by Caleb Krisp
While the conductor didn’t trouble me, the maid who appeared from the other end of the carriage certainly did. “Afternoon tea,” she announced. “Afternoon tea will now be served.”
The tea trolley was a terrific problem. For it was right beside me, the decanter puffing little clouds of steam that fogged up the window. The maid was nearly at the door when I dropped down. Parted the curtain around the trolley and crawled underneath. There wasn’t a huge amount of room among the dirty teacups, stacks of plates smeared with cream and cake, and stained napkins. But I managed.
I heard the door open. Then the trolley lurched to one side as it was turned around and pushed through the narrow door. The maid moved slowly down the long aisle, dispensing hot drinks and desserts with good cheer. I peeked through the curtain and stole a look about. The passengers were smartly dressed. As rich and important looking as Lily had described.
There were a few people playing cards. Others reading. A girl played with a doll. While a boy busied himself with some paper and pastels. But what really caught my attention and made me shudder was how these finely dressed travelers looked—their skin was as gray as a thundercloud. An ashen shadow was cast upon their flesh. They weren’t all the same—some were grayer than others. But all were marked by the Shadow.
“When you’ve finished serving,” came a voice (I guessed it was the conductor), “make sure you give the trolley a thorough cleaning, top to bottom, you hear? It was in a shocking state last week, and I won’t have it.”
“Yes, Mr. Truman,” came the meek reply.
Which was terrifically unhelpful. I would be exposed the moment she parted the curtain. Therefore I needed a way out. And being tremendously brilliant, a plan sprang to mind. It was frightfully last minute. And at its heart was the boy drawing with pastels. When the trolley passed by him—his mother ordered a cup of tea and a slice of cream cake for her son—I slipped my hand out rather swiftly and took a pastel from the folded table. If the boy noticed, he didn’t sound the alarm.
When the maid reached the end of the aisle, I crawled out from under the cart and darted through the door. Crab walked straight toward the lavatory. Entered, locking the door behind me. Pulled out a handful of tissues from a lovely gold box. Turned on the tap. Plugged the sink. Then got to work.
It was really very simple. I dropped the gray pastel into the sink of shallow water and, using the end of a toilet brush, crushed it into a paste. Then used the tissues to smear the concoction over my face and neck, hands and arms. The experiment was a stunning success. In no time at all I looked just as afflicted as the rest of the passengers—my face a sickly gray, the dreaded stain of the Shadow upon my skin.
When I slipped out of the lavatory, I peered into the next carriage. It was full. So I headed back the way I had come. There was no other choice. By that time, the conductor was near the second-to-last row, clipboard in hand. I slipped past him, smiled at an elderly couple, and took the only spare seat in the carriage. Beside an elegant woman. She had dark hair and green eyes, and her skin was hideously ashen. She glanced up from her novel—but made no comment.
“Where did you come from?” It was the conductor. Eyeing me with suspicion.
“The lavatory,” I said. “I get frightfully gassy on long journeys.”
“What’s your name?”
“What’s your name?” I shrugged. “Haven’t a clue, dear—though I’m suspect it’s something like Wilbur or Bob.”
“Very amusing,” said the conductor. “What’s your name? And I’ve no time for games.”
“Well . . . my name . . .” Of course I could come up with a name, but the conductor certainly wouldn’t find it on his list. I kept thinking of Lily’s warning—the punishment for stowing away on the red train was death. “I . . . my name is . . .”
“Grace Havisham,” said the woman sitting next to me. “I do apologize for my daughter—she has a habit of taking a joke rather too far.”
The conductor frowned. “I thought we were one passenger down.”
“Grace Havisham,” said the woman again. “You will see it on the manifesto.”
“Yes, well . . .” The silly man looked slightly bashful. “I was told the child died last night.”
The woman touched her red lips. Glanced briefly out of the window. Then fixed the conductor with a calm gaze. “Does she look dead to you?”
The conductor looked disheartened. “Must be a mistake, I suppose.”
“I’m sure it happens from time to time,” said my glorious protector.
“Of course it does,” I said, the relief washing over me. “Now shuffle off, you silly man, and leave us to suffer in peace.”
When the conductor had departed, flicking through his clipboard, the woman smiled gently at me but made no further remark. I wanted to thank her, of course, but something in the way she turned back to her book told me not to. That I would be intruding.
I felt a chill in my bones, thinking of what lay ahead. It would not be easy. Instinct told me that finding Rebecca and bringing her home would require every ounce of strength, skill, and courage that I possessed. But at least I was on my way. Bound for Prospa House.
The whistle blew as the train roared through a tunnel carved into the mountainside. The elderly couple sitting in front exchanged a few words—about the arrival time and whatnot.
“Not long now,” remarked the old man to his wife.
I closed my eyes. The words repeating in my head. Not long now.
13
“Where are we going?”
“Don’t you ever tire of questions?”
We were trudging through the snow between towering oak trees. My mother and I. She had ahold of my hand—hers felt awfully damp—and was striding just in front of me. When I looked up at her, the sun flared in my eyes, swallowing her face in a glaring light. I wanted desperately to see her—to see her and recognize her. But as we slogged through the thick blanket of snow, all I could manage were glimpses. The length of her nose, her cheek dripping with perspiration, the red blotches on her neck.
“Where are we going?” I asked again.
My mother’s breaths were heavy, her chest rattled. “I don’t know, Ivy.”
“I’m tired,” I groaned.
“Come now, a strong girl like you?” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. “We’ll find a place . . . somewhere to rest awhile.”
The train rattled violently, and I woke gasping.
“A nightmare?” The woman sitting next to me smiled faintly. “My daughter, Grace, was the same—always dreaming of things that lurked in the shadows.”
I yawned and stretched. “I was dreaming of my mother. Which is rather thrilling, as I know nothing about her. I don’t even know what she looks like, and even in the dream it’s proving rather tricky—but I feel a breakthrough is awfully close.”
“Oh.” A long pause. The woman glanced down the length of the carriage. “You are a stowaway, are you not?”
I nodded.
“It shall be our secret,” said the woman. “I am Mrs. Havisham.”
“Is your daughter . . . ? What I mean is . . .”
“She fought very hard but could not hold on.” The woman’s green eyes swept over my face. “How long have you had it?”
“Not long at all. It came on very suddenly and whatnot.”
“It always does.” She patted my hand. “I am very pleased that my daughter’s place will not be wasted. Have you been to the city before?”
“Not really. What’s it like?”
My traveling companion raised her gloved hand and motioned to the window. “See for yourself.”
The woodlands went right to the city’s edge. Then stopped. Not thinning out gradually—just stopping. One moment we were in the white woods, the next a vast city spread out before us.
We passed through a great avenue of pavilions that curved and then straightened and then curved again. The shop fronts sparkled like new pennies, all in yellow stone—some wer
e bowed with timber slats, while others had windows that slid away (to where I didn’t know), making the grocer or cobbler’s store part of the footpath. Above the shop fronts were apartments, a few with birdcages out on the ledge; others hung tapestries from the windows depicting a large white building that I knew to be Prospa House.
While the shops were open, there were very few people about—a handful of women wearing bright dresses that showed their ankles. One pushing a stroller. A man walking a cat on a silver leash. What I didn’t see were horses or carriages or carts.
“How do people get about?” I asked Mrs. Havisham. “Where are the carriages?”
“The city frowns upon such things,” she replied. “All deliveries must be made before seven each morning or after ten at night. Walking is strongly encouraged.”
“But why? And what if you have a sore leg, or no legs at all?”
“Justice Hallow believes in the value of exercise. In the villages and farms it is different, but here Justice Hallow prizes good health above all else.”
The train swept past the pavilions, through an arched dome with four red marble pillars, and into an avenue dotted with enormous windowless buildings. “There is the city council and the bank,” explained Mrs. Havisham helpfully. “And over there is the training camp for Justice Hallow’s guards.”
The buildings were made of pale brown brick with mirrored columns ribbed along the front, flaring madly in the sunlight. And at the sides of each building were brightly colored paintings and signs. The first showed a rather pretty girl with fair hair and a fetching blue dress. But she wasn’t smiling. Instead, she was looking with much distress at a spot of gray upon her arm. And below her, blazed in thick white letters, VIGILANCE, ALWAYS.
Another contained no picture, just letters written black on white—
WATCH FOR THE SIGNS
Sudden Weariness
Chills
Gray Patches on the Skin
Proceed Immediately to the White Train—
Leaving Every Hour on the Hour
“Do not worry,” said Mrs. Havisham. “Though it is an offense to be ill, we are here at the invitation of Justice Hallow.”
“Why should a person be sent away just for getting ill?”
“No one really understands how the Shadow is spread, which makes people rather fearful. Those that are well live in mortal fear of the sick—even though there is no proof that the Shadow is contagious. Justice Hallow wishes to preserve the city as a jewel where the Shadow cannot trespass.”
“Seems bonkers to me.”
“You are not the only one who wishes things were different.” Mrs. Havisham pointed to a building across the silvery boulevard. “These signs are popping up all over the kingdom.”
I looked and saw a three-story building with lovely patterned ironwork. At the side was another WATCH FOR THE SIGNS poster. Except this sign had been painted over in red with the words THE DUAL IS COMING! Two men in matching orange overalls were already painting over the message.
“They cover them as soon as they appear,” said Mrs. Havisham. “Some say it is a protest group, while others believe that the message is true. Either way, people are talking openly—though who is behind it, I cannot think.”
Well, I could. For I knew exactly who was behind those signs. Miss Always. That mad cow was spreading the word that I had come to save the day. At one time I might have believed it myself. But now it seemed like dangerous nonsense. Rebecca was all that mattered.
Through the window I spotted a woman in an olive gown running at great speed. Running and pointing. Behind her was an elderly man. He was on his knees. Head bowed. Looking with horror at his hand—half of the flesh, from his fingers to his wrist, was a sickly gray. A few of the passengers muttered and shook their heads.
The train crossed a small bridge suspended by wire cables, then swung around a row of terraces before passing into a vast concourse paved in pale green bricks. On one side was an enormous white building ten stories high. Which caused a great deal of pointing and chatter.
“Prospa House,” said Mrs. Havisham.
I had only seen the building from the other side, which is why I hadn’t recognized it. There were massive columns, arched windows, and a vast terrace bordered by a set of stairs running the length of the building. At the very top was a clock tower capped by a spire.
At the end of the concourse was an immense lake, its emerald water sparkling. Dozens of copper water pumps were set into the stone border surrounding the lake. Neatly trimmed trees flanked Prospa House and ran all the way to the water’s edge. The trees had white branches. Bloodred leaves. And bright yellow fruit shaped like an oval. Many fruits had dropped and were scattered about. And a few of the well-dressed folk promenading were sweeping them up.
“What sort of fruit is that?” I asked.
My traveling companion gave me a strange look. “You don’t know?”
“Of course I do—the name just escapes me at present.”
Mrs. Havisham smiled kindly. “Ovid berries grow all over the kingdom. The taste is reported to be delicious, though eating them will cost you your life.”
“Then why aren’t the trees cut down?” I asked.
“As a reminder to be vigilant,” came the reply. “Justice Hallow makes it the job of all who live in the city to keep the fruit far from the reach of children or animals or the great lake—as you know, the water there contains healing minerals and is prized throughout the kingdom.” She sighed with little enthusiasm. “We must all play our part.”
The train began to slow. I gazed out across the concourse and saw a large monument. It was set upon an octagonal platform towering so high above the city it seemed to touch the clouds. The statue was made of solid silver, and what it depicted made me gasp.
“I don’t believe my eyes,” I whispered.
Mrs. Havisham laughed. “Have you not seen pictures of the monument?”
I shook my head. There atop the statue was an enormous, glittering Clock Diamond. A perfect replica of the stone beneath my dress. I practically sat on Mrs. Havisham’s lap to get a closer look as the train swept past. At the base, carved into the honey-colored stone, was the inscription BY THE STONE WE HAVE HOPE, BY THE REMEDIES WE ARE HEALED.
The carriage lurched sideways, taking a sharp corner. The engine hissed up a storm as we came to a stop. Mrs. Havisham closed her book. “We have arrived.”
“Please do take a seat, ladies and gentleman, boys and girls,” announced a bland-looking chap in a crisp black suit. “This will not take long at all.”
We were in a rather plush waiting room—about seventy of us. It had thick carpet, bleached paneled walls, a vaulted ceiling painted with half-moons. Black Suit went along checking our names and issuing each of us with a card. They were all about the size of a library card but not all of the same color.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“Why are these cards different colors?” said a middle-aged man whose skin was a deep gray. He coughed and clutched his chest. “I paid good money—”
“Now, sir, I must stop you right there,” interrupted Black Suit. “Everyone is equal here at Prospa House. The remedies are all of the same high quality. The color system just ensures that you all get your turn.”
The sick man looked doubtful. And thanks to Amos and Lily, so did I. The card I held in my hand was yellow (as was Mrs. Havisham’s). That meant we were to be healed by a new soul. Which was terrible luck!
“Please come forward and stand behind the line corresponding to the color of your card,” was our next instruction. I told Mrs. Havisham to go ahead. That I was tying my boots. But the truth was, I needed to think. I had a yellow ticket. But it was unlikely that Rebecca would still be considered a new soul. Green or purple—that was Amos’s guess. If I had any hope of finding my friend, I would need to act swiftly.
A set of white doors opened, and the lines began to move. We entered a corridor and began peeling off into several different ha
llways—each a different color. I scanned the lines. Some folks clutched purple tickets, others blue, green, or yellow. It was a great risk—not knowing for sure what color Rebecca was now—but I was prepared to chance it. I did a quick sidestep and elbowed the sickly man who had asked the question. He held a purple ticket in his hand.
“It’s all lies, of course,” I said.
“What is?” he said, coughing.
“That the system’s fair.” I held out my yellow ticket. “I happen to know yellow is the pick of the bunch. Now, I only have a mild case of the Shadow, while you look like a man on the very brink of death.”
His brow buckled. “What of it?”
“Well, I’d be happy to swap tickets.” I shrugged. “Only if you wish to, of course.”
He hesitated. Just for a moment. Then snatched the ticket from my hand.
“Follow me, please,” said a fresh-faced young damsel in a plain dress. “It’s rather a long walk, but there will be tea and refreshments at the other end.”
The hallway was narrow and long, its lavender walls sweeping up to a pointed arch. Gas lamps, hung from chains, hissed above our heads. I was the last in a line of twelve or so. No one spoke. They just walked silently, perhaps filled with hope that their suffering would soon be over.
The young man in front of me wheezed a great deal. His shoulders were hunched. The back of his thin neck pallid and gray. At the end of the corridor, we passed into a comfortable chamber. The tall windows were of frosted glass, but the light poured in, making the space cheerier than it might otherwise have been. A dozen wingback chairs were arranged around a low table, filled with books, magazines, and newspapers. A large purple curtain covered the far end. A door in the corner seemed to be connected to some sort of pantry or kitchen. For as soon as we entered the room, two maids came out bearing pots of fresh tea and coffee.
As I sat down, I scanned the room. There was no sign of Rebecca or any other remedies.
“Good afternoon. I am Professor Finsbury.” An older man strode into the chamber, wearing a pale lab coat. He had wispy dark hair plastered to his pointed head, thin lips, and a mustache that lacked commitment.
