He can read me well enough to know that I don’t want to talk about Wesley, because
he lets it drop, wraps me in silence and kisses, draws me into the dark of the alcove
where we sat before, and guides me to the wall. His hands brush over my skin too gingerly.
I pull his body to mine despite the ache in my ribs. I kiss him, relishing the way
the quiet deepens when his body is pressed to mine, the way I can blot thoughts out
simply by pulling him closer, kissing him harder. What beautiful control.
“M,” he moans against my neck. I feel myself blush. In all the strangeness, there’s
something about the way he looks at me, the way he touches me, that feels so incredibly…normal.
Boy-and-girl and smiles-and-sideways-glances and whispers-and-butterflies normal.
And I want that so, so badly. I can feel the scratch of letters in my pocket, now
constant. I leave the list where it is.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of Owen’s mouth as it hovers above mine. We are close
enough to share breath, the quiet dizzying but not quite strong enough. Not yet. Thoughts
keep trickling through my head, warnings and doubts, and I want to silence them. I
want to disappear.
As I run my fingers through his hair and pull his face to mine, I wonder if Owen is
escaping too. If he can disappear into my touch, forget what he is and what he’s lost.
I am blotting out pieces of my life. I am blotting out everything but this. But him.
I exhale as he brushes against me, my body beginning to uncurl, to loosen at his fingertips.
I am letting him wash over me, drown every part of me that I don’t need in order to
kiss or to listen or to smile or to want.
This
is what I want. This is my drug. The pain, both skin-deep and deeper, is finally
gone. Everything is gone but the quiet.
And the quiet is wonderful.
“Why do you smoke, Da?”
“We all do things we shouldn’t, things that harm us.”
“
I
don’t.”
“You’re still young. You will.”
“But I don’t understand. Why hurt yourself?”
“It won’t make sense to you.”
“Try me.”
You frown. “To escape.”
“Explain.”
“I smoke to escape from myself.”
“Which part?”
“Every part. It’s bad for me and I know it and I still do it, and in order for me
to do it and enjoy it, I have to not think about it. I can think about it before and
after, but while I’m doing it, I stop thinking. I stop being. I am not your Da, and
I am not Antony Bishop. I am no one. I am nothing. Just smoke and peace. If I think
about what I’m doing, then I think about it being wrong and I can’t enjoy it, so I
stop thinking. Does it make sense now?”
“No. Not at all.”
“I had a dream last night.…” says Owen, rolling the iron ring from Regina’s note over
his knuckles. “Well, I don’t know if it was night or day.”
We’re sitting on the floor. I’m leaning against him, and he has one arm draped over
my shoulder, our fingers loosely intertwined. The quiet in my head is like a sheet,
a buffer. It is water, but instead of floating, like Wes taught me, I am drowning
in it. This is a thing like peace but deeper. Smoother.
“I didn’t know Histories could dream,” I say, wincing when it comes out a little harsh,
making Histories into an
it
instead of a
him
or
you
.
“Of course,” he says. “Why do you think they—we—wake up? I imagine it’s because of
dreams. Because they’re so vivid, or so urgent, that we cannot sleep.”
“What did you dream about?”
He navigates the iron ring to his palm, folds his fingers over it.
“The sun,” he says. “I know it seems impossible, to dream of light in a place as dark
as this. But I did.”
He rests his chin on my hair. “I was standing on the roof,” he says. “And the world
below was water, glittering in the sun. I couldn’t leave, there was no way off, so
I stood and waited. So much time seemed to pass—whole days, weeks—but it never got
dark, and I kept waiting for something—someone—to come.” The fingers of his free hand
trace patterns on my arm. “And then you came.”
“What happened then?” I ask.
He doesn’t speak.
“Owen?” I press, craning to look at him.
Sadness flickers like a current through his eyes. “I woke up.”
He pockets the iron ring and produces the iron bar and the second piece of the story,
the one I handed him before the trial.
“Where did you find this?” he asks.
“Under a marble rose,” I say. “Your sister picked some clever hiding places.”
“The Even Rose,” he says softly. “That was the name of the café back then. And Regina
was always clever.”
“Owen, I’ve looked everywhere, and I still haven’t found the ending. Where could it
be?”
“It’s a large building. Larger than it looks. But the pieces of the story seem to
fit where they’ve been hidden. The Even Rose fragment spoke of climbing out of stones.
The fragment from the roof spoke of reaching the top, battling the monsters. The ending
will fit its place, too. The hero will win the battle—he always does—and then…”
“He’ll go home,” I finish quietly. “You said it was a journey. A quest. Isn’t the
point of a quest is to get somewhere? To get home?”
He kisses my hair. “You’re right.” He twirls the trinket piece. “But where is home?”
Could it be 3F? The Clarkes lived there once. Could the ending to Regina’s story be
hidden in their home? In mine?
“I don’t know, M,” he whispers. “Maybe Regina won this last game.”
“No,” I say. “She hasn’t won yet.”
And neither has the rogue Librarian. Owen’s quiet calms my panic and clears my head.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that there’s no way this disruption
is just a distraction from the dark secrets of the Coronado’s past. It’s something
more. There was no need to shatter the peace of the Archive after erasing evidence
in both the Archive and the Outer. No, I’m missing something; I’m not seeing the whole
picture.
I disentangle myself from Owen and turn to face him, forfeiting the quiet to ask a
question I should have asked long ago. “Did you know a man named Marcus Elling?”
A small crease forms between Owen’s eyes. “He lived on our floor. He was quiet but
always kind to us. Whatever happened to him?”
I frown. “You don’t know?”
Owen’s face is blank. “Should I?”
“What about Eileen Herring? Or Lionel Pratt?”
“The names sound familiar. They lived in the building, right?”
“Owen, they all died. A few months after Regina.” He just stares at me, confused.
My heart sinks. If he can’t remember anything about the murders, about his own death
on the roof…I thought I was protecting him from the Archive, but what if I’m too late?
What if someone’s already taken the memories I need? “What
do
you remember?”
“I…I didn’t want to leave. Right after Regina died, my parents packed up everything
and ran away, and I couldn’t do it. If there was any part of her left in the Coronado,
I couldn’t leave her. That’s the last thing I can remember. But that was days after
she died. Maybe a week.”
“Owen, you died five
months
after your sister.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s true. And I’ve got to find out what happened between her death
and yours.” I drag myself to my feet, pain rippling through my ribs. It’s late, it’s
been a hell of a day, and I have to meet Wesley in the morning.
Owen stands too, and pulls me in for a last, quiet kiss. He leans his forehead against
mine, and the whole world hushes. “What can I do to help?”
Keep touching me,
I want to say, because the quiet soothes the panic building in my chest. I close
my eyes, relish the moment of nothingness, and then pull away. “Try to remember the
last five months of your life,” I say as I go.
“The day’s almost over, isn’t it?” he asks as I reach the corner.
“Yeah,” I call back. “Almost.”
W
ESLEY IS LATE.
He was supposed to pick me up at nine. I woke at dawn and spent the hour before Mom
and Dad got up scouring the apartment for loose boards and any other hiding places
where Regina could have hidden a scrap of story. I dragged the boxes from my closet,
pulled half the drawers from the kitchen, tested every wooden plank for give, and
found absolutely nothing.
Then I put on a show for my parents, doing stretches as I told them how Wes was on
his way, how we were planning to hit Rhyne Park today (I found a map in the study,
and the splotch of green labeled
RHYNE
seemed to be within walking distance). I mentioned that we’d grab lunch on the way
back, and shooed my parents to their respective work with promises that I’d stay hydrated,
wear sunscreen.
And then I waited for Wes, just like we’d agreed.
But nine a.m. came and went without him.
Now my eyes flick to the tub of oatmeal raisin cookies on the counter, and I think
of Nix and the questions I could be asking him. About Owen and the missing months.
I give my partner another ten minutes, then twenty.
When the clock hits nine thirty, I grab the tub and head for the stairs. I can’t afford
to sit still.
But halfway down the hall, something stops me—that gut sense Da was always talking
about, the one that warns when something is off. It’s the painting of the sea. It’s
crooked again. I reach out and straighten the frame, and that’s when I hear a familiar
rattling sound, like something is sliding loose inside, and everything in me grinds
to a halt.
I was born up north, by the sea,
said Owen.
My heart pounds as I carefully lift the painting from the wall and turn it over. There’s
a backing, like a second canvas, one corner loose, and when I tip the painting in
my hands, something falls free and tumbles to the old checkered carpet with a whispered
thud. I return the painting to the wall and kneel, retrieving a piece of paper folded
around a chip of metal.
I unfold the paper with shaking hands, and read.…
He fought the men and he slayed the monsters and he bested the gods, and at last the
hero, having conquered all, earned the thing that he wanted most. To go home.
The end of Regina’s story.
I read it twice more, then look closer at the bit of dark metal it was wrapped around.
It’s the thickness of a nickel and about as large, if a nickel were hammered into
a roughly rectangular shape. The two sides opposite each other are regular and straight,
but the other two are off. The top side has a notch cut out, as if someone ran a knife
across the stone just below the edge. The notch is on both sides. The bottom side
of the square has been filed till it is sharp enough to cut with, the metal tapering
to a point.
There’s something familiar about it, and even though I can’t place it, a small sense
of victory flutters through me as I pocket the metal and the paper scrap and head
upstairs.
On the seventh floor I knock, wait, and listen to the sound of the wheelchair rolling
across the wood. Nix maneuvers the door with even less grace than the first time.
When he’s got it open, his face lights up.
“Miss Mackenzie.”
I smile. “How did you know it was me?”
“You or Betty,” he says. “And she wears perfume thick as a coat.” I laugh. “Told her
to stop bathing in it.”
“I brought the cookies,” I say. “Sorry it took so long.”
He pivots the wheelchair and lets me guide him back to the table.
“As you can see,” he says as he waves a hand at the apartment, “I’ve been so busy,
I’ve hardly noticed.”
It looks untouched, like a painting of the last visit, down to the cigarette ash and
the scarf around his neck. I’m relieved to see he didn’t set the thing on fire.
“Betty hasn’t been in to clean up,” he says.
“Nix…” I’m afraid to ask. “Is Betty still around?”
He laughs hoarsely. “She’s no dead wife, if that’s what you think, and I’m too old
for imaginary friends.” A breath of relief escapes. “Comes ’round to check on me,”
he explains. “Dead wife’s sister’s daughter’s friend, or something. I forget. She
tells me my mind is going, but really I just don’t care enough to remember.” He points
to the table. “You left your book here.” And sure enough, the
Inferno
is sitting where I left it. “Don’t worry. Not like I peeked.”
I consider leaving it again. Maybe he won’t notice. “Sorry about that,” I say. “Summer
reading.”
“What do schools do that for?” he grumbles. “What’s the point of summer if they give
you homework?”
“Exactly!” I set him up at the table and put the Tupperware in his lap.
He rattles it. “Too many cookies here for just me. You better help.”
I take one and sit down across from Nix. “I wanted to ask you—”
“If it’s about those deaths,” he cuts in, “I’ve been thinking about ’em.” He picks
at the raisins in his cookie. “Ever since you asked. I’d almost forgotten. Scary,
how easy it is to forget bad things.”
“Did the police think the deaths were connected?” I ask.
Nix shifts in his seat. “They weren’t certain. I mean, it was suspicious, to be sure.
But like I said, you can connect the dots or you can leave them be. And that’s what
they did, left ’em random, scattered.”
“What happened to the brother, Owen? You said he stayed here.”
“You want to know about that boy, you know who you should ask? That antiques collector.”
I frown. “Ms. Angelli?” I remember the not-so-subtle gesture of her door shutting
in my face. “Because she has a thing for history?”
Nix takes a bite of cookie. “Well, that too. But mostly because she lives in Owen
Clarke’s old place.”
“No,” I say slowly, “I do. Three F.”
Nix shakes his head. “You live in the Clarke
family’s
old place. But they moved out right after the murder. And that boy, Owen, he couldn’t
go, but he couldn’t stay either, not there where his sister was… Well, he moved into
a vacant apartment. And that Angelli woman lives there now. I wouldn’t have known
it if she hadn’t come up to see me, a few years back when she moved in, curious about
the history of the building. You want to know more about Owen, you should talk to
her.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say, already on my feet.
“Thanks for the cookies.”
Just then the front door opens and a middle-aged woman appears on the mat. Nix sniffs
the air once.
“Ah, Betty.”
“Lucian Nix, I know you’re not eating sugar.”
Betty makes a beeline for Nix, and in the scramble of cookies and curses, I duck out
and head downstairs. Names are still scratching on the list in my pocket, but they’ll
have to wait just a little longer.
When I reach the fourth floor, I run through the spectrum of lies I could use to get
Angelli to let me in. I’ve only passed her once since she shut the door in my face,
and earned little more than a curt nod.
But when I reach her door and press my ear to the wood, I hear only silence.
I knock and hold my breath and hope. Still silence.
I test the door, but it’s locked. I search my pockets for a card or a hairpin, or
anything I can use to jimmy the lock, silently thanking Da for the afternoon he spent
teaching me to do that.
But maybe I won’t need to. I step back to examine the door. Ms. Angelli is a bit on
the scattered side. I’m willing to bet that she’s a touch forgetful, and with the
amount of clutter in her apartment, the odds of misplacing a key are high. The door
frame is narrow but wide enough to form a shallow shelf on top, a lip. I stretch onto
my toes and brush my fingertips along the sill of the door. They sweep against something
metal, and sure enough, a key tumbles to the checkered carpet.
People are so beautifully predictable. I take up the key and slide it into the lock,
holding my breath as I turn it and the door pops open, leading into the living room.
Across the threshold, my eyes widen. I’d nearly forgotten how much stuff was here,
covering every surface, the beautiful and the gaudy and the old. It’s piled on shelves
and tables and even on the floor, forcing me to weave between towers of clutter and
into the room. I don’t see how Ms. Angelli can walk through without upsetting anything.
The layout of 4D is the same as 3F, with the open kitchen and the hallway off the
living room leading to the bedrooms. I slowly make my way toward them, checking each
room to make sure I’m alone. Every room is empty of people and full of things, and
I don’t know if it’s the clutter or the fact that I’ve broken in, but I can’t shake
the feeling that I’m being watched. It trails me through the apartment, and when a
small crash comes from the direction of living room, I spin, expecting to see Ms.
Angelli.
But no one’s there.
And that’s when I remember. The cat.
Back in the living room, a few books have been toppled, but there’s no sign of Angelli’s
cat Jezzie. My skin crawls. I try to convince myself that if I stay out of her way,
she’ll stay out of mine. I shift the stack of books, a stone bust, and the edge of
the carpet out of the way, clearing a space so I can read.
I take a deep breath, slide off my ring, and kneel on the exposed floorboards. But
the moment I bring my hands to the wood, before I’ve even reached for the past, the
whole room begins to hum against my fingers. Shudders. Rattles. And it takes me a
moment to realize that I’m not feeling the weight of the memory in the floor alone,
that there are so many antiques in this room, so many things with so many memories,
that the lines between the objects are blurring. The hum of the floor touches the
hum of things sitting on the floor, and so on, until the whole room sings, and it
hurts. A pins-and-needles numb that climbs my arms and winds across my bruised ribs.
It’s too much to read. There is too much
stuff
in here, and it fills my head the way human noise does. I haven’t even started reaching
past the hum to whatever memories are beyond it; I can hardly think through the noise.
Pain flickers behind my eyes, and I realize I’m pushing back against the hum, so I
try to remember Wesley’s lessons.
Let the noise go white,
he said. I crouch in the middle of Angelli’s apartment with my eyes squeezed shut
and my hands glued to the floor, waiting for the noise to run together around me,
for it to even out. And it does, little by little, until I can finally think, and
then focus, and reach.
I catch hold of the memory, and time spirals back, and with it the clutter shifts,
changes, then lessens, piece after piece vanishing from the room until I can see most
of the floor, the walls. People slide through the space, earlier tenants—some of the
memories dull and faded, others bright—an older man, a middle-aged woman, a family
with young twins. The room clears, morphs, until finally it is Owen’s space.
I can tell even before I see his blond head flicker through the room, moving backward
because I’m still rewinding time. At first I’m filled with relief that there
is
a memory to read, that it hasn’t been blacked out along with so much of that year.
And the memory suddenly sharpens, and I swear I see—
Pain shoots through my head as I slam the memory’s retreat to a stop, and let it slide
forward.
In the room with Owen, there is a girl.
I only catch a glimpse before he blocks my view. She’s sitting in a bay window, and
he’s kneeling in front of her, his hands up on either side of her face, his forehead
pressed to hers. The Owen I know is calm to a fault, composed, and sometimes, though
I wouldn’t tell him, ghostly. But this Owen is alive, full of restless energy woven
through his shoulders and the way he’s subtly rocking on his heels as he speaks. The
words themselves are nothing more than a murmur, but I can tell they are low and urgent;
and as suddenly as he knelt, he’s up, hands falling from the girl’s face as he turns
away.…And then I’m not looking at him anymore, because I’m looking at
her
.
She’s sitting with her knees drawn up just the way they were the night she was killed,
blond hair spilling over them, and even though she’s looking down, I know exactly
who she is.
Regina Clarke.
But that’s not possible.
Regina died before Owen ever moved into this apartment.
And then, as if she knows what I’m thinking, she looks up, past me, and she is Regina
and not Regina all at once, a twisted version. Her face is tight with panic and her
eyes are too dark and getting darker, the color smudging into—
A screaming sound tears through my head, high and long and horrible, and my vision
plunges into color, then black, then color as something shoves up against my bare
arm. I jerk back, out of the memories and away from the floor, but the stone bust
catches my heel and sends me backward to the carpet, hard. Pain cuts across my ribs
as I land, and my vision clears enough to take in the
thing
that attacked me. Jezzie’s small black form bobs toward me, and I scoot back, but—
A high-pitched howl grates against my bones as another cat, fat and white with an
encrusted collar, wraps its tail around my elbow. I wrench free and—
A third cat brushes my leg, and the world explodes into keening and red and light
and pain, metal dragging beneath my skin. Finally I tear free and scramble backward
out into the hall, and force the door shut.
My back hits the opposite wall, and I slide to the floor, my eyes watering from the
headache that’s as sudden and brutal as the cats’ touch. I need quiet, true quiet,
and I reach into my pocket to fetch my ring, but my fingers meet with nothing.
No.
I look at the door to 4D. My ring must still be in there. I curse not so softly and
put my forehead against my knees, trying to think through the pain and piece together
what I’d seen before the onslaught of cats.