“The girl stays up here.” The man eyes me with distrust.
“I go where he goes,” I say.
I expect an argument, but the man just turns and leads us downstairs. Elliott looks pained, as if the man’s rapid acquiescence hurts him.
“You will have to unlock the door to the workshop,” the man says, and he turns to Elliott and holds up his hands. My gasp is loud in this small subterranean antechamber. His hands are not really hands at all—rather a formless mass, as if he doesn’t have any bones beneath the scarred flesh.
Elliott jerks away as though he’s been punched. In fact, he looks worse than when Will actually did hit him yesterday. When he finds his voice, he gets out only a strangled “Of course.”
Elliott turns a series of locks and opens the door gingerly. The man leads us across his cellar to another, narrower doorway with the muffled noises of movement on the other side. When he opens the door, the cellar floods with light from rows upon rows of gas bulbs in the room beyond. It is lined with clocks, and there are tables covered with cogs and gears of all sizes and shades of shiny metal. The clocks are ticking and their parts are turning. As we step in, I realize with amazement that they are all set to the exact same time, that the thousands of parts are all moving together. It’s astounding.
“I make clocks,” the man says with a half smile. “Or he does.” A boy sits at a low table, putting gears together with nimble fingers.
A wide table sits against the wall opposite the clocks, with an assortment of mismatched chairs. This would have been a wonderful place for students to congregate before the plague.
“The domain of artists, scholars, and poets.” Elliott sounds wistful.
“They still meet here. The group that you started,” the clockmaker says.
But we have no time for nostalgia. The clocks tick, and it’s getting late. We told Will we’d be back in an hour.
“Have you heard anything about Dr. Phineas Worth?” I ask, since it’s the point of our visit. “The scientist who invented the masks?”
“I’ve heard many things about him,” the clockmaker replies, and I feel ill, waiting for him to tell me whether my father is dead.
“But nothing recent. The last I heard he was chased off campus about a week ago by Prospero’s soldiers.”
Elliott and I exchange a look. That was the last time we saw my father. Elliott called off the soldiers, but one was loyal to his uncle and shot at Father anyway.
“Dr. Worth is in hiding. I need you to organize a few spies to scour the campus. They will be compensated for their efforts, rewarded if they find the man.” Elliott picks up one of the gears from a table and toys with it.
The clockmaker inclines his head. “I’ll arrange a full-fledged search. If he’s on campus, we’ll find him.” The boy looks up at us, drawing his master’s attention. “The others will search. You need to keep working,” he says, and then to Elliott, “He’s my only trained apprentice, and we have a large commission. From your uncle.”
The gear falls from Elliott’s hand, hitting the wooden table with a loud thunk.
“The prince wants a great clock. The biggest I’ve ever built. And he wants it soon.” The clockmaker gestures to the wooden body of what will be an enormous ebony grandfather clock. It’s beautifully crafted, but the dark wood and austere lines are imposing.
“Why?”
“Prince Prospero doesn’t deign to tell a clockmaker why he wants a clock,” the man answers.
“Is it for his party?” Elliott asks. “Does it do anything besides mark the hour?” He walks over to the clock and puts his hands on the wood of the casing. “Are there weapons inside? Does it dispense poisonous gas?”
“If he wants to install instruments of torture, he’ll have to do that himself. I only design the clockwork.”
“My uncle loves oddities,” Elliott murmurs. “But a huge clock?” He looks over the cabinet one last time. “I thought you swore never to make anything for him again.”
“The boy is making it.”
I clear my throat. This cryptic conversation isn’t going to find my father.
The clockmaker turns to me. His eyes are piercing. He studies me while asking Elliott, “Does she love you?” Even after the audacity of the question, he doesn’t look back at Elliott. My face burns at the personal question, and my anger builds at being discussed this way. Still, I wait to hear Elliott’s answer.
“Not yet,” Elliott says. “But she will. Araby’s used to loving people who’ve done terrible things.”
I frown. “I wouldn’t count on it,” I say quietly, and I don’t bother to look at Elliott either. If all he can do is ignore me or talk for me, he doesn’t deserve any better.
The clockmaker smiles, as if my words amuse him. “Shall we test her?” he asks. Without waiting for an answer, he holds up his mangled hands. “Elliott did this,” he says.
The shock of it is like the time Finn jumped on my chest and knocked the air out of me.
“He wasn’t much older than my apprentice,” the clockmaker says. “Though his hands were less steady. This boy is well trained.”
“So was I.” Elliott’s face is drained of color, and his voice is hoarse.
Many emotions cross the clockmaker’s face. Hatred for Elliott, remorse, worry.
“My wife and my children died of the plague very early,” he says. “The prince never had an opportunity to hurt them. Be careful, my dear.”
“I’m through being careful,” I say. I’m sorry for his pain, and I’m sorry for Elliott’s guilt. But none of this is helping me save April. I step back toward the corridor and notice a small, nearly concealed door.
“How is Prospero paying you?” Elliott asks the clockmaker.
“Clockwork parts. Scrap metal from his storerooms. And this.” The clockmaker goes to a cabinet and pushes the door open with his wrist. He has just enough movement in his thumb that he can clumsily pick up a thick envelope. It’s an invitation to the prince’s ball.
“Why would you ever want to return to the palace?” Elliott asks.
While they are occupied, I take a few steps closer to the small door. When I lived with Father and Finn in the cellar, there was a door like this in the room Father adopted as his laboratory. He always kept it blocked with heavy boxes and a wardrobe.
“I never thought I would, but if things get worse here, I may seek sanctuary there.”
“Sanctuary?” Elliott’s eyebrows shoot up, truly surprised.
“The invitation is for two. I could save the boy. Better for him to live among evil men than die of the Red Death.”
I reach out to the door and turn a green-tinged brass knob. Neither Elliott nor the clockmaker notice my movement, though the little apprentice looks up for a moment.
“You won’t have to go,” Elliott says. “I’m working to make the city safe.”
“We’ll see.”
Elliott starts to say something and then stops, shaking his head. “I have something else to ask, and it’s important.”
I’m edging closer to the little door, but the urgency in his voice makes me pause.
“Tell me about the device that is supposed to hold back the swamp.”
The clockmaker’s gaze shoots up. “People have talked about it for years. The commonly accepted belief is that it never existed.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
The clockmaker smiles. “No. I don’t. I know that it existed, because I made parts for it.”
Elliott strides forward. The clockmaker falls back, nearly cowering. But Elliott doesn’t apologize, not now. “Where?” he demands. “Where is it?”
“That is the mystery. I never saw it assembled. The scientists who built it have either died or disappeared into your uncle’s dungeons. All I can tell you is that there are two keys. They look like watch keys, but bigger. To begin the machine, both keys have to be turned simultaneously.”
“And where are these keys?”
“They’re i
n Prospero’s throne room,” I hear myself say. Both Elliott and the clockmaker spin to face me. I remember seeing them during the terrible visit Elliott and I paid to the castle only a few weeks ago. They were on a table under a green glass window. Two gold keys among the instruments of torture that covered the table.
“Which means that Prospero must have found the device and destroyed it. He enjoys destruction.” The clockmaker stares at his hands. “The minutes are ticking away, and I do have a clock to design.”
I nearly reach out to Elliott, he looks so stricken, but I’m not close enough. Instead, I try to lessen the tension between the two of them. “Where does this lead?” I gesture to the small door, and as if the movement of my hand is magical, it creaks opens just a hair. I push it the rest of the way and peer into the darkness. A rough stone stairway leads down into the murk.
“It’s a passage into a network of earthen tunnels.” Elliott has crossed the room and is directly behind me. “Many of the older buildings have access to them.”
“The tunnels Malcontent has taken over?”
“They all connect.” Elliott turns to the clockmaker. “Does this one come up someplace near?”
“Yes, if you go down, and then to the left. You will come out near the library.”
“Perfect,” Elliott says.
I take two steps down, running my fingers over the crumbling masonry. Bits of red brick rain down to the grimy floor. Then I turn, waiting for Elliott. The clockmaker hands him a candle on a metal holder.
“I’m sure you have something to light it with.”
In answer, Elliott strikes a match against the wall. Then he makes a formal bow. “As always, I am sorry.”
If the clockmaker makes any reply, I don’t wait to hear it.
At the bottom of the staircase the tunnel widens, though not quite wide enough for us to walk side by side. The floor here is made of packed earth. It’s not muddy, but it is damp. Malcontent’s flooding must have swept through here, too.
“I can walk in front if you’d like,” Elliott offers.
I shake my head. I’m tired of following him around. “No.”
“Don’t blame me if you walk into a spiderweb,” he mutters. “Here, take the candle.” The darkness beyond my candle is absolute.
“I didn’t think he would tell you,” Elliott says, “About what I did.”
The horror of it overwhelms me.
“He wanted to punish you. You’d visited him before?”
“After I left the palace, I visited him often. I made sure he had enough food. He never seemed to appreciate it.”
“It’s hard to blame him. . . . Your visits probably reminded him of what he had lost.” We walk on in silence. “Did you check on all of the people your uncle made you hurt?” I like that he cared enough to do this.
“Only those who are still alive.” And the conversation seems to be over. We move slowly, fumbling through the passage. Every few feet there is an arched area made of brick. The mortar crumbles down on us as we walk along.
“I can still remember the way my hands shook, holding the hammer. I was thirteen years old.” His voice is steady, neither confession nor bragging. Just simple fact. I don’t know how to respond. But even with this new insight, I can still believe that Will saw Elliott kill a man while smiling. “My uncle doesn’t always kill the people who anger him. Sometimes he does worse.”
“Did you have nightmares?”
“Yes.” He is silent for a time. “Eventually I found ways to deal with them.”
The first time I met Elliott I asked for oblivion, and he brought out his silver syringe. “That night in the Debauchery Club, you said that you rarely shared . . .” My voice is soft.
He puts his hands on my waist, pulling me back and spinning me around. “I know all about the need for oblivion,” he says. His mask hangs down around his neck. He lets his pack fall to the earthen floor of the tunnel.
We are very much alike, Elliott and I. He takes the candle in its bent metal holder from me and sets it on a rough rock ledge. It flickers, casting weak shadows around us.
“But I haven’t needed it since I met you,” he tells me. And then he pulls my mask away from my face and kisses me.
This time he’s not gentle. He’s rough, and my head snaps back, hitting the wall. Bits of stone to fall all around us. I kiss him back, just as hard.
My hair catches on the rough stone of the wall as he lifts me, so I’m pressed against him. I wrap my legs around him. What’s left of my dress bunches up around me. The bandage on my shoulder shifts and the wound stings, but we don’t stop. My arms are around his neck.
I’ve been looking for oblivion in all the wrong ways.
I pull back for a moment, and in the flickering candlelight he’s so handsome. His eyes are just slightly open, and I want to memorize all of him in this instant.
Elliott sets me down.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He lifts one hand to smooth the mortar and dirt from my hair. “We shouldn’t be . . . this is not a suitable place. . . .” I can’t pull my eyes away, fascinated and confused as his sudden regret is replaced by wariness. His eyes narrow. “It’s been a long time since I lost control like that, even for a few moments.”
I retrieve the candle, readjust the shreds of my dress. My heart is racing, and yet I feel ashamed that we stopped here to kiss when so much is at stake.
Eventually I start walking again. Leading the way back to Will.
Ahead of us is a ladder leading upward, much like the one that April and I climbed to escape when the tunnels were flooding. A draft from above blows the candle out.
“Elliott?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think there are crocodiles in these tunnels?”
He laughs. “No. Why do you ask?”
I caress the tender area to the left of the wound on my shoulder. “No reason.” I reach up, and Elliott gives me a boost. His hands linger at my waist, and for a brief moment I think that he may try to rekindle whatever just happened between us. I pull away, ready to see sunlight again.
“Wouldn’t want to keep Will waiting, would we?” he remarks.
But we have. I’ve lost track of time, but it must have been more than an hour. It feels like we’ve been underground for a very long time.
At the top of the ladder is a heavy metal cover. Instead of asking Elliott for help raising it, I push with all my might, relying on my left hand, and the metal circle clanks to the side. I like being in the lead. I feel like everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve been following April, or Elliott, occasionally even Will. I’m ready for someone to follow me.
Once we’re out, I let Elliott put it back in place.
Will is lounging on the third step of a columned building that must be the library. A small bottle and a brush sit between his feet. His left boot is untied, and the laces are muddy. His eyes travel up my body, from my own muddy shoes, to what’s left of my dress. When he gets to my face, I inadvertently put my hand to my mask, as if he can see through it. As if he can tell how my lips are still throbbing.
“Your paint.” He holds a bottle out to me.
“Maybe it’s stupid, to try to leave a message,” I falter, but then I catch sight of a wall unmarred by graffiti, and my resolve returns.
I uncork the paint and test my brush strokes. They are messy and the surface of the building is uneven, but it will do.
FIND ME, I write. IF YOU REMEMBER FINN.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I HATE WRITING MY BROTHER’S NAME. IN ALL these years, it was never said aloud in our home. But if Father sees this, he’ll know it’s from me.
“How can I tell him we’ll be at the club?”
Elliott grabs my wrist to stop me from writing. “We don’t want to announce that. Not yet.” He takes the paintbrush and draws an eye.
“I’m not sure Father knows about your—” I begin.
“He will,” Elliott says. The meeting with the clockmaker certainly didn’t affect his arrogan
ce for long.
I scrawl messages wherever there is room, desecrating every wall with any proximity to the science building. Elliott paces, checking alleys and scanning balconies. Whenever I need more paint, Will is next to me, holding the bottle.
“He’s manipulating you,” Will says finally, in an undertone, eyeing Elliott.
I answer him while still painting my message. “From the stories April tells me, and from my only experience . . .” I flash him a look. “That’s what guys do.”
“You deserve better.” His hand hovers near the side of my skirt, where the seams are nearly destroyed and the green satin is stained from my time in the tunnel with Elliott.
We’ve circled behind the building once more. Evening has fallen, and the quiet of this area has become ominous. Once the university had the most well-preserved buildings in the city. Now it feels haunted.
“Time to go,” Elliott says, surveying the area. “We need information. The best way to collect it is to buy some drinks, and to listen.”
Will and I fall into line behind him as he winds his way off the university campus. Dropping beside me, he opens his pack and removes the terrible flowered dress that the innkeeper’s wife gave me.
“You should change. Yours is in extremely poor condition, and we’re trying to avoid undue attention.” As if he has any right to complain about the condition of my dress. Especially when his hand strokes down my side, lingering where my skin shows.
“This was a nice dress,” I mutter, taking the cotton one from him. Elliott leads us into a narrow alley, thankfully free of corpses, through a back door, and into a dimly lit room.
Low tables, sofas, and chairs are scattered through a series of interconnected rooms. A makeshift bar has been set up on a table, with an array of bottles and glasses. Though I can’t see into the darkest corners, I think I see a door opened to a bedroom or sleeping chamber of some kind.
“This place was popular with university students,” Elliott says, “when the university was still open.” He points to the back. “The washroom is back there.”
I can already tell this is not the sort of place where one wants to linger in the washroom. And I’m right. Though a mural has been painted on the wall, an alfresco painting of flowers and a scene that I think is supposed to be Venice, the room smells of mold and something even worse. A wide mirror is flanked by several candles, so at least there is some light as I attempt to make myself presentable.
Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) Page 8
