Chapter Five

My mind has no sooner registered her words than it’s all gone. The moonlight, the bedroom, the house. I’m exactly where I was when it all began, and I stand there in the middle of my earthen house, dazed and bewildered. Am I going insane?

As though it’s heard my thought, the torch quivers. The flame struggles to survive, fading and brightening in agonizing bursts. It makes a sound my mind hears as a whimper.

All at once, I no longer want to be alone. The silence is too heavy, the stillness too loud. Earth crunches beneath my shoes as I go in search of Ribbon. Madness and murderers breathe down my neck. I wander through the passages, not only because I don’t know the way but also because I’m not able to pay attention to the twists and turns of the maze.

Foolish girl. You shouldn’t be alone with a killer on the loose, that inner voice chides. I’ve begun to envision it as a beetle or a worm lodged in my brain. The reminder sends a tremor down my spine. I blink rapidly in an effort to be more alert. But like the lovely objects the girl sent flying through the air, my mind goes around and around. I come up with multiple explanations for the encounter with that faceless girl: Hallucination. Dream. Memory.

Whatever it was, I know only one thing for certain—I want to learn more. Was she truly my sister? Did she fall into Under, too? Was the magic real?

Luckily, Ribbon spots me, else I would have gone right past her. She pops out of the tavern doorway, smiling. There’s the faintest tinge of relief in her expression. For a wild moment, I consider the possibility that Ribbon is the girl from that strange dream, but then she speaks. The voices aren’t the same, I think with some disappointment. “Key, what a lovely surprise! I see you’ve decided to emerge from the darkness. Like a phoenix from the ashes, as it were. In the future, though, you should really have someone escort you. Please, join us.” Giving me no other choice, she puts her arm around my waist and guides me over the threshold.

The room is even fuller than it was the last time I was here. Every chair is occupied and people line the walls. It’s so loud I feel as though I’ve entered a hive. Shilling and Spoon are sitting together, and I automatically start toward them, but Ribbon shakes her head and pulls me away. She brings me to every other table and makes more introductions, putting names and identities to these rotting creatures. Earring, Gloves, Buttons, Pistol, Collarino. I murmur polite responses and do my best not to stare.

Once I have met everyone, Ribbon and I stand next to the bar—the only space left. I catch myself listening to the conversations happening all around. Everyone is still feeling the effects of the murder, voices thick with fear and confusion. I lean over to ask Ribbon if anyone else has been harmed, but she straightens, her attention fixed on something across the room. “I think a disagreement is escalating,” she says. “I’d best go over there.”

I watch Ribbon make her way in the direction of two men. Their fists are clenched and they stand so close their foreheads are nearly touching. Unlike the others, Ribbon does not have to struggle through the crowd; people notice her and step aside. Not from fear, as it was for Smoke, but clearly from respect.

There’s a hesitant tap on my arm. I turn and my gaze meets that of a boy. He has so many freckles that at first glance, it could be mistaken for dirt. “Ribbon is our voice of reason,” he says. “She’s been here longer than almost anyone. Maybe even the first.”

He reaches for a cup on the counter behind me, probably his purpose for coming over here. Before I can respond to his comment, something touches my fingers. I glance down. Someone has put a piece of paper on the bar. No one else seems to notice it, not even the freckled boy. They’re all observing as Ribbon puts an end to the dispute. I pick it up and unfurl the edges. My eyes scan the single sentence written there.

Swim across the river.

It’s the same handwriting as the message on my wall.

Without thinking, I jump to my feet and wildly search the room. No one is looking back or slipping out the door. Freckles has returned to his group of friends in the corner. As I glare at the unwitting crowd, Fiddle brushes by. “Did you see who left this here?” I demand, grabbing his wrist. There’s a tear in his shirt and my palm presses down on his skin. Ignoring the shock that touching him causes, I shove the note in Fiddle’s face. “Do you know anything about a river?”

Looking mildly alarmed, Fiddle shakes his head and pulls away. His finger brushes a string on the instrument he carries and it whines. While the man makes his escape, I settle back in the chair, clenching my jaw in frustration and reading the words again and again. What does it mean?

Now someone else is standing at my elbow. I lift my head and say, “Oh, hello, Shilling.”

The soft-spoken girl studies my shoes as though they are the most fascinating pair to ever fall into Under. “I ’eard you talking,” she mutters. It’s the first time I’ve heard Shilling speak, and her Cockney accent is strong. “Fiddle just arrived ’imself. The boy doesn’t know nothin’.”

Sighing, I fold the paper in half and tuck it away. “Then perhaps you know something about a river?”

“Ain’t any water in Under, miss.” I nod, resigning myself to another riddle without solution when she adds, “But there’s a place. A bunch of old tree roots, all gnarled an’ twisted together. It stretches from one end ov da earf ter anuvver. I’ve ’eard uvvers talking. They’re always sayin’ ’ow much i’ looks like a river.”

My stomach flutters at her words. This place must be where the writer is referring to. It has to be. “Will you take me there?” I ask eagerly. It flits through my mind that such an excursion could be dangerous—the image of Splinter’s charred body is still fresh—but the allure of answers is too strong.

Shilling doesn’t seem to possess the same sense of urgency. She pauses, as though debating. She still doesn’t raise her gaze above my ankles, but there’s a dry humor to her voice as she eventually says, “I don’t suppose I ’ave much else ter do.”

“I suppose not.” My smile is genuine.

In unison, we leave the counter and head for the doorway. Ribbon is still preoccupied with the two men and doesn’t see us. Once we’re outside, Shilling immediately takes a sharp left, then a right. The noise of the tavern gradually fades. My guide walks like a spirit, silent and swift through the narrow spaces.

After a time, a new sound reaches my ears. At first I wonder if a fly has somehow found its way beneath the earth, but then I hear the note of melancholy in it. Someone is humming. “Who’s doing that?” I ask Shilling, nearly tripping from a crevice in our path.

The girl doesn’t stop or turn, but her answer floats back. “Her name is Brooch. She never leaves ’er room.”

“Why?”

“By da time she fell, she was more skeleton van anything. She ’ad decomposed so much what she ’ad no arms or legs. She barely ’as a face. But there’s still a red brooch pinned ter ’er collar.”

I fall into a horrified silence. Brooch’s sorrow follows us like an eerie dream. The two of us don’t speak again, and as the silence wraps around us, it begins to feel like there isn’t an end to this city of dirt and shadows. Finally, though, Shilling comes to a halt and points. “There.”

With no torches nearby, it takes my eyes a few moments to adjust in the dark. We’re at the edge of our makeshift city. The wall looms up before us, curved, and nestling within its embrace is an enormous tangle of roots. They resemble a mass of snakes or twisting vines in the jungle. It’s impossible to tell where one begins and another ends. But then I blink, and the tangle seems to change shape as though it really is water. Just like Journal’s tower, there is an otherworldly beauty to it. I study every inch of the wooden water, and as Shilling said, it travels the entire expanse of Under.

Swim across the river, the note said. Why would someone lead me here?

“Has anyone tried to see if there is something beyond the roots?” I ask without looking away.

Shilling’s response is hushed, as if she feels the power of it, too. “Yes. There’s just da wall. A few even tried ter dig ter da surface. But every time they put their brass bands ter da dirt, i’ was as if it turned ter stone.”

“Magic,” I whisper, thinking of the faceless girl. Her voice echoes through my memory. Magic is the only explanation for any of this. Somehow it must all tie together.

Shilling doesn’t reply. She stares at the wonder with me for several minutes. I imagine us petrifying, becoming roots ourselves. Relentlessly and silently, I go over every strange occurrence, every detail, every word spoken and written since my arrival. The roots stare back, but if they hold any answers, they’re not parting with them.

Finally, Shilling shatters the stillness by saying, “Should we go back, then?”

There is a weight to the question that makes me think this isn’t the first time she’s asked it. I shake my head, still unable to tear my gaze from the unmoving river. “Not yet.”

“It isn’t safe. Ribbon’ll worry.” When I don’t respond, Shilling takes a step back. “Fine. I’ll leave you ter it, miss.”

You’re being rude, the beetle hisses. With effort, I focus on the worried girl before me. “Thank you for showing me the way, Shilling. I truly appreciate it.”

Perhaps she expects me to change my mind, because she lingers a bit longer. She fidgets with her tattered sleeve. “Are you certain dis is a parf you wan’ ter go down?” Shilling whispers. “The uvver one who tried ter remember ended up killin’ ’imself.”

I look at her. “I don’t think there is another path for me.”

Without replying, the tall girl retreats. The sound of her footsteps fades. I suspect I might have been the stubborn sort in life, because killer or no, I stay where I am. What about Shilling? Is her safety so unimportant? the beetle questions. Guilt settles in my stomach like a stone.

I’m about to go after her when it happens. That strange, sudden lightheadedness, which is so powerful that I stay where I am, fighting not to collapse.

Then I open my eyes. Everything has melted away—the dirt, the darkness, the graves—and I am standing on an imaginary shore. Just as before, I can feel again. My toes wiggle in crisp grass and the sunlight is warm on my skin. A river parts the land in front of me. Brown and rushing, making the journey to somewhere different. Somewhere better.

Somewhere I can’t go.

“It was a memory, wasn’t it?” I murmur. The girl with the candle doesn’t materialize to respond, but it doesn’t matter. Something in me senses she will return, along with the rest of my story. It will just require time and patience.

For now, the river runs on.

…

Afterward, I find myself returning to Journal’s tower. It’s not difficult to find—it stands over the rest of everything. I can’t decide whether this is superior or wistful. The openings at the top glow yellow, like fresh-churned butter. According to Ribbon, the strange boy hardly leaves his tower since he and Handkerchief finished constructing it long ago.

Following her example from our last visit, I don’t hesitate at the bottom of the stairs. The steps seem even more uneven than the last time, if that’s possible, and I focus so intently on them that I’m in the beautiful library before I realize it.

I spot Journal instantly. He kneels on the lopsided floor, several stacks of books in front of him. One is open in his hands. Unaware of my presence, he traces something with his index finger, his carefully combed hair gleaming.

“Hello?” I finally venture. Journal startles, nearly dropping the volume he holds. He turns and his dark eyes find me. Suddenly I feel foolish for this impulsive visit. I take a step back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Key,” he says, clearing his throat. He stands in one movement, closing the book with a thump. Dust motes drift through the air. “What brings you here?”

“I finished the books you lent me.” Noticing Handkerchief in the shadows, I smile tentatively. His odd kindness during our last conversation has made him less frightening. The pudgy boy doesn’t smile back.

“And what did you think?”

Turning back to Journal, I find him staring at me. The intensity of his expression is discomfiting; I try and fail to answer. Eventually Journal clears his throat again and reaches his hand out, intending to take his books. The pose strikes a chord within me. “Were they to your liking?” I hear Journal ask over a vast distance. I’m swaying. The world tilts again. I close my eyes and try not to crumple.

“Give back the book, you little imp.”

My eyes snap open. Journal stands before me, but it’s not the same boy I’ve known thus far. His skin, while pale as ever, is not sickly anymore. He wears a different waistcoat, and the green brings out the color in his eyes. Golden buttons shine in the light. His short brown hair is styled to perfection. He’s still slight in stature, but there’s nothing gaunt about him now.

It’s instantly apparent this memory is different. Instead of being a participant, I am a spectator. Words come out of my mouth without thought or urge. It’s as though the real me—the dead me—is watching everything from within. “Not until you agree,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds strange. After a moment, I realize it’s the voice of a girl who’s never known death. Never known fear.

“Fat chance of that,” Journal replies, still holding his hand out for the book I’ve hidden behind me. He twitches ink-stained fingers. “You already push the boundaries of propriety far too often. One of these days, someone is going to see you.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I retort. My grasp tightens on my prize.

“Oh? So it wasn’t you I saw through the window last night, walking around like a common street urchin?” Journal dives forward and attempts to snatch the book away. I evade him and rush behind a chair.

We’re in a room that seems more like a study than a library. Though the walls are lined with shelves, and the colorful spines of books wait patiently upon them, the desk is more striking. The size of it seems enough to accommodate two men, and even the chair holds a sense of power. Neatly stacked papers rest beside an oil lamp on its surface. A wide window behind the desk allows more light in, though heavy curtains hang in the sun’s way. As I inhale the familiar scent of dust, I notice a painting above the fireplace—the child sitting on a woman’s lap is clearly Journal.

“I have trouble sleeping sometimes,” I say defensively, tearing my gaze away from the portrait. “Where’s the harm in going for a stroll?”

“There’s harm when it’s midnight and you have no chaperone.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing I have one now.” I look around with exaggerated consternation. “Oh dear. Where did she go?”

Journal doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression is sober, and it’s difficult to stay cross with him when his caring is so evident, it’s nearly a perfume on the air. “That’s not the same thing and you know it. Promise me you won’t go.”

Just like that, all the fight seeps out of me like blood from a cut. I sink into the chair with a defeated sigh, and Journal takes the opportunity to pluck the book out of my hand. He seats himself beside me and waits. He keeps his eyes on the book—turning it this way and that, flipping the pages, searching for any damage I might have caused—but I feel the weight of his attention. “Fine. I won’t,” I mumble.

Journal looks at me sidelong and raises his finely arched brows. “And no asking her to go with you, either.”

Now I glare. I’m many things, but I’m not a liar. “I already said I wouldn’t go, didn’t I?”

This seems to satisfy my friend. The chair creaks as Journal stands and brings the book toward the shelves. He carefully slides it into place. Then he asks, without looking at me, “Why is this so important, anyhow?”

I bring my legs up and tuck them beneath me. Some of the excitement returns to my voice. “He’s an American. I’ve always been curious about them. Haven’t you?”

“Yes, of course, but I’ve never been tempted to go to the boarding house they’re staying at and peer through their window like a Peeping Tom.”

I don’t grace this with a response, especially since I’ve given up on the idea. Instead I gaze in the direction of the window, to the street beyond. Twilight sets the cobblestones aglow in hues of pink and orange. I hardly notice; my mind is running down the road and into the village. It creeps up to Mrs. Ivanov’s boarding house, along the side, where I know the American’s room is because gossip spreads like disease among us. Perhaps he’s sleeping in the bed, dreaming of his faraway home. Or, more likely, he’s off somewhere finding himself surrounded by every girl of marriageable age in the village.

“I suppose we’ll meet him sooner or later,” I say absently.

“You can’t let any mystery go unsolved, can you?” Journal remarks. There’s affection in the way he says it, though. He goes about choosing another book to read, speaking to me over his shoulder. “How is the packing coming along?”

At once, I’m absorbed by my skirt. I fuss at a nonexistent string. “I’m sure the servants are almost finished. I’m not home very often; you know that. Father doesn’t like it when I’m underfoot.”

Journal plucks a new volume from the shelf and flips it open. “I don’t think that’s true. He mentioned how strange it will be to go so long without seeing you.”

Frowning, I lift my head. “When did you talk to him?”

I watch Journal’s spine stiffen. He turns, only slightly, but I’m still able to see the color spreading up his neck and into his cheeks. His tone is too offhand, his grip on the book too tight. “We saw each other recently. Last week, was it? Oh, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” I stand from the chair. Journal is already at the door, poking his head out. He won’t look at me.

“I think Mother is calling,” he says. I strain to hear, but the only sound my ears detect is the grandfather clock in the corner, marking the seconds and making the silence between them feel stark. Journal finally faces me, his gaze landing somewhere over my shoulder. I start to ask why he’s lying to me, but he’s quicker. “I should check on her. May I see you out?”

With that, the memory ends.

Under reappears around me. No sign of the study or the sun. Journal is staring, his hand still outstretched. I’m about to tell him what just transpired when Ribbon’s voice, laden with pity and disbelief, whispers through me. That’s impossible, Key. The idea of Journal looking at me the same way is unbearable. I don’t want anyone’s pity; I want them to believe.

Still shaken from the memory, I finally return the books. Then I fold my hands and determinedly concentrate on Journal. “Mr. Dickens is a superb writer.”

He regards me with a thoughtful expression. Then, slowly, he nods and places the books on a pile beside his desk. “I agree. Though my tastes are more inclined toward the factual.” Grasping the twisting armrests of a chair made from roots, Journal drags it around so it’s facing me. A strand of hair hangs in his eyes.

I settle into the uncomfortable seat and pluck at my skirts. Silence hovers in the tower, and I’m not sure what to say next. I long for the easy familiarity of the friends we once were. As he waits for a response, Journal moves to sit on yet another precarious stack of books. He links his hands loosely between his knees. “Forgive me,” he sighs. “I’m unpracticed in regular conversation.”

At this, I meet his gaze. Compassion stirs in my chest. “Then I shall borrow more of your books, so that we may discuss them.”

Journal’s eyes widen. Clearly taken aback, he says nothing, and I wonder if—for all his books, his formality, and the constant presence of Handkerchief—this boy is lonely. After another stretch of uncertainty, I make my voice brisk as I ask, “I assume you were buried with a journal, since that’s what you’re called?”

“Yes.”

“How interesting.” I pause, hoping he will volunteer more information. He doesn’t. When Ribbon was here, he spoke constantly. Is it me who makes him so uneasy, or is there something else preying on his mind?

Journal is intelligent, and he has been here longer than I; perhaps he’s made discoveries I haven’t. Perhaps he’s even remembered something about our shared past. But, like the river, he refuses to reveal anything. You must earn his trust, that small beetle advises. It’s not wrong. My resolve hardens into something as unyielding as the walls of Under.

Journal speaks before I can. “My companion tells me you paid a visit to the river recently.” Noting my quizzical look, he adds, “Handkerchief went to the tavern and overheard someone talking about it.”

“Yes. I was curious. It was very beautiful.” I hesitate. “While we were there, Shilling mentioned that someone in Under might’ve started to regain his or her memories.”

His gaze narrows. It darts to Handkerchief and back to me. “Shilling shouldn’t go spreading tales,” he says, his voice becoming a razor with a glinting surface and jagged edges. “It only breeds false hope.”

My spine presses against the gnarled back of the chair in an instinctive retreat. Journal notices and his mouth tightens. “Forgive me,” he says again.

He looks so upset that I force myself to relax. “Think nothing of it.”

By the wall, Handkerchief shifts. We both glance in his direction and back at each other. The sense of shared history is overwhelming, and it’s obvious Journal feels it, too. Something holds my tongue, though: a sense that I might regret opening this particular door. Instead I tell him, “I find I am much like Oliver Twist, in that I want more.”

Frowning, Journal tilts his head. “More what?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested in the answer. There’s the faintest coloring of…frustration there, as well, as if he believes he should already know it.

I raise my eyebrows. “Why, soup, of course!” Journal doesn’t laugh, and seconds later my mirth dies. “I want more than death,” I whisper. More than the objects we fell with and more than the wounds that were our last. I want the chance to gain more wounds, to stand on a real riverbank, to experience the weight of memories instead of this emptiness. I want more than an existence; I want a life. But how?

As if he hears my thoughts, Journal mutely gets to his feet. He walks toward the makeshift shelves and ignores Handkerchief as he searches through his collection. A few seconds tick past. Eventually Journal plucks one of the books free. “Ah. Here it is.” He comes back and offers it to me.

Taking the book from him, I notice the glint of a title on its spine. “Persuasion by Jane Austen,” I read.

“She was a woman ahead of her time. I believe you’ll enjoy her work.”

With a pleased smile, I stand and attempt to smooth my skirts. “Thank you. I’ll come back once I’ve finished it.” I turn toward the doorway and my footsteps echo through the dusty tower.

“He committed suicide. The man who tried to remember.”

Startled by the sound of his voice, I face Journal again. “How do you know it was a suicide?” Both Ribbon and Shilling mentioned it, of course, but I can’t help wanting to know more.

“He left a note.”

What did it say? I should have asked. But I think of a comment in the square—how someone wondered whether or not it’s murder if the person is already dead—and say, “Some would not consider it suicide, since he was simply returning to his grave.”

Another frown tugs at the corners of Journal’s mouth. I wait eagerly for his answer, to understand what sort of person he is. Instead, he approaches me abruptly. I jump, but it feels as if my feet have become roots themselves, rendering me motionless. “Here,” Journal mutters. He takes my hand and places it on his heart. It’s the last thing I ever expected him to do. Still, I don’t pull away for fear of offending him.

We stare at each other, so close that if he had breath, I would know the warmth of it on my cheek. “I don’t feel anything,” I say, reluctant to admit it; he seems so earnest.

Journal doesn’t look surprised or disappointed. “No,” he replies. “But it’s a heart just the same. Even if it does not pump blood. This heart experiences longing and hope and despair as much as a beating one. Therefore, wouldn’t you consider its permanent end an unjust event?”

I feel my expression clear as I understand. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

He just looks at me. We’ve passed the boundaries of propriety, as well as my own comfort, and I know one of us should pull away. Journal must see something in my gaze, because he drops my hand. It doesn’t make sense, but it feels colder now. Awkwardly, I hold the book to my chest. “I’ll return once I’m fully acquainted with Miss Austen,” I promise once again, retreating into the stairwell.

“Until then, Key.” Before I can say anything else, Journal focuses on retrieving some of the clutter from the floor and making new stacks. Handkerchief watches from his corner, and I realize that I’d completely forgotten he was there.

When neither of them glances my way again, I take the torch down and leave. Ribbon would most assuredly lecture Journal for not escorting me, or sending Handkerchief as one, but I’m against the idea of being alone with either right now. It probably slipped Journal’s mind, for which I’m grateful.

And should the killer strike—however unlikely that is—I’ll die fighting. At least I would have chosen my own death.

It doesn’t take me long to reach the ground. As I step out into Under, the maze seems darker than it did just a short time ago, as though several of the torches went out. Unease whispers down my spine. Using the dirt wall as a guide, I struggle to remember the way back to my room. There are too many footprints to follow a trail, and soon it becomes obvious that I must have taken a wrong turn. I quell the beginning trickles of panic.

An odd smell suddenly permeates the air. I’m frowning, trying to place it when my shoe collides with a hard object in the path. Losing my balance, I hit the ground with a cry and drop the flame in my hand. It bounces and settles a few feet away, thankfully unaffected. The shadows flicker and tremble.

What did I trip over? Frowning, I pick up the torch and turn. The lump blends with the darkness, so I lean closer. It takes me several seconds to comprehend what my eyes are seeing. Then I scream, recoiling. My back slams into the wall and yet I still keep attempting to scramble away. My heels scar the earth. “Help! Someone help!” I shriek.

But of course it’s too late for this poor soul. Regaining my senses, I swallow my horror and stare. Like the other body, it’s charred beyond the point of recognition. There is nothing left of a face or clothing. Faintly, I notice that there is something beside the body, untouched by flame or death. Something with strings and a long crack down the center.

A fiddle.