“Yes.” Martha looked up from her work. “You’ve got a touch of pollen, love. On your nose. Just there.”
Erika wiped off her face.
“There’s trouble in the transition. You see, you can’t bring someone who —”
“Knock, knock.” Jeremiah tapped on the doorframe with his forefinger. “I hope I’m not intruding.” Embarrassment flashed through Erika’s eyes, forcing Jeremiah to look away. He hated himself for having hurt her, but he knew that it was for the best. Jegud was right; rogues were never intended to stay this long with their charges. They were too accommodating, too capable of building trust and of meeting expectations. There were reasons why it wasn’t allowed.
Martha smiled, tight-lipped.
“I know that I told you there wasn’t a rush,” Jeremiah said, eyes riveted to the pattern on the wall, “but I think I may have lied. I’d forgotten about … well, it doesn’t matter. I … just …” He nodded. “Wanted to let you know. So. I’ll see you.”
Martha followed him out with a sharp rap of high heels.
Erika dressed as quickly as she could manage and stripped off the prettiest spray of flowers for her coat buttonhole. She carried her shoes in one hand in order to make it downstairs more quickly.
“I’m sorry about this,” Jeremiah said, holding the door for her. He’d composed himself and now waited as she slipped on her shoes. When she straightened up, he pointed at his lapel. “I’d take that out,” he said.
Erika looked down. “What?”
“Again, I’m sorry.” He plucked the hyacinth away, his skin barely touching the fabric of her coat. He looked as if he wanted to fling the blossoms aside, like hot cinders, but instead he slipped them into his pocket. “I’m glad you liked them,” he said, his tone more gentle, “but if we’re out too long and someone notices …” He paused. “Well, flowers are expensive and I might get accused of playing favorites. Souls don’t like to see guides playing favorites.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I never said that you did.” Jeremiah stepped back and motioned to the threshold. “After you.”
Megan brushed the dirt from her hands as she struggled to her feet. Rebecca took up her little sister’s fingers and kissed the scraped palms beneath them. Blood came off on her lips.
“Meg, honey,” she gasped, sandwiching her sister’s hands inside her own. She looked up into her sister’s frightened eyes and felt her stomach turn. “Meg, are you okay?”
Megan had begun to cry. She buried her face in Rebecca’s hair, her nose skimming the curve of her sister’s neck. Her body shook as she let out her panic. Shawn knelt down and wrapped both of his sisters in his arms, and Rebecca let him. She’d seen the look in his eyes just before she’d gone over the wall. The look that said he would sacrifice himself for them, if only he knew how. Rebecca moved one arm to snake around his, and bit her bottom lip to keep from crying. They had to be strong for Megan, she knew, but she was already so tired of being strong. This shouldn’t be happening.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
Her eyes flashed up and she saw the man who had intervened for them. He must have been edging on twenty, but the moonlight made him look younger. Under it, his straight blond hair gave off a soft silver glow.
“It’s not every day that the crown dispatches a personal welcome party,” he said. “You must mean an awful lot to someone if Michael meant to ransom you.”
“Ransom us?” asked Shawn. He and Rebecca both hurried to their feet. Megan hung close to her sister’s legs.
“The king’s sons should know better. The woods are not their place, and we don’t take kindly to those who don’t belong. Present company excepted.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Rebecca.
“You’re not dead.” The young man extended his hand in greeting, but Rebecca and Shawn just stared at it. He tilted his arm toward Megan and she stepped forward, ignoring her sister’s fingers pressing hard into her shoulder, and accepted his shake. He smiled. “I’m West,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Meg.”
“Who brought you here, Meg?”
She glanced over her shoulder at her siblings, but they just looked frightened. “We don’t know. I think my mom.”
“Well then, she must love you very, very much,” said West. “And must be very, very good at getting her way.” He let go of Megan’s hand, and she stepped back into the safety of her sister’s arms.
“I have a friend on the other side of the lake,” said West, straightening up and looking at Rebecca and Shawn again, “who can help you more than I can. I’ll take you over, but you have to earn the oars.”
For the first time, the three of them looked past West to the wall behind him, and the cabin and the statues. They could hear the sloshing of water on a low shore.
“And how do we do that?” asked Shawn.
“You feed the Furies.”
Rebecca slid her hands across Megan’s shoulders, to keep her close this time. “What?”
West nodded at the statues. “The maidens. Gentle as a dove if you’re steady.”
“And if you’re not?”
“You’d better hope you are. Every flower has a bad turn; even Aphrodite had claws.” When no one said anything, he turned and started walking toward the statues. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you through.”
“I’ll do it,” said Shawn.
“No.” Rebecca tried to smile. “I’ve got to be the big sister sometime, right?”
“Becca, it’s fine. I’ll do it.”
“No. I owe you one.”
“For what?”
“For everything.”
He shook his head. “This is a bad idea.”
Rebecca took his arm and squeezed it. “You’re the smart one, remember? If anything happens, I’d rather you were left with Meg.”
Shawn felt his stomach drop. He thought of West saying, so casually, that they weren’t dead, and wondered what it would take to get there. “Rebecca, wait —”
She shook her head and turned to follow West.
“Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone,” he said, pointing to each statue. “Sight, hearing, speech. You have to give one up.”
“For how long?” Rebecca asked.
“I don’t deal with that. It depends. Until you find your way out, maybe. You’re supposed to have a guide.”
“It can’t be too bad, can it?”
“Oh, no,” West said. “It’s bad. They say that you get used to it after a while. I’m not sure how.”
“So what do I do?”
“Kiss one,” he said. “And don’t resist.”
“Kiss one?”
“I don’t make the rules,” West said. “I only see that they’re followed.”
Rebecca frowned and looked up at the statues. Creepy things. Especially the one on the end, clutching her jaw like she couldn’t stop herself from screaming. Rebecca tapped her own lips and tried to tune out her fear. Something inside of her twisted, making her feel sick, and she hoped that she wouldn’t vomit up what was left of her stomach. In the silence, she began to assemble a new façade. I’m dreaming, she thought. I must be dreaming. It helped her take all this news in stride. She could feel her anxiety slipping away already, and she took a steadying breath and refocused on the statues.
Giving up her tongue, she knew, would turn this into an awful horror movie in which the sidekick tries to warn the hero but can only make desperate and disturbing grunting noises. She looked sideways at Shawn, picturing him as the hero of this nightmare. It didn’t make her any more optimistic.
“Do I lose the sense,” she asked West, “or the body part altogether?”
“The latter, I’m afraid,” he said.
Rebecca’s frown deepened. No good, then. Her throat would dry up or she’d get an infection. Besides, she had to eat. She wondered why Tisiphone was even an option if it was such a stupid one.
She looked at the middle statue. She’d
never been good at charades because she couldn’t guess what people were trying to mime, and Shawn was already so bad at making himself clear that he’d render her useless if she were deaf. Besides, she’d snuck out enough times, growing up, that hearing was her greatest asset, as their brush with the rabid ghost dogs had proven. And if she couldn’t hear and Shawn yelled for her, she’d keep wandering along, oblivious, and get mauled by something.
Then again, if she gave up sight and heard him yell, she’d just run headlong into a tree, so maybe the point was moot. And if they ever got separated, she would need her eyes. Otherwise, it would be a whole different horror movie scene waiting to happen. Probably a more frightening one. At least for her.
But they wouldn’t get separated — none of them would ever leave another behind — and as long as they stayed together, she needed her hearing. It couldn’t be too terrible; she’d always been good at Marco Polo. She tagged Shawn every time, even when he cheated.
Rebecca touched her brother’s wrist. “You’ll help me out, right?” she asked. “If I choose sight, you’ll help me get around?”
Shawn looked surprised. “Of course.”
“Just making sure,” she said. “I’ll be pissed if you abandon me out here.”
“Why not speech?”
“You think I could go without talking?” She smiled. “And they would’ve gotten us back there if I hadn’t heard them first.” Rebecca breezed past West, with a smile, and climbed the steps to stand level with the first statue. It’s only a dream, she repeated to herself. It’s only a dream, so nothing bad will happen. I’ll just wake up.
West crossed his arms. “She’s taking it too lightly,” he whispered to Shawn. “She’ll get herself hurt.”
Shawn stayed quiet and kept his eyes on his sister.
A few feet away, the water lapped softly against the sides of the boat. Rebecca leaned in and touched her lips to the statue. It wasn’t too bad, she thought. Cold and a little grainy. Regardless, she wouldn’t make a habit of Frenching statues anytime soon. It’s only a dream.
Then her body went rigid with pain. A pinwheel spun in front of her eyes, flashing all the colors she’d ever seen. With each new color, the sting increased, and with each new stab, her muscles grew weaker. She reached out and pushed against the arms of the statue, but she could feel them moving toward her, and she could see blood and she could feel it dripping hot down her skin, and she could taste it like iron in her mouth, and she cried blood, and drank blood, and tried so hard to get away. Behind her, through the pounding in her head, she could hear West’s voice, and Shawn’s, and then she felt Megan’s thin arms around her legs, and she tried to pull back, or push her sister off, but she was stuck there. Glued there. Rooted to the stone, and to the earth, and to the anchor of pain that kept her conscious, and then she heard Megan screaming, and realized that she was screaming as well, and that she had been for some time because her throat rasped dry, scraped sore. Not a dream after all, she realized too late. Megan’s screams were too real — the pain and the blood and the fear too real — and she wasn’t going to wake up.
She was going to die.
The blood kept coming, in streams, in rivers, in torrents, and she felt something hard against her eyelids, and then recognized fingers. Hands. She was pushing away and shrieking, and she hurt so much that her knees were weak, but she couldn’t fall.
It stopped.
Rebecca staggered back and toppled off the platform. She could feel Megan falling with her. She wanted to open her mouth and call out to her, but her throat was too raw. Megan broke free and rolled away, whimpering like a puppy.
Rebecca reached up to touch her face, but someone else had gotten there first. She was lifted up at the neck, and a knee slid under her upper back to brace her.
“You’re fine,” West said into her ear, and he poured a little water down her throat and wiped the sweat from her face. His hands were rough, chapped from work, but he held her lightly, as if she were a doll. Rebecca wanted to open her eyes and smile and thank him, but it seemed too hard. Then she realized that her eyes were already open, but that the whole world was empty.
Her heart burst, the beating so rapid and so hard that she was sure it would rip through her chest. She was going to die.
She gagged on her own breath. “Megan!” she gasped, and dug her nails into West’s arms. She needed to feel something concrete. She needed to know that she wasn’t crazy. “Is Meg okay?”
West didn’t answer. He just cradled her head in the crook of his arm and laid a damp cloth across her burning, vacant eyes.
The streets were deserted. A cool sun watched from on high, sending slivers of itself down to dance on the slick cobbles of the Middle Kingdom. Erika and Jeremiah walked side by side, her hand tucked into his jacket pocket, his back as straight as a lamppost. Anyone could tell that Jeremiah was nervous. They kept quiet for lack of conversation and moved quickly for lack of time. Erika wondered how Jeremiah could have memorized the twists and curls of the city streets, when all were lined with the same low brick-and-wood buildings that were more like shacks than houses. Mud for mortar, tin for roofing tiles. The whole city was a slum.
“How much longer?” Erika asked.
“Not very.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Away.”
“Where are we going?”
“No place.”
Every word she spoke made him wince as if there’d been a gunshot, so Erika fought her urge to ask questions and let him go on in silence.
They paused in the middle of a long road, at a cusp where the cobbles began to give way to sand. Erika’s fingers were numb from the cold, but she stayed quiet while Jeremiah surveyed the buildings around them. For a moment, she thought that they must be lost, and her panic rose. Then Jeremiah pressed his fingers against her forearm and they started on again.
The sand gave way to dirt and the dirt gave way to mud. The pair sank a little deeper with each step, until Erika had hitched up her coat to keep it safe.
“It won’t kill you.”
She started at Jeremiah’s voice, since he’d kept silent for so long. He continued along his way, unconcerned.
Erika caught up with him. “But it isn’t clean, is it?”
“You’re in the land of the dead, Erika Stripling,” he replied. “Are you really worried about staying pretty?”
“Shouldn’t I be? Your mother had quite a wardrobe for someone who didn’t care about beauty.”
Jeremiah frowned but didn’t comment. He nodded to the building ahead of them. “We’re here,” he said.
“What is it?”
“A shop.”
“We’re shopping?”
“Far from.” He took her hand from his pocket and helped her climb the steep front steps. “Don’t say anything,” he whispered against her temple. “Please.” He turned and rapped on the door.
The procession wound its way back to the palace and brought the queen and her new son safely home. The court welcomed her with a lavishing of gifts, in spices, cashmere, and imported pets, but she walked past all of them, her baby tucked safely in her arms. Those who saw her said that she looked tired. Said that she had aged.
Later, they would say also that she had been weeping.
The baby, however, never made a noise. It was as if he knew that silence was valuable in the king’s house. Here, at least, he took after the queen.
They called him Jeremiah. “God will uplift.” When the king consulted his advisors, he asked for something holy, something lucky. Something that could wash away sin.
Rebecca woke with a cold compress on her forehead and someone else’s hand on top of her own. She blinked a few times, realized all over again that she was blind, and jerked back with a whimper. Panic again ripped through her veins. Her throat tightened as a haze of dizziness and nausea descended. When the person beside her reached out again, she shied away.
“It’s me” came Shawn’s voice. “Becca, it’s me.”
Rebecca tried to relax, but felt electric. Every touch shocked her, every sound made her quiver. “Where’s Meg?” The desperation in her voice surprised her.
“Meg’s fine,” Shawn said. Rebecca noticed his hesitation. He squeezed her hand. “She can’t see either, Becca.”
Rebecca turned her face away to hide the flush of self-hate. “Oh God,” she said. It was all she could say. Her stomach turned over. She sat up and put a hand over her mouth, telling the bile at the back of her throat to settle. Her guilt tasted sharp and sour.
“It’s not your fault,” Shawn said.
“It is,” she breathed through her fingers. “Oh my God.”
Rebecca began shaking. Her eye sockets burned, but she couldn’t cry. Shawn climbed onto the small bed and put his arms around his sister’s shoulders. “I should’ve grabbed her,” he said.
“I can’t believe that I put her through that.” A silence fell as Rebecca tried to process everything, to quell her nausea, but she could sense Shawn waiting to tell her something else.
“Becca —” He sounded as if he would hate himself for what came next. “We need to get moving.”
Rebecca shook her head, defeated. “Where are we even going?”
“Limbo,” Shawn said. “We’re in the land of the dead.” He paused. “And I think that Mom’s there. I know that Mom’s there.”
“So we are dead.”
Shawn got to his feet and made Rebecca lie back down. He rearranged her compress. “West doesn’t think so,” he said. “But would it be better than being crazy?”
Rebecca gave him a weak smile and fought down the ache in her stomach. “If I hadn’t just lost my eyes to a moving statue,” she said, “I’d kick your ass for that.”
She jerked at the sound of wood scraping stone.
“It’s West,” said Shawn. He brushed her hair away from her face. She could hear shifting fabric and felt a bundle unfold itself beside her on the bed.
“Here’s your sister,” said West, and brought their hands together.
Both totally blind, they fumbled to hold on to each other’s fingers. Rebecca felt a sob seize her chest. “Meg,” she whispered. “Meg, I’m so sorry.”
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