I pull off my dress and fold it, then hold the new one in front of my body. It has a wide lace collar, and the hem falls almost to my ankles. Once I slip it over my head, I no longer look like a girl who spends her evenings at the Debauchery Club. I look sallow and lumpy in places where I am not. I know it’s silly to care—at least I am alive—but . . .
At least by candlelight my hair still looks lustrous. April always said that candlelight was flattering to almost anyone.
I step out of the washroom and retrace my steps to where Elliott leans against the bar. Will stands next to him.
“You’re good at this,” Elliott is saying to him. “People talk to you. Circulate and listen. We need any rumor, no matter how ridiculous, about Araby’s father. Everything people are saying about our enemies.”
“I’ll keep my ears open.” As Will disappears into the shadows of an adjoining room, the way he walks takes me back to the days before I knew his name, when he was just the tattooed guy who worked in the Debauchery Club. The one whose voice made shivers run up and down my spine.
Elliott gestures to the barmaid, who shakes her head. “You can’t afford the price,” she says, taking in his muddy shoes and the poor condition of his clothing.
“You’re new here.” He throws several coins on the bar. Within moments she’s brought us a chilled bottle and two glasses.
“We won’t be drinking the water in the city,” he says. “So this will have to do.”
Elliott strikes up a conversation with her and several men sitting around us. I listen closely but don’t say anything. Voices rise and fall. The anger and fear are practically palpable. This place is dangerous, but I suppose it’s no more so than the city itself.
The people gathered at the tables are near our age, a few older, some younger. They are dirty and patched and ragged, and are constantly gesturing. They drink hard liquor. Mostly they are boys and young men, though there are a few girls who are as loud and vehement as anyone.
Everyone knows about Prospero’s ball. They hate him for it. They despise him for his indifference while people are dying. Malcontent, however, is a more immediate threat. People speak of him in hushed voices. They speculate about what he looks like, whether any of them have walked past him on the street. Whether he could be here in this room.
They don’t seem to know about the scar, where Prospero slit his throat while Elliott and April hid behind the curtains. They don’t know who he truly is. I can’t keep this to myself much longer.
Malcontent’s people have been seen in the streets, but not en masse, the way we saw them, their feet pounding in unison through the tunnels beneath the city, the night that we escaped. They show up in groups of two or three, telling people their weird beliefs about the plague being sent from God.
Hours pass, and the clientele changes from the creative types who still gravitate to the university grounds to workers with lined faces and suspicious eyes.
The serving girl disappears into a back room, and I notice that the other girls have left the establishment, along with most of the younger men. A fellow at the bar looks me up and down. He elbows the man beside him and says something. They both laugh.
I lean in to Elliott. “I think it’s time for me to leave.”
He surveys the room. “It’s not safe to travel after nightfall, but I’ll rent a room. You didn’t get much sleep last night. I’ll stay here a bit longer and listen.”
I nod. Ever since our trip through the tunnels this afternoon, I’ve been thinking about the book of maps I stole for Elliott from the Debauchery Club. He wouldn’t have left that behind, so it must be in his pack. I need to find it and study it. This is as good an opportunity as I’m likely to get, if Elliott plans to leave me alone for a while.
He summons the bartender, and they speak quietly for a few moments. As we make our way across the crowded room to retrieve our packs, a bulky man snags my puffed sleeve and pulls me toward him.
Elliott reacts so fast that I can barely follow. He yanks the man from his barstool and holds him for a moment by the lapels of his coat, then throws him to the floor, hard. I expect the man to bolt to his feet, angry and ready to fight, but Elliott stands over him, hands clenched. The man stays where he is.
The bar is quiet for a moment, and then erupts into loud conversation, applause, vulgar suggestions. The ruckus draws Will. He eyes the man, who is slowly climbing back to his feet.
“That was impressive,” Will says.
“Quick reflexes.” Elliott gives Will a pointed look, directed at his slightly swollen lip. Was it just yesterday that Elliott hit him?
“You’ll keep her safe?” Will asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “And I’ll be fine.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Will picks up his pack.
And then Elliott sweeps me up two flights of stairs to a sleeping chamber. This establishment is as much a makeshift inn as a makeshift tavern.
“Bar the door behind me,” Elliott says. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. The conversation was just beginning to get interesting.”
Once he’s gone, I hoist his bag onto one of the beds and search every part of it, even the tiny pockets sewn on the inside. I remove each of his weapons, laying the knives side by side on the coverlet. Ammunition. Gold coins that I let fall through my fingers. I ignore the silver coins and pennies and carefully unfold and refold a perfectly clean change of clothing, complete with a vest. In one of the smallest of the bag’s pockets, I feel something hard and cold and sharp. I know what it is even before pulling my hand out to look at it. The facets of the diamond ring Elliott gave me gleam and glitter in the candlelight. I drop it back into the pocket and then replace everything except the book of maps, which was the very last thing at the bottom of the case.
I’m determined not to be dependent on Elliott’s knowledge of the city. If we can’t find my father, I’ll have to go to Malcontent for the cure. I won’t go blindly.
Memorization is a skill that my father taught both me and Finn, making us recite nursery rhymes, poems, lists of scientific words, and finally graphs and illustrations. Finn was always better at it, but at least when I close my eyes, I can picture bits and pieces of the maps that I’m studying.
Once I’ve put the largest thoroughfares to memory, I focus on the tunnels. It isn’t safe for a girl to move through the city. Even before the Red Death I was attacked and nearly lost Henry’s mask. The danger has only increased now that Malcontent and his men haunt the streets. They also haunt the tunnels, but the risks may be less than on the streets.
Too soon, Elliott taps at the door, and I slip the maps back into his pack before unbarring it to let him in.
He’s carrying a bottle of wine. He sets it on the table between the beds, and then stares at it as if he’s never seen it before. His hair is messier than usual, and he’s smiling to himself.
“People are talking about me,” he says. “They didn’t realize that I was among them, but they know that I’ve returned.” He pulls back his coverlet and practically falls into bed.
As I lie down in my own, I realize that I won’t be able to sleep in this dress. The fabric is rough, and it bunches up under me and scratches my arms.
Elliott is facing the other way, so I step out of the dress and hang it across a chair before sliding beneath the coverlet.
Without that discomfort, I fall asleep immediately and don’t even dream.
When I wake to sunlight streaming through the window, Elliott is sitting in the chair beside my bed, sharpening one of his knives. Leaning back against my dress. I stop myself from bolting upright just in time.
“Good morning,” he says. He looks at me curiously. “Are you naked under that blanket?”
“I’m wearing undergarments,” I say through gritted teeth.
He raises his eyebrows, as if he doesn’t believe me. I’m not going to prove it to him, if that’s what he’s expecting. I clutch the blanket around myself and glare at him. “Please hand me my dress.”
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“Oh, dear,” he says, standing and lifting it with exaggerated care. “I thought it was a floor-length, flowered seat cover.”
“It’s better as a seat cover than a dress, but it’s all I have now.” I don’t look at him when he hands me the dress. “Turn around while I put this on.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Elliott,” I say in a low voice. When he doesn’t move, I try a lighter tone. “You bought it for me. I suggest, if you don’t want to look at it, purchase another dress.”
“I will,” he says. “I suppose for now you’ll have to wear it.”
He makes an exaggerated show of turning away, and I pull the dress over my head. The collar flaps into place. I try to adjust the sleeves, wondering how the dress can be too big, but the sleeves too small.
When I tell Elliott he can look, he shifts back into his original position, tossing the knife on his bed, and begins cleaning his sword.
“Will you give me another lesson?” I ask, nodding toward the weapon.
He cocks his head to the side. “I don’t think so.” He retrieves the knife and hands it to me. “That is what I’m going to teach you to fight with. I should have from the beginning. Knives are easier; you have the element of surprise.”
I pass the knife from hand to hand. Unlike the ivory-handled one that he gave me when we fled the university, after the last time I saw my father, this one has a handle of polished wood. The blade is wider.
“I’ve used a knife,” I say.
“Yes, but not well. Come here, and I’ll teach you a few tricks.”
Who taught him all these tricks? His father? His uncle? A weapons master?
He takes my hand in his and shows me how to grip the wooden handle. Then he guides me in making controlled motions.
“Be sure your movements mean something. Don’t just wave it around.”
“It doesn’t seem that hard,” I say.
He laughs. “The hard thing is actually sticking the blade in someone.” He slides back onto the unmade bed and pulls me with him. His back is against the headboard, and I’m practically on his lap, facing him. “Pushing a knife into someone’s flesh is difficult. At first. If you have to do it, don’t think. Just stab. You probably won’t get a second chance, so make it count. Put the knife down, and I’ll show you the places where you can do serious damage.”
I set the knife beside us on the bed.
He takes my wrist and places my palm against his chest. “You can turn the knife and stab between the ribs,” he says. And then he pulls my hand down to his stomach. “Or, if you want to kill him, aim here.”
How much harm I could bring myself to inflict? Do I want to know how best to do it?
He’s watching me closely. “Do you think you could kill someone?”
“If I had to,” I say.
“It gets easier over time.”
He releases my wrist, but I leave my hand resting right above the third button of his shirt. He’s no longer giving me matter-of-fact instruction on how to kill a man, but the way he’s looking at me is unsettling.
He closes his eyes and leans in to me. I slide my hand up to his shoulder and push him back.
He opens his eyes and frowns. “Why is it that we never kiss unless we’ve almost died?”
I shift sideways so that my shoulder is against his chest. He has a point. “It’s easier, after we’ve been in danger, for us to let go of our distrust of each other.”
After a moment, he puts his arm around me. “I don’t suppose I trust anyone,” he says finally. “Not fully.”
Hearing him admit it is sad. For him, and for us. But I don’t blame him.
I have never trusted Elliott. Not completely. And he never wanted me to. But our experiences have not been so different.
I hear a voice from the hallway, and then another, a conversation beginning. The establishment is waking up.
“Sun’s up,” I observe, grabbing the knife as I slide to the side of the bed. “Time to look for my father.”
“The clockmaker is sending out his scavengers to search.”
“It isn’t enough.” Being in the city makes me realize the difficulty of finding one man who does not wish to be found.
“I’m not going to spend the entire day walking the streets and calling your father’s name,” he says. “The only way we’ll stumble over your father is if he’s dead.”
“That isn’t funny.”
If Father is dead, he can’t answer to me for his lies and his crimes. He won’t be able to save April.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny.” Elliott’s strapping on his sword, readjusting his pack. “I’m being practical. We won’t find him by wandering around. Today I will mobilize my men, begin the takeover of the city. Once my soldiers are patrolling, they can look for your father, too.”
He’s only reaffirming my fear that the city is too big and has too many hiding places.
“I sent Will out on some errands last night. He’ll meet us at the tavern where we ate yesterday. I may need to put their steam carriage to use.” He opens the door to the room and gestures for me to exit.
The sun is shining outside. Mornings in the city are often foggy, but the sky is clear today.
It seems strange, walking with Elliott without Will on my other side.
“What sort of errands did you send him on?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows. “He took messages to some of my men.”
“This morning? Or last night? Traveling at night is dangerous.”
“He knew that coming with us would be dangerous.”
“Try not to get him killed,” I say. Elliott makes a show of scanning the street ahead of us, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I wasn’t trying to get him killed,” he says finally. “His ideals are misguided, but I don’t wish for him to die.”
“What would it take for you to trust him?” I ask. Because we need to somehow trust one another.
“What would it take for you to trust him?” he counters.
I would have to forget how he betrayed me.
“At least in a few nights the children will be in the city. If he falls out of line— well, we know his weakness.”
“I would never threaten Henry or Elise.”
“Then I know your weakness, too.” I wait for him indicate that he’s not serious, but his attention has shifted to the city around us.
Smoke rises from the next city street. At first I think another building is burning, but instead it seems to be coming from a series of contained campfires.
A village of dismal burlap tents has sprung up across what must have once been a park, and it spills over to cover the cracked foundations of a warehouse. Clotheslines are stretched between some of the tents, and a few brave vegetables are growing in pots. A dog barks at us from inside the perimeter.
“Can’t they find buildings to live in?” I ask. The city has always had enough empty buildings that most people can find at least partial shelter.
“Perhaps they think the buildings are contaminated in some way,” Elliott says, and I remember how the corpse collectors used to paint black scythes on doors. What happens when all the doors have been marked? Perhaps people will just abandon the city, whisper that it’s haunted, and live in tents.
“At least they are trying,” Elliott continues, “instead of just squatting in their ruined buildings with the dead. I can work with people who have the initiative to make their lives better.”
I don’t know how it happened, but I’m holding Elliott’s hand. Not clinging to it or allowing him to pull me along—my hand just somehow found its way into his.
We pass the burned shell of an apartment building. A paper is nailed to the charred remains of a door. I stop to reach for it with my free hand. The ink is red and ran in a bloody trail down the parchment.
DOWN WITH SCIENCE. KILL THE SCIENTIST.
I drop the paper. The tip of my finger is stained red. I wipe it inside the sleeve of my dress, where
a stain is less likely to show, but the ink has soaked into my skin.
“They want to kill my father.”
“Do you blame them?”
I don’t answer him.
“I find it ironic . . . when I asked your father for information about the masks, he scorned my help. Your mother may have told him things that I’d done as a boy, and he judged me, but at the same time, he was never truly the hero he pretended to be. Was he?”
“He was to me,” I say quietly. “And I’m not going to stop thinking that until he looks me in the eye and tells me that when he made the virus”—this is the first time I’ve admitted aloud that I know he did it—“that it wasn’t an accident, that he wasn’t forced to—”
“Why does that matter? Thousands of people died either way.”
“I just need to know,” I say. “Wouldn’t you want . . . ?” I trail off. Elliott isn’t aware of the truth about his own father. I throw him a sidelong look and brace myself to tell him, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
“Your father is a hypocritical murderer whose only thought was the sake of discovery. Not the safety of the people.”
The words are ugly. And they could be true.
If I tell him about his own father now, it will seem as if I am simply retaliating.
We walk in silence for a long time. I try to get my bearings, to connect the maze of streets and buildings to the grids and squares that I memorized last night.
Looking up at a wrought-iron rail that surrounds a low balcony, I gasp. A dead man’s head, streaked with red, is in the window box, as if he was crawling out the window of his apartment and died before he made it.
We pass a series of scythes painted in the same garish red as the pamphlet calling for Father’s death. The same red as my fingertip. Malcontent’s sign.
Elliott scans the buildings that line our route very carefully. A pile of broken masks lies beside a charred brick wall. “Malcontent,” Elliott mutters. “If he has his way, only his faithful will survive.”
Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) Page 9
