. The lighting is no better in here, and I try to study the room while she closes the door. There’s a large bed and a gloomy fireplace. A narrow window stands at the far end, with just enough space between the curtains to allow a faint stream of moonlight through. Walking past me, the girl carefully places the candle in the center of a rug. The scent of lavender follows in her wake. She has dark hair that hangs down her back. “Kneel,” she instructs, mindless of my scrutiny. “And be careful. There’s broken glass here somewhere.”

“Glass? Why?”

“I dropped a vase earlier. Now hush.”

I move to obey, my eyes drawn to the girl’s bare feet and ankles. Her skin is pale, but she’s undeniably alive. She can’t possibly be in Under. But which reality is the truth? My thoughts writhe and tangle until they are a hopeless, meaningless mass. And every single one of them dissolves into nothing once the girl begins to whisper. The words are utterly foreign. There’s something on the floor I didn’t notice before, an odd collection of objects in a bowl that seem to have no significance to one another. A feather, a bone, a golden ring.

Ingredients, a voice in my head whispers.

Alarmed, I open my mouth to ask the girl what she’s doing…and all the trinkets around the room lift into the air.

I gape. They bob up and down as though there is a breeze. Then, slowly, they begin to move. The things circle us, faster and faster, until they’re nearly impossible to follow. “What is this?” I breathe, awed.

The girl ceases her string of words for an instant to say, “Magic.”

There’s obvious pleasure in the response. She starts to chant anew, apparently too late, and all the floating objects crash to the floor. With that, I know how the vase must have shattered. The girl swears vehemently and jumps up, almost tripping on her long nightgown. “Hurry, we must get you back to bed. Father might have heard that.” There is a trace of anxiety in her voice now. She shoves the bowl beneath the bed and grabs hold of my arm.

But when she pulls at me this time, I resist. “Show me your face.”

She hisses and her nails bite into my skin. I make a startled sound at the pain—more proof that we’re not in Under.

“We don’t have time for this!” she urges. “You know the danger. Rest assured, he won’t be able to hurt me for much longer. Now come.” Though I’m tempted to push the issue, her fear is so strong that it begins affecting me, too. I scramble up and follow her back down the hallway. The people in the paintings are more ominous now, their eyes piercing as they track our progress. I tell myself not to look at them, and seconds later the girl twists another doorknob. The hinges moan as the door opens.

Then, from far off, comes a different sound. Footsteps. Heavy and deliberate.

The girl freezes. “He’s coming.”

“Who’s—”

Cursing again, the girl shoves me into the room. Before I can turn, she snuffs the candle out. “I can’t see!” I say, holding out my hands. The only answer is the click of a closing door and the faint smell of smoke. Is she in here with me? I strain to listen for anything. Yes, someone is breathing.

I’m about to speak when I realize those ominous footsteps are getting closer. The floorboards creak and groan. I swallow the words in my throat just as the man pauses near the door. I don’t move. Five seconds go by. Then, at last, whoever is in the hallway continues on. The noise of his heavy tread fades.

Still, I wait a few more seconds, the silence ringing in my ears. “All right, he’s gone. Light another candle and show me your face!” I repeat, strangely desperate. Knowing this girl’s identity feels vital. The darkness doesn’t move, and for a moment, I worry that I’m wrong and the girl already left. Even the sound of breathing has vanished.

But then, as if I hadn’t spoken, her voice emerges from the dim. It’s a sorrowful whisper that moves over my skin like a shiver. “Sleep well, little sister.”