Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City

by James Bow

  Edmund stared. “Faith?”

  “You can cook?” Faith asked Rosemary.

  Rosemary drew into herself. “Some things.”

  “And you can man a shop counter as well as I could,” said Faith.

  “Faith,” Edmund cut in. “It takes skill to sell in a shop! You know that!”

  “I’ve manned counters before, though,” said Rosemary. “I helped staff a library ... where I was before.”

  “See?” Faith beamed at Edmund. “If Rosemary could take three hours a day, or four, I could take two extra classes and graduate a whole year sooner!”

  Edmund sat back. He picked up his spoon and started on his third helping of stew. “Time is one thing. What of money?”

  “There is my sewing,” said Faith. “I could take on another batch to pay the extra cost.”

  Edmund grunted. “That solves money. Now we are back to time. More sewing and more study?”

  Faith waved Edmund’s comments aside. “It means a few late evenings of work, ’tis all.”

  “You will ruin your eyesight.”

  “’Tis a small sacrifice.”

  “’Tis not!”

  “What are you studying?” Rosemary cut in.

  Faith drew herself up. “I am at the Women’s Medical College.”

  Rosemary set down her spoon. “You’re going to be the first woman doctor in Canada!”

  Faith’s smile widened. “Hardly the first, my dear! I do not have the strength to change the world, but I do have the wit to follow the path cleared by Miss Stowe and Miss Trout.”

  Edmund leaned toward Peter and gave him a conspiratorial grin. “You see my sister’s stubborn streak? Such passion about becoming a doctor! Stay off the subject, my lad, or she’ll go on about the vote, next.”

  “And why should I not have the vote?” Faith thundered. “I voted in the civic election this year. Did the Dominion fall to its knees?”

  “That’s different,” Edmund cut in. “That was just a civic election. You didn’t have to trouble yourself about affairs of state.”

  “Affairs of state?” Faith’s nostrils flared. “Affairs of this state can be left to a souse because he is a man? It would do this nation good if landless women could vote. Then, perhaps, we could pass temperance and our prime minister might sober up enough to give affairs of state the attention they deserve!”

  Edmund was about to continue, but Rosemary cleared her throat. “Aren’t your dinners getting cold?”

  The siblings stared at their stews. Edmund chuckled, got up, and began clearing away the dishes.

  “I apologize for my brother,” said Faith. “He likes to antagonize me, though not usually before guests.” She shot Edmund a glare, but he kept his back to her.

  Rosemary grinned. “When I fought with my brother, it was with pillows.”

  Lighting the way with a kerosene lamp, Faith led Peter and Rosemary up the stairs from the kitchen. “I’m afraid you will find the apartment small,” she said, “but it has its own tub and stove, and a bed.”

  “Thank you so much,” said Rosemary. She carried her own kerosene lamp and rubbed her eyes with her free hand. “It’ll be wonderful to sleep in a bed. I could sleep on the floor.”

  Two doors fronted onto the landing. They glowed brown in the guttering light. Faith produced a key and unlocked the door closest to the back, above the kitchen. She handed the key to Rosemary. “Here you are. The other room is mine. We’re separated by closets, so you won’t hear me talk in my sleep.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem.” Peter drooped by the banister rail.

  “I’ll retire myself,” said Faith. “I have to arrive early to register for my new classes. Good night!” She turned down the short hall, closing her bedroom door behind her.

  Rosemary led the way into the apartment. There, she stopped dead. Peter bumped in behind her.

  Faith wasn’t kidding: the apartment was small — one room — and it was bare. A metal tub sat in a corner by a window. A small table held a washbasin, and a single throw rug covered a small square of floor.

  The centrepiece of the room was the bed: singular, narrow, laden with quilts, and jutting from the wall into the middle of the room.

  “Huh,” said Rosemary at last. She closed the door behind them and began undoing the buttons on her dress. “I’m turning in.”

  Peter stared at her, then strode to the window. “Gee, that’s a lot of stars!”

  Rosemary threw the corset into the corner with a thump. She breathed deep and rubbed her sides. She blew out the kerosene lamp, leaving the room bathed in the little moonlight that was coming through the window, and slipped beneath the covers. Wearing a camisole and bloomers, she felt more dressed than on a day at school. “Night, Peter.”

  “Good night.”

  Rosemary took a deep breath. Then she became aware of the silence in the room, and looked up.

  She could hardly see in the dark, but she could sense Peter standing, facing her. Then, taking a deep breath, he turned and stepped to the other side of the room. She heard him stripping down to underpants and undershirt, folding his clothes, and draping them over a straight-backed chair. Then he came over, socks scuffing the floorboards. “Could I have a pillow and a quilt?”

  “Sure.” She passed them over.

  “Thanks.” He flopped the quilt onto the floor, fluffed up the pillow, and lay down. “Night, Rosemary.”

  “Good night.”

  She stared at the mottled, shadowy ceiling. Her mind whirled too much for sleep. It was one thing to sleep in a strange bed in a strange room, but in a strange time? That took the cake.

  But her joints ached. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. Beside her, on the floor, she heard Peter roll over and smack his lips. She faded away. Suddenly, he leapt up with a squeaking scream.

  Rosemary sat bolt upright. “What? What? What?”

  “There was a mouse!” Peter yelled.

  “Quiet,” said Rosemary. “You’ll wake Faith.”

  “I don’t care! It ran across my feet!”

  “What, you’ve never seen a mouse before?”

  “I don’t let them in my bedroom, if I can help it.” Peter got his breathing under control. “Where are the mousetraps?”

  “I don’t think they’ve been invented yet.”

  “Great!” He threw up his hands. “Just great. Not only am I stuck in the past, but I’ve got to share a bed with a mouse.”

  “Well ....” She reached out in the dark and touched his arm harder than she’d intended, but held on. “You could share a bed with me.” She froze. That didn’t come out the way she’d expected it.

  She could hear him blinking. Then he said, “What did you just say?”

  Rosemary thought a moment, then took a deep breath. “I’m serious. I know it’s a small bed, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor. Besides, we’re supposed to be married. What’s Faith going to think if she finds a second bed on the floor?”

  He shook his head. “N-no. I ... I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Would you rather sleep with me or the mouse?”

  “You, actually,” said Peter. “That’s my problem.”

  Rosemary blushed red to her ears. But she reached out, found his hand, and clasped it. “Peter, I trust you.”

  He stood a moment, staring, then reached for the covers. Rosemary made room for him, but even with their arms touching, each felt the edge of the bed on their other side. They pressed as close to each other as they dared.

  “That was a really girly scream, by the way,” said Rosemary.

  “Well, it was a mouse,” said Peter. “Or possibly a rat.”

  “Or maybe a raccoon,” said Rosemary. Peter elbowed her. She laughed. He laughed too. Then their arms and sides brushed, and they stopped laughing. They stared at the ceiling.

  Rosemary took a deep breath. “So ... you remember what we talked about?”


  “Yes.”

  “‘We’re not ready.’ That still stands, right?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I asked you first!”

  They laughed at that. Then Peter said seriously, “I think it still stands.”

  “Good,” said Rosemary.

  “Good,” said Peter.

  Silence stretched. Then Rosemary rolled onto her side toward him. Peter’s breath caught. She leaned in and Peter grabbed her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  Rosemary sighed and kissed his cheek.

  “I love you.” “I love you too,” he croaked.

  She rolled away. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FINDING FEET

  Peter squatted on the embankment. The wooden construction fence stretched across the creek, black against the moonlight. The ground sloped away, leaving a hole beneath the wall big enough to walk through while stooped.

  Rosemary stood beside him. “That’s not good for security.”

  “I watched the place yesterday,” said Peter. “You remember the watchman who chased us out two days ago? He’s actually the foreman.”

  Rosemary frowned. “Why would they have the foreman watch the site?”

  “I think he lives here,” said Peter. “He’s got a cabin near the gate. With our luck, he’s a light sleeper.”

  She leaned over and wrinkled her nose. “The creek looks polluted.”

  “Probably. You ready?”

  “Wait a minute. Hold the candles.” She passed over a bundle that clattered softly in the silence. Then she pulled up her skirts. Peter almost fell down the embankment. “Rosemary, what —”

  She pulled off her overdress and undid the fastenings of her corset. “These things are worse than high heels.” She cast the corset aside and stood dressed in chemise and bloomers. She saw Peter staring at her, mouth agape, and glared. “What? I’m wearing lots.”

  He closed his mouth, then chuckled. “The guy who finds your clothes is going to have a heart attack.”

  She smirked. “Consider it a parting gift.” Then she looked down at the discarded dress and bit her lip. “I wish we could get that back to Faith somehow.”

  “Here, Faith: thanks for lending me your dress. We don’t need it where we’re going.”

  She swiped back the candles. “Let’s go.”

  They half-crawled, half-slipped down the embankment into the creek bed. Rosemary grimaced as the mud sucked at her boots. Peter hushed her and she stuck her tongue out at him. They ducked under the fence and into the construction yard, following the stream toward the open culvert.

  The ferns along the creek bed disappeared and the exposed bank was cut back at a neat angle. Gravel rose, followed by a line of bricks on either side of the straightening stream. Soon they were walking between two low walls.

  Rosemary looked up at the night sky, then clasped Peter’s shoulder and pushed him against the brick wall. He looked at her sharply, then followed her gaze. The words froze in his throat and he drew himself down.

  A tall figure stood at the top of the embankment, silhouetted in moonlight.

  It was the foreman; had to be. He raised a lantern and shone it across the ditch.

  They held their breaths.

  The foreman swung the light over their heads, then back again. Finally, he turned away and stalked off, deeper into the encampment. Rosemary touched Peter’s arm and motioned at the culvert. They carefully sloshed their way over.

  At the opening, Peter took two steps before realizing that Rosemary wasn’t following. He looked back and saw her standing in the middle of the stream, staring up at the entrance, her bloomers and chemise glowing in the moonlight, her cheeks almost as pale. Her hands balled into fists.

  He came back to her. “You okay?”

  She took a deep breath. “Let’s go.” She pushed into the darkness.

  He heard her footsteps steady in front of her, splashing in stray puddles. The water was too shallow to flow, but the bricks were slick and slimy, the stench oppressive. Peter breathed through his mouth. As darkness deepened, Rosemary’s steps faltered and he bumped into her.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” he whispered.

  “It’s just dark,” she muttered. “And wet. And stinky. And dark.”

  “We’ll light the candles as soon as we’re a little way from the entrance,” he said.

  “Are we there yet?”

  “Just a little while longer.”

  Rosemary clasped Peter’s hand hard and they pushed forward.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were claustrophobic?” asked Peter.

  “I’ve never liked close places, you know that.”

  “Yeah, but —”

  “I told you,” she snapped. “It’s wet. Stinky. This is not some closet. Or cave. Though I hate caves, too.” She halted. “Candles.”

  “Are you sure?” He looked back. The entrance was a postage stamp of moonlight.

  “Now.”

  He stared at the hunch of her shadow. “Okay. Hold one out.”

  He patted his pockets for the matches. Rosemary’s breathing quickened. Finally, he found them and struck one on the box. And struck again. And again. The air screeched on his fourth try. Light dawned. Peter touched the flame to the outstretched wick. They blinked at the sudden brightness.

  Then the match singed Peter’s fingers and he shook it out. The light dimmed to a small flame on the candle’s tip.

  Rosemary touched a second candle to the first. The light flared up, then faded. They stood in a circle, glowing as though lit by a dying flashlight.

  “Got any more candles on you?” asked Peter.

  “No.”

  Peter sucked his teeth. “These will have to do, then. Let’s go on.”

  The brick pipe encircled them, red and black, gleaming with moisture. Rosemary shuddered. Holding their candles close to their chests, they pushed on.

  Gradually, a new sound sidled into hearing: a rush of flowing water. They glanced at each other and nodded. A few more steps, and the ceiling pulled away. A breeze brushed their cheeks, and the sound of a rushing stream filled their ears.

  Peter took another step, but Rosemary froze. “I can’t see.”

  He turned. “What?”

  “These candles,” she said. “The light doesn’t go far enough.”

  Peter looked around and saw she was right. Other than a thin circle of light on the bricks around their feet, and a glimmer off the walls of the half-pipe, all they could make out was shadows and a thin, phosphor glow. The cavern echoed with emptiness, black as a blindfold.

  Peter swallowed. “Okay. I thought the candles would give us more light than this.”

  “The wicks are too short,” said Rosemary. She scratched at the nib. “If I could remove some of this wax —”

  “Careful!”

  The candle snuffed out. Rosemary cursed beneath her breath. She touched the snuffed candle to the first, too fast, and killed that light, too. Darkness descended.

  They stood for a moment in silence.

  “I don’t think we’ve thought this through,” said Rosemary, her voice tight.

  “No, we’re okay,” said Peter firmly. “I’ll just light another match.” He struck one. He struck it again. And again. And again. He grunted, frustrated. “I thought matches from the past would be easier to light. You know, less worries about safety? C’mon you stupid —.” The match flared and broke. Peter started, and the broken match and the box slipped from his hand, the box spilling out its matches. There was a splash like rain, and the lit match snuffed out.

  “Oops,” said Peter.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Peter?” said Rosemary.

  “Yeah?”

  “Oops?”

  “I —.” He cleared his throat. “I dropped the matches.”

  “Saw that.”

  “Yeah.”

  More silence.

  “Got any m
ore?” asked Rosemary.

  “No.”

  Rosemary’s breathing began to echo off the walls.

  “I think we should go back,” said Peter.

  Rosemary sloshed upstream, keeping close to the wall. Peter struggled to keep up. “Rosemary,” he hissed.

  “Quietly. You’ll wake the foreman.”

  She spoke through clenched teeth. “Get. Out. Now.”

  He caught up with her as the moonlit exit pulled into view. He grabbed her and held her as she struggled, a scream building in her throat. “It’s okay,” he whispered in her ear. “We’re there. We’re as good as out. Calm down. Be quiet.”

  She held him. He could feel her heart thumping. She took a deep breath. “It’s the dark. I was okay when I had light. We need better light.”

  “We’ll get some. Let’s get out of here.”

  They walked out of the sewer in silence. They kept low. When they passed beneath the hoarding, Rosemary charged out of the stream and lay on the embankment beside her discarded corset and overdress.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped. She beat the ground with her fist. “This is stupid!”

  He touched her shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ll do it right, next time. We’ll get lanterns ... something that won’t burn out. We’ve got plenty of time. Time’s moving slow on the other side of the portal, remember?”

  “How can you know?” she said bitterly.

  “Theo, remember?” But he couldn’t keep his voice from catching. “We didn’t hear him shouting after us after we fell through, remember? I’m sure, when we get back, the portal will take us to the exact moment we left. Theo won’t know we’ve gone.”

  Rosemary closed her eyes. She thumped the ground again.

  It was a tense walk back after Rosemary pulled on her corset and overdress. Peter stared warily at Rosemary’s hunched shoulders.

  They heard the sounds of waking households as they entered the alleyway paralleling Yonge Street: a shout, a child’s cry. At the other end of the laneway, they heard the slap of water on the bottom of a metal bucket.

  The shop was dark. They took a moment to clean the mud from their boots and frown at their wet pant legs and bloomers. At least Rosemary’s stains were covered by her overdress. They snuck into the kitchen. Together, they crept to the stairs.