I reach out to the shiny metal object that lies on the table in front of him.
“As soon as I can repair these parts, we can steer the ship again,” he explains.
“And then we can leave this place,” April says in a low voice. “Can you imagine the people who used to live here? How they must have hoped every day that the swamp would recede? They left their furniture, their clothing . . .”
“Where did they go?” I ask. “To the city?” It seems horrible when we all know how quickly the contagion swept through the more populated areas.
April shrugs. “They’ve been gone a long time. Everything is covered with dust or mold or falling apart. They’re probably all dead.”
“We should be able to leave very soon.” Kent stands and walks to the doorway. “Maybe by evening. I prefer to fly the ship at night. Less attention that way.”
Less attention from the people in the swamp? Or from Prospero’s guards? I look over at Elliott. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Another storm is brewing,” Kent continues. “I’ll stay with the ship, but everyone else needs to take shelter. Including you,” he says to April, and they share a smile.
Elliott’s eyebrows go even farther up.
“Where are the children?” I ask. They’ve barely ever been outside, and now a storm is approaching—one strong enough to blow them away.
“The children are sitting on the roof watching for intruders. I lent them my binoculars,” Kent says. “They seem to enjoy being out there. Thom stays close, watching them.”
Elise and Henry are so young. Is it safe for them to be watching the swamp? The willows and swamp grass surrounding the house could conceal any number of enemies. We have no shortage of them. The Reverend Malcontent wants to take over the city. He would execute me, the scientist’s daughter, and he’s already tried to kill Elliott once. Prospero is more devious, but I don’t doubt he’d like to see all of us dead. And he’d love to have the airship that we’re on.
Prospero has always been jealous of science and innovation. With something like this ship he’d have a way to take courtiers up above the city. They could hold elaborate parties. They could dance. But it would be a trap, because wherever the prince goes, there is always torture.
I cross the cabin, following Kent, and look outside. The blue-gray slate of the roof slopes gently toward the swamp. It is very quiet. I haven’t once heard the high-pitched voices of the children.
“Will feeds all of us,” April says. She stands at my shoulder and gestures to the thin line of smoke coming from one of the two chimneys. The one that’s intact. Kent smashed into the other one when we landed. “He’s been using one of the fireplaces to cook, since Kent won’t let us have any sort of flame near his precious airship.” She winks at Kent. He is tinkering with something and doesn’t notice. “Thom took guard duty to stay out of Elliott’s sight.” April meets my gaze. Thom is the diseased boy who rescued us from drowning. And then we rescued him from the city and from Malcontent. He’s covered in scabs that weep with pus. That’s the best April has to look forward to, if she doesn’t die. We have to find my father. How can Elliott want to waste time going to Prospero’s palace?
When I glance over at Elliott, he’s restless, tapping his fingers against the table where Kent is working. Agitated.
A loud crash makes all of us jump. But it isn’t an explosion. The sky is darkening. Lightning flashes, and more thunder follows.
Elliott strides past me, out the door. April and I follow him onto the deck.
From here I can smell the corruption. The encroaching swamp is taking over everything. Leaves decompose in the marsh around us, and the house itself rots underneath us. The two chimneys that the ship is tied to are part of the main section of the house. Three wings branch off to form a letter E. Except that one of the wings seems to have fallen away. Some rooms are completely open to the elements, like the dollhouse that I had as a child. Father built it, and Finn used to put lizards and frogs in the rooms. He would laugh as they knocked the carefully placed furniture about.
Elliott is at the rail. His hair gleams, and even the way he stands evokes a sense of purpose.
I walk up beside him and look straight down. The marsh water ripples dark under the green slime that floats across the surface. The long grasses move, not with the wind, but against it. Fallen trees lie in the murk, in various stages of decay. Something is moving in the swamp. Something alive and hungry.
“Crocodile.” Elliott’s lips quirk into an almost-smile at my shudder of revulsion. It makes a loud splash, as if to confirm Elliott’s statement.
Dark clouds are massing over the swamp, and lightning strikes once more. The grasses shake. The crocodiles splash, restless.
“Kent wants us to go down into the house,” April says. I jump at the sound of her voice. She’s gotten quieter since she’s been sick. She’s biting her lip. The old April never looked so solemn. She leads us off the ship. Elliott takes my hand, but he doesn’t pull me along. Only a slight gap lies between the wooden steps of the airship and the roof of the house, but he helps me down.
Henry and Elise are sitting in the shadow of one of the chimneys.
“Will won’t let us play anywhere interesting,” Henry complains as we approach. “There’s nothing to see from here, even with binoculars.”
With the crocodiles slithering through the murk, and who knows what else might be lurking out there, Will was right to make them promise to stay near the ship. I want to grab Henry and hold him close to keep him safe.
“Araby!” Elise spies me behind Elliott and leaps up. She throws her arms around me, but Elliott keeps hold of my hand. Elise’s eyebrows draw together, and I know that she is frowning behind her mask.
The wind picks up, so even if I knew what to say to her, the words would be whipped away.
“Why must we always wait until the storm is actually upon us?” April asks no one in particular. This is the old April. “We need to hurry. My hair simply cannot survive much more.”
I smile, but she’s right. The rain is coming—I can see it out over the swamp, moving toward us. These tiles will be slick and treacherous when it hits. I put my arm around Elise, then drop Elliott’s hand to take Henry’s.
“Show me how to get into the house?” I ask Elise, and she nods, pleased to help.
The breach in the roof isn’t far, but it gives me pause. It’s as if monstrous jaws have bitten a chunk from the top of the house. The uneven hole left is wide enough for a person to climb through.
“There was already a hole in the roof,” April explains. “Kent just used a crowbar to make it bigger, so that we can climb inside.” The rain pounds the roof behind us, gusting through the swamp. All of a sudden, everything is moving.
“Go ahead.” I urge the children toward the wooden ladder that peeks up out of the hole. By the time April has climbed down, the storm is crashing against the house and the line of trees is doubled over.
Elliott’s hair is plastered to his face, and his shirt clings to him.
“I should stay with Kent,” he says. He grimaces, but I can’t tell if it’s from the rain or the idea of me downstairs with Will.
I nod. He can’t leave Kent to face the storm alone.
Ignoring the driving rain, I grab his arm. It doesn’t matter that I don’t trust him, or that I don’t agree with his plans. He can be the hero that the city needs. I’m not willing to embrace him, but I hold his arm tightly for just a few seconds longer than I should. As I’m turning away, he spins me back and kisses me fiercely. And then he’s fighting the wind, back across the roof.
Not until I’m halfway down the ladder do I pause to catch my breath and push the wet hair back from my face. I lean my forehead against one of the rungs while my heart slows.
Below, the house groans, settling perhaps into its final repose. Into the swamp. I continue to climb down. The wood floor looks slick with blood, but it’s just soaked with rainwater from the s
torm. Still, the boards seem to sag under my feet, so I move quickly to the other side of the room, where the roof above is intact.
A fire crackles in the hearth, and the glow, combined with the oil lamp, contrasts cozily with the rain that pounds through the hole and against the roof and windows.
This place reminds me of the homes of Mother’s rich relations, who we used to visit when I was a child. The attic would’ve been a nursery, and bits of broken toys, a small desk where a child might have sat to learn to read, have been left neglected here.
Elise and Henry are nestled on a couch, and Elise makes room for me to join them. But April coughs, and I turn to her instead. She’s fallen into an armchair. The diseased boy, Thom, stands behind her, holding a glass of water. If anything, his skin looks more horrible than ever, with weeping sores on his arms, as well as the one above his eye.
I can’t believe April is allowing him to be this close to her. She has changed.
“How are you?” I ask, reaching for her hand. She pulls it away.
“I need a drink. And a hot bath. And then another drink.” Thom holds the glass of water out to her. She makes a rude gesture. “Not that, a real drink.” But then she smiles at Thom, a silent apology for being so abrupt. “Sorry,” she says. “Wet hair is irritating, against the sores.” She gestures to her neck but doesn’t pull up the hair. She would rather be in pain than show what the contagion is doing to her.
She looks to Thom, as if waiting for his sympathy, and I feel a pang, knowing that this boy is the only one who understands what is happening to her.
“You can’t possibly agree with Elliott,” I say quietly. “You can’t think that we should go to the prince’s palace.”
When she looks up at me, I see panic. “Everyone in the city is dying,” she says. “No one can survive the Red Death. But some people can live with the contagion.”
I don’t argue with her. A girl died of the Red Death right in front of me. I don’t doubt that conditions in the city are dire.
But April’s sores are spreading, and there’s no guarantee that she’ll be like Thom. She’s saved my life more than once. When I was suicidal over my brother’s death, she did her best to distract me. She chose me to be her best friend, to take with her to the club. And now it is my fault that she is dying. When her father had us imprisoned in the tunnels, he said he could cure her of the disease. But she escaped with me instead, because he was going to kill me.
I was powerless to stop my brother from dying. But I’m not powerless anymore. I will save April, even if I have to fight her to do it.
We watch the storm through dirty windows. I eat, to keep up my strength, and tell stories to the children. Thom disappears down a spiral stairway, with a bowl of soup for Will and something for the prisoner. “The man that Elliott captured scares me,” April confesses. “He reminds me of dark places under the city, and my father.”
When we escaped the mob, the man followed Will and the children, clutching his musket and scaling the rope ladder. I’m afraid of him, too.
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 tha
t 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.
Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) Page 3
