Henry and Elise, exhausted from chasing each other around the open spaces of the attic, curl up and fall asleep. April dozes in her chair, before the fireplace.
This is my chance. I’ll slip away to read what I can of Father’s journal before Elliott comes down. If I can find something certain about a cure, it might be enough to convince them to listen to me. I consider the spiral staircase, but that way leads to Will and Thom and the prisoner. At the far end of the attic, past the opening where we climbed down from the roof, is a hole in the floor, probably caused by water seeping down and rotting the wood.
I walk over and peer down. Below, I can see a wood floor covered with a rug. The distance is probably seven feet, eight? I sit at the edge with my legs dangling. If I can push myself away from the broken beams so I don’t scrape my shoulder, I should be fine. As long as I don’t twist my ankle.
I take a deep breath and drop, bracing for the pain of impact. But there is no impact.
Strong arms catch me, sliding around my waist.
Will. I would know him anywhere, even in this darkness. He still smells of the Debauchery Club, a hint of incense. The length of my body rests against his.
I can feel his heart beating. Rapidly. Unless it’s mine.
He doesn’t move. Maybe he’s going to hold me here, against his heart, forever. Every nerve ending has come to life, making me painfully, horribly aware. His breath stirs my hair and his arm trembles from holding me up, but otherwise we are completely still.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
“You’re welcome.” His voice is equally soft.
Will’s dark hair has fallen over his face, hiding his eyes.
Without meaning to, I reach up and push his hair back.
That breaks his trance, and with a sigh, he finally sets me on the floor, carefully avoiding any contact with my injured shoulder.
Slowly, my eyes adjust to the dim light of the oil lamp sitting on a low table beside a faded velvet couch. The threadbare rug covers a large square of hardwood floor. It’s a dilapidated sitting room in a house that is sinking into a swamp, but at this moment, as I stand beside Will, it looks warm and inviting. Even though it shouldn’t.
CHAPTER FOUR
WILL TURNS AWAY, LETTING HIS HAIR HIDE THE expression on his face. He gestures to the sofa. When I sit, it makes a terrible squealing sound.
My mother would be proud of how calm I am pretending to be. What will I do if he apologizes? My palms begin to sweat. But I wait. I won’t make this easy for him.
When he faces me again, his smile is sad, but there’s something in it that reminds me of the old flirtatious Will. Of a time when I spent entire days waiting to see him for a few moments as I entered the Debauchery Club.
“It was too terrible, what I did.” He looks down at his hands. “You know I’m sorry, and I know it isn’t enough.”
It’s only been days since he traded me to Malcontent in return for Henry and Elise. I understand why he did it. I would have done the same if my own brother had been taken by a madman. And that makes everything worse, because I can almost forgive him. Almost.
Tears well up from my traitorous eyes. Why couldn’t he trust me to help him save the children? Why does it hurt so badly that he didn’t?
He reaches out. I watch his hand, not sure whether I want to take it or slap it away. But it doesn’t matter, because he pulls back. Though I try to hold back my tears, the effort makes everything worse, and suddenly I’m sobbing.
If Will held out his arms to me again, I might go into them. Afterward, I’d hate myself, but I’d let him comfort me. Instead, he looks away and lets me cry.
Minutes pass. As I struggle to compose myself, he hands me the cleanest handkerchief I’ve ever seen. How did he keep it so impossibly white after everything we’ve been through? I force my eyes away from it, but rather than look at Will, I survey the room. Something about it, the faded wallpaper, or perhaps the sloped ceiling, speaks of comfort and whispered confidences.
Will’s voice is light. “I learned a few things at the club. A young lady in distress will invariably need a handkerchief. I’ve had plenty ruined with mascara.”
I blot at my eyes, but the square is unstained. We’re a long way from the Debauchery Club and the girl I was then.
Finally, I look back at him. In the partial light his tattoos are dark against his pale skin. They swirl upward, disappearing into his hair.
“You came here to be alone,” he says quietly.
“So did you.” I say, just to prove to myself that I can still speak. I dab at my eyes one last time.
“Our prisoner is down here, and I’m on watch until Elliott sends Thom to relieve me.” His eyes move toward the corridor, and then back to the sofa, to me.
“I’m just going to sit here and read.” I hold up the journal. He knows what it is. He handed it to Malcontent right after giving me over, after all.
“I’ll stay close, so I know that you’re safe.”
I could spit out a thousand retorts to that, but I have no energy for accusations. And though I wanted to get away from everyone else, maybe I don’t want to be completely alone.
He settles in a corner, nearly hidden by shadows, so I curl up at the end of the couch and open the journal. April needs answers. And maybe, while searching for information about the diseases, I can find some reassurance for myself.
I pick up reading about the years when I was very young. The city was in chaos even back then, because the swamp was rising into the lower city, contaminating the water. The Weeping Sickness was released into that madness.
I skim these pages quickly, but as I reach the second half of the book I force myself to slow down. By then, all Father wrote about was the disease.
Prospero is collecting scientists and holding them in his castle. He claims that one of his men has found a way to rid the city of the encroaching swamp. He told me over dinner, laughing to himself. He’s been keeping the poor fellow in his dungeon, in chains. “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps I’ll allow him to complete his life’s work. It will make the city much more pleasant for your children, if they live to adulthood, don’t you think?”
As always, I ate my soup without comment. “Take care of my rat problem,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
I told him the disease is volatile. Unpredictable.
“The city won’t miss a few immigrants,” he said. “More come in boats every day.”
Now all the boats have rotted and fallen to bits in the harbor.
I keep going, absorbing as much as I can, until I turn to a mostly blank page inscribed with the words
My son is dead.
I lay my head against the back of the couch, trying not to think. Even with my eyes closed, I can see my twin brother. I won’t think of his bloodless hand, how I let go but then lunged back and tried to grab it after we dropped him into the corpse collector’s cart.
When I open my eyes, Will is watching me. He’s sitting across the room, with his back against a wall of exposed brick. Once again, his hair has fallen forward, but it isn’t enough to hide his concern.
The misery in this room is palpable.
I force myself back to the journal, past that terrible page.
Prospero lied to me. He’s done nothing to check the rise of the swamp, and I do not know the location of the pumping station that he promised would cleanse the water. He won’t distribute masks to the people. I have only one threat left, and I don’t think he believes me.
And then the last pages are about the Red Death.
While the Weeping Sickness is passed through the air, the Red Death is contracted through both the air and the drinking water. I have nothing more to threaten Prospero with. All is lost. He’s taken my wife. My son is dead. I will not be the one to save the city.
I shut the book and stare into space for a long time. What about me? Did Father think I was lost too? Was he right?
I wake to the thump of a footstep against the wood floor and sit up, clutching the journal to my heart.
The room is still shadowy, though light is streaming in through the hole in the roof and the filthy windows.
“Good morning.” Elliott stands a few feet away, silhouetted by the light that’s filtering in.
“Good morning,” I reply, trying to hide my surprise. I dart a glance to Will’s corner, but he’s gone. I tuck the journal under my skirt and gesture toward the rest of the couch. “Do you want to sit?”
He collapses beside me so quickly that I’m surprised he waited for my invitation. Elliott isn’t one for waiting. The skin under his eyes looks bruised. He hasn’t slept.
“The storm is over?” I prompt.
He nods. “April is watching the swamp. She’s the best shot, and she was feeling restless. I think she wanted to get away from the children.” He gives me a sidelong look. “We’ll be leaving today.”
“To go back to the city?”
“Araby . . .” He reaches out, as if to embrace me, but I put out my hands to hold him back. So he twines his fingers through mine, and the way our hands fit together feels extremely personal in just the way I wanted to avoid.
“We need to talk,” I say.
“Do we?” His expression is sardonic, but I ignore it. I have the right to voice my opinion.
He has to realize that if we go to the palace, everything is lost. The echo of my father stops me before I even start.
Thom pokes his head around the corner. “Did you move the prisoner? The door is open. And he’s gone.”
Elliott is on his feet immediately. “Go tell Kent and April. We need to arm ourselves,” he says. “He’s dangerous.” Thom’s eyes dart back to the corridor. He’s hiding something, but Elliott doesn’t see his face. He’s looking at Will, who has entered the room behind the boy. Thom hurries away.
Will stops, considering Elliott, but before he can say anything, Elliott lunges at him. “You did this,” he accuses. “You let him go.”
Will struggles to hold him back.
“You were going to kill him.” Will’s voice is quiet but no less accusing.
“Yes. I was. How long ago? How long has he been gone?”
Will shrugs out of Elliott’s grip and crosses his arms as he answers.
“He left during the storm. His only crime is having the disease and trying to get away from the city.”
I think it’s Will’s nonchalance that pushes Elliott over the brink. He slams into Will, shoving him against the wall. Elliott’s fist connects once, and then Will is fighting back. He hits Elliott right above the eye, and Elliott’s head whips back.
Elliott wipes a thin line of blood from his eyebrow and says, “He manipulated you. His crimes were much worse than that. I recognized him—he used to work for my uncle, before he caught the contagion. And then he started doing Malcontent’s dirty work. Ravaging the lower city. Killing children and feeding them to crocodiles.”
Will pales. “The Hunter?”
“Ah, you’ve heard the stories?”
Will nods.
“He’ll wait until the right moment to kill us,” Elliott says. “The moment that it becomes a challenge. If I were you I’d stick close to your siblings until we get out of here.” Will reacts to this like it’s a threat, shoving Elliott backward.