by Sarah Penner
“Nella,” I began, “you mustn’t feel so bad. She would have ruined you had we not made the beetles for her.” Nella had done nothing wrong in my eyes. Indeed, she had just saved countless lives, my own included. How did she not see it?
Nella paused at my words, the quill in her hand. But without replying, she placed the nib to parchment and began to write.
Miss Berkwell. Mistress to, cousin of, the Lord Clarence. Cantharides. 9 February 1791. On account of his wife, the Lady Clarence.
On the last mark, she held the nib to the paper and exhaled, and I felt sure tears were imminent. Finally, she set the quill on its side, and a gentle roll of thunder rumbled somewhere outside. She turned to me, her eyes dark.
“Dear child, it is that—” She hesitated, considering her words. “It is that I have never had this feeling before.”
I began to tremble, as if a chill had just entered the room. “What feeling?”
“A feeling that something is about to go terribly, terribly wrong.”
In the quiet moments that followed—for I knew not how to reply to her frightening statement—I grew convinced that some nameless, unseen evil haunted us both. Could the spirit of Mr. Amwell have begun to haunt her, too? My eyes fell on the worn burgundy book still resting at the side of the table. The book of magick. Nella had said the book was meant for midwives and healers, but the inscription inside the back cover noted the address of the bookshop where it originated—a place where I might find more volumes of the same subject matter.
If my fear of Mr. Amwell’s spirit was reason enough to visit the shop, Nella’s sense of impending doom was reason to make haste.
The muffled sound of rain continued; the storm had not yet let up. If Nella did indeed throw me out, I would be passing a long, wet night in the slick streets of London. I would not return to the Amwell house, not yet, and I doubted I had the bravery to sneak into a stranger’s shed as Nella liked to do.
“I intend to visit the bookshop in the morning, once the rain has ended,” I told her, pointing at the magick book.
She raised her brows at me, a skeptical look I was getting to know well. “And you still intend to seek a remedy to remove spirits from the house?”
I nodded yes, and Nella made a small grunting noise, then stifled a yawn with her hand.
“Little Eliza, it is time for you to go.” She stepped closer to me, pity in her eyes. “You ought to return to the Amwell house. I know you fear it greatly, but I assure you, your fright is needless. Perhaps when you step through the door and declare that you have returned, any remnant of Mr. Amwell’s spirit, real or imagined, will be released, and your heavy heart with it.”
I stared at her, speechless. I had known all along that a dismissal was possible, but as she had now declared it so, I could hardly believe she had the gall to send me away so easily—and into the rain, at that. I’d ground more beetles than she did, after all; she could not have done any of it without me.
I stood from my chair, my chest hot and thumping, and felt the childish sting of tears forming. “You d-do not want to see me again,” I stammered, letting a sob come forth, for I realized all at once that I was not as sad about being banished from this place as I was about never again seeing my new friend.
At least I knew she was not made of stone, for Nella stood from her own chair, shuffled toward me and wrapped me in a tight embrace. “I do not wish you a life of goodbyes, as the one I have lived.” She brushed away my stray hair with the back of her hand. “But you are unspoiled, child, and I am not the kind of company you want to keep. Go on now, please.” She took the magick book from the table and placed it into my hands. Then she abruptly pulled away from me, walked to the hearth and did not look at me again.
But as I stepped through the hidden door and away from her forever, I could not help but glance back once more. Nella’s body bowed into the warmth of the fire, as though she might let herself fall into it, and amid her haggard breaths, I was sure I also heard her weeping.
18
Caroline
Present day, Tuesday
That evening, after dark, I exited the hotel room as quietly as I could, careful not to wake James as he slept soundly on the sofa. I left a short note next to the TV—Gone out for late dinner. C—and hoped he wouldn’t wake to find the note anytime soon.
I closed the door softly behind me, waited impatiently for the empty elevator and hurried across the hotel lobby. Beneath me, the marble floors shone like a mirror, polished and bright. I chased after my own reflection, my face alight with a daring excitement I hadn’t felt in years. I grabbed an apple and a complimentary bottle of water from a table in the lobby and stuffed them into my crossbody bag, but I didn’t bother with pulling out my phone or a map; I’d walked this route once before.
Given the late hour, the streets were nowhere near as busy as yesterday; there were few cars and even fewer pedestrians. I made my way quickly into Bear Alley once again, the evening air calm and cool around me as I passed the same garbage cans and fast-food containers that I’d seen early this morning, each object frozen in time as though not even the breeze had ruffled it since my last visit.
Head down, I made my way to the end of the alley, and I found myself almost surprised to see it again: the steel gate flanked on either side by stone pillars, the overgrown clearing, and—I stretched my neck to see over the gate—yes, the door. It had taken on new importance already, given my time spent perusing the old maps with Gaynor at the British Library. I felt like I knew secrets about the area: that nearby, there once existed a tiny walkway called Back Alley; and just down the way was a place called Fleet Prison; and even Farringdon Street, the main avenue a few steps away, used to be called something different. Did everything reinvent itself over time? It was beginning to seem like every person, every place, carried an untold story with long-buried truths resting just beneath the surface.
This morning, I’d been grateful for the windows of the buildings surrounding Bear Alley, in case the plumber decided to come too close. But now, I didn’t want to be seen, which was why I’d left the hotel after dark. The sky now was a charcoal gray, only a hint of the sun’s last rays glowing from the west. A few windows of the surrounding buildings were lit, and inside one building I could see desks and computers and a stock ticker with bright red letters flicking across its screen. Thankfully, no late workers milled about within.
I looked down. At the base of the locked gate was a small red-and-white sign that I hadn’t seen this morning: NO TRESPASSING. ORD. 739-B. The back of my neck prickled with nerves.
I let a minute pass; there was no sound or movement other than a pair of sparrows flitting by. I tightened the strap of my bag and stepped onto the loose rock foothold at the base of the stone pillar and heaved myself to the top, where I teetered precariously. If there was ever a time to change my mind, it was now. Even now, I could still manage an excuse or explanation. But once I swung my legs over and landed on the other side? Forget it. Trespassing was trespassing.
Keeping my center of gravity low so as not to slip, I awkwardly twisted my torso around so that my legs hung over the other side. Then, with a final glance behind me, I jumped.
It was a clean, quiet landing, and had I closed my eyes, I could have convinced myself that nothing had changed—except, of course, I’d now broken the law. But the decision had come and gone.
Even though it was dark, I crouched down a few inches and covered the distance of the clearing in a few long strides, heading for the shrub that stood directly in front of the door. The branches, void of any blooms or buds, were instead covered in prickly, brownish-green leaves and inch-long thorns. Cursing under my breath, I pulled my phone out of my bag and flipped on the flashlight feature. I knelt in the dirt, using one hand to gingerly spread apart the thorny branches.
A sharp prick stung my palm, and I snapped it back: a thorn had drawn blood, and I put my
skin to my lips to soothe the sting while using the flashlight to look more closely behind the shrub. The ruddy bricks of the building’s facade were weather-worn, and a mottled, green fuzz had staked its claim every few feet, but directly behind the shrub was the wooden door I had seen this morning.
Adrenaline surged through me. Since leaving the hotel and making my way here in the cover of darkness, a part of me believed this moment wouldn’t actually happen. Maybe Bear Alley would be closed for construction, or it would be too dark to see the door, or I’d simply lose my nerve and turn the other way. But now I stood deep within the clearing, whether on account of my bravery or my stupidity, and the door was mere inches away. I didn’t see a lock on it, and I could make out a single, crumbled hinge on its left edge. A good shove seemed all it would take to push it open.
My breath came faster now. Truth be told, I was scared. Who knew what was behind the door? Like the lead female character at the start of a horror movie, I felt sure the smart thing to do was run. But I was tired of doing what I was supposed to be doing, tired of taking the practical, low-risk, responsible route.
Instead, it was time for me to do what I wanted to be doing.
I still clung to the fantasy that I was on the path of solving the apothecary mystery. After discussing my job with James at lunch—and our unstable future—I couldn’t help but imagine the opportunity that might present itself if I uncovered something newsworthy on the other side of this wall. I was motivated now by more than opening a door to the building; perhaps I’d be opening the door to a new career path, the one I’d envisioned so long ago.
I shook my head at the idea of it. Besides, the plumber said this door probably just led to an old cellar. Chances were this whole discovery would be anticlimactic, and I’d be grabbing a slice of pizza in twenty minutes. I looked back at the gate, hoping it would be as easy to climb up the stone pillar again from this side.
I decided that it was best to use my back and shoulders instead of my bare hands to push aside the thorny branches. I carefully maneuvered my way behind the bush, remaining mostly unscathed, then placed my hands on the cool wood of the door and paused. I slowed my breath, bracing myself for what I may find on the other side, and then gave the door a hard shove inward.
It budged a tiny bit, enough to tell me that the door was not locked. I gave it a second shove, and a third, and then I placed my foot against the door and exerted as much pressure as I could with my right leg. At last the door fell inward with a crusty, scratching sound. I cringed when I realized, too late, there was no way I’d be able to set it back into the same position once I’d finished.
As the door opened, a rush of dry, woodsy air enveloped me, and a few insects, disrupted from their slumber, skittered away. I lifted my phone to quickly scan the black, hollow opening, breathing a sigh of relief; no rats, no snakes, no dead bodies.
I took a tentative step forward, scolding myself for not having had the forethought to bring a real flashlight. But then again, I really didn’t think I’d come this far. I checked the flashlight feature on my phone to see if there was a way to brighten it, and I cursed when I saw the upper right-hand corner of my screen: my battery, which was full upon leaving the hotel, was now at 55 percent. The flashlight pulled a heavy charge, apparently.
I shone the light into the black opening, frowning as I discerned a hallway stretching out in front of me. It appeared a lower-level corridor or cellar, just as the plumber had said. The hallway was only a few feet wide, but I couldn’t determine how deep it stretched on, given my insufficient beam of light.
Glancing at the busted-open door to ensure it wouldn’t somehow close, I took a few steps deeper inside, letting the light spread out before me.
At first, I couldn’t help the disappointment that crept in; there was really not much to see. The corridor had a dirt floor with just a few stones scattered about, and it was empty of machinery, tools or anything else that the building’s owners might have found necessary to store inside. But I thought back to the maps Gaynor showed me this morning, and the way that the old Back Alley ran a jagged course away from Bear Alley, turning at several sharp, ninety-degree angles, almost like stair steps. Ahead, I could see the faintly illuminated path made its own such turns; and though I had no desire to venture to the very back of the corridor, my heart thumped hard in my chest.
There was no doubt that this was Back Alley—or at least a remnant of it.
I smiled, pleased with myself, imagining what Bachelor Alf would say if he were beside me. He’d probably rush ahead, seeking old artifacts.
I felt it before I saw it—a draft of air brushing up against me—and I lifted my light in the direction from which it came. Another door stood ajar just ahead, the air of the room within being sucked out, presumably, by the vacuum I’d now created in opening the door at the entrance. The tops of my arms prickled with goose bumps, and I jumped at the sudden tickle of a loose hair on my neck. Every muscle in my body tensed, ready to run or scream—or look closer.
Up to this point, my breaking-and-entering had led me on a mostly predictable journey. I knew the outside door existed, and I suspected it led to a jagged corridor—a built-over street or walkway, according to Gaynor—and I felt there was a good chance the corridor wouldn’t be all too interesting once I got inside.
So far, true, true and true. But this door? This wasn’t on the map.
I was desperate to peek inside, and I told myself that was all I would do. The door was already ajar—no more kicking and shoving—so I resolved to slide my phone’s flashlight into the room, take a quick glance around and then leave. Besides—I checked my phone’s battery life, which was now at 32 percent—I didn’t have much time to stick around anyway, unless I wanted to be left in the dark.
“Christ,” I muttered as I stepped to the door, sure that I’d gone clinically insane. This wasn’t something normal people did, right? I couldn’t even be sure this was about the apothecary anymore. Was I still chasing down her story, or was I one of those people who went on reckless, adrenaline-high-seeking adventures after a big loss?
If something happened to me—if I slipped or got bit by a feral animal or stepped through loose floorboards—no one would know. I could lie here dead and undiscovered for who-knows-how-long, and James would surely think I’d left him once and for all. This realization paired with my quickly dying phone made it difficult to steady my beating heart. I resolved to look inside, then get the hell out.
I pushed the second door all the way open. It swung easily on its hinge, which wasn’t warped and rusted like the exterior door and instead seemed to have remained fairly dry and intact. Standing just inside the threshold, I moved my phone in an arc in front of my body to more closely look at what lay within. The room was small, perhaps ten by twelve, and the floor was packed dirt, the same as the rest. Inside were no crates, no tools, no old building fixtures. Nothing.
But the back wall—there seemed something different about it. Whereas the walls on either side of the room were brick, similar to the building’s exterior, the back wall was made of wood. Some shelves were affixed to the wall, like it had once been a built-in library or cupboard. I took a few steps closer, curious to see if there was anything on the shelves: old books or implements, any forgotten remnant of the past. Again, there was little of interest. Most of the shelves were warped and splintering, and a few had collapsed entirely and lay on the ground near the center of the room.
And yet, there was something odd about the arrangement. I couldn’t quite place my finger on it, so I stepped back and considered the wall of shelves as a whole. A memory of the mudlarking tour came back to me, Bachelor Alf’s eerie words: You are not searching for a thing so much as you are searching for an inconsistency of things, or an absence. I frowned, sure there was something strange about what I was seeing now. But what was it?
I noticed, with a start, that most of the fallen shelves had c
ome from one section of the wall—the far left side. In this place, rather than being secured against the wall, most of the shelves had buckled and crumbled to the floor. I stepped closer, using the light to inspect the panel. Only one shelf on the left side of the wall remained in place, so I gripped it and wiggled it slightly; the shelf rattled easily in my hand, so loose that I felt sure I could yank it off without much difficulty. Why on earth would the left side of the wall have lost its shelves? It was as though these shelves weren’t installed correctly, or the structure behind it was inadequate—
I gasped in realization, covering my mouth with my hand. The space where the shelves were dislodged was about my height and only slightly wider than me. Instinctively, I took a step back. “No,” I said involuntarily, the word echoing in the tiny, empty room. “No, no, no. It can’t be.” And yet, I knew as I said the words that I’d stumbled on something. An interior door.
To men, a maze. The first sentence in the hospital note rushed forward in my memory, and I understood, at once, what it might mean: this door, if it did indeed lead somewhere, was meant to remain concealed within a cupboard-like structure. If anyone today—perhaps a building inspector—had reason to be in this room, I felt sure they would have noticed the oddity, like I had. But given the fallen shelves directly in front of me, it was clear not a soul had been down here in decades. And no one had discovered, much less opened, the inset door.
I crouched and searched for a handle, but saw none. I pushed my right hand against the wall, jumping at the silky, sticky feeling of a cobweb against my fingers. I groaned, wiped my hand on my pants, and used the phone flashlight to illuminate the lone, intact shelf. Then I saw it: underneath the shelf was a tiny lever, visible only on account of the crumbling wood. I maneuvered it out of position and gave the wall another push.
