The Book of Living Secrets, page 21
“When I was in the stomach thing, I felt afraid again, and then confused, obviously. I didn’t know why I wasn’t asleep like the others. Honestly? I thought maybe I really had died, and this was the afterlife, and it was just being alone forever, with people all around but no one to talk to.” Adelle finished her story, sipping her tea and cleaning her face with the handkerchief.
“You have given me much to think about.” Kincaid stood, clacking his teacup back down on its saucer and gazing toward the drafting table closer to the windows. “I need . . . time. Time to consider all you have said. You should rest, Miss Casey, Miss Rollins. There will be time to interrogate these mysteries when you are refreshed.”
Adelle nodded, trying and failing to hide a massive yawn. She finished her tea and leaned across to place it back on the tray.
“I got it.” Connie intercepted her, grabbing the cup and placing her own on the table, then turning and fluffing the blanket, making sure Adelle was snug while she shimmied down under the covers.
“Thank you,” she said. “Will you stay next to me?”
Kincaid had gone back to the stove and the basin. She heard him rummaging; then Connie spied him stopping over in his cozy library before returning with a stack of books, Gulliver’s Travels, Vanity Fair, Middlemarch, and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall among them. Connie picked out the only one in the pile she hadn’t read: Vanity Fair.
“For your watch, sentinel,” Kincaid told her with a bow.
Connie almost didn’t want to touch the books, they were so beautifully bound and printed. Such treasures would be worth thousands in the real world. “These are incredible.”
“I saved as many as I could from the local churches and universities. When the chaos began, there were looters everywhere. These books may not belong to me, but I like to think they are happy in their new home.” Kincaid handed Adelle a small vial he had been keeping in his pocket, first uncorking it for her. “Before you sleep,” he told her gently. “It’s a tincture of clove and oak apple; it keeps the sleeper from dreaming.”
Adelle took it with tremulous hands, wincing at the smell.
“Clove?” Connie asked. “That sounds like the tea the Penny-Farthings made me drink.”
Kincaid collected the vial after Adelle had tossed back the medicine. “I would assume they employ a similar principle—they brew the ingredients for efficacy; I distill them. I tend to prefer this method, done quicker, as the taste is rather unpleasant.”
“After everything I’ve seen,” Adelle said sleepily, “I’d rather not dream.”
After he had discreetly and attentively checked that the blanket covered Adelle’s feet, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and marched with feverish excitement back to his drafting table. By his standards it was probably a slip of propriety, but Connie found it sweet.
By the time he got there, Adelle was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Connie sat on the carpet, back pressed to the sofa where Adelle lay, reverently resting Vanity Fair on her knees, mindful of every thumbprint and crease she might leave on the priceless book.
Adelle leaned over and sneaked in a one-armed hug.
“He likes you, by the way,” Connie murmured.
“I don’t know. I’m probably just a science experiment to him.”
“Nah. He likes you, and he’s superhot. His library is superhot.”
She heard her friend chuckle and roll onto her back, the leather creaking under her. “So why aren’t you interested?”
Connie’s jaw hung open for a moment. How to answer? Adelle didn’t know about her attraction to other girls, and this didn’t seem like the time for a frank and honest conversation, not when she could hear Adelle yawning almost constantly. It also didn’t seem like the time to examine the spike of jealousy that had lanced through her, crackling and undeniable, when Missi volunteered to stay behind with her “old flame.”
She couldn’t imagine Mississippi McClaren with Orla Beevers, the shrinking violet, but then Connie didn’t feel fit to judge. And anyway, it was none of her business. And anyway anyway, none of these people were real, just constructs.
That didn’t change the fact that she had felt a certain type of way when Missi hadn’t come with them. Or when the sharpshooter had quite obviously been wearing makeup to impress her when she showed her the hot air balloon. . . . It also didn’t change the fact that she missed that crazy redhead, with her temper and her swearing and her ridiculous fringe. Then it dawned on her that Missi and Orla might never turn up at Caid’s, and that if she and Adelle managed to find the incense, she would never see Mississippi again. That hurt. It hurt a lot more than she expected.
Connie massaged the back of her neck, feeling a headache coming on.
“I . . . think there might be someone else,” Connie finally said. “I don’t know. It’s complicated. My head is all twisted up. I’m sure you know what that’s . . .” She swiveled to look at Adelle, who had fallen fast asleep. Turning back to her book, Connie shrugged.
“Another time,” she murmured, or—if Missi didn’t return—never.
25
Are not there little chapters in everybody’s life, that seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of the history?
—Vanity Fair, William Makepeace Thackeray
“Where is she? Where is Miss Casey? I demand to know!”
Adelle sprang awake, asleep and crumpled and then instantly upright, shot out of her dreamless slumber like a haunted-house dummy being catapulted out of a coffin, and with the same effect. Severin’s arms windmilled as he saw her come flying out of the blanket, his hair and clothes rumpled, paint daubs absentmindedly decorating his cheeks and hands.
“Declare yourself before frightening our patient half to death, man.” Kincaid appeared behind her. From the rows of plants near the door, Connie emerged, rifle at her side.
“I did not mean to startle you, Miss Casey; my concern got the better of my sense.” Severin closed the door behind him, attempted to center his cravat, and bowed. “Je suis désolé.”
Connie stormed over to the couches, placing herself between Adelle and Severin. Adelle watched her friend absorb who she was staring down, and wondered if Connie saw what she did. Severin wasn’t one of Connie’s favorites, though she’d never exactly articulated why. Even if this was a reunion of sorts, their interaction in the kitchens of Moira’s house had been brief and tense.
“How did you hear about our patient?” Connie demanded.
“I would also like to know that,” Caid added. He hadn’t moved from his rather protective position behind her.
Severin peered around Connie’s shoulder, provoking her to scoot a few inches to the right, blocking him again.
“The whole town is talking of it,” Severin stated. “The girl who came back from the Wound! Is it true? Did you really go inside and return?”
“It’s true.” Connie wouldn’t budge. “And she’s been recuperating ever since.”
“How long have I been asleep?” Adelle asked. She pushed the blanket down her legs and tried to stand, finding that she felt much better.
“Almost three hours,” Caid informed her.
“Are we not friends? May I not see you?” asked Severin.
In response, Caid walked around Adelle, strode up to and beyond Connie, and glared down at Severin with his spectacles slipping down his nose, his jaw set. He looked like he wanted to projectile vomit, possibly all over Severin.
“We share this building, Severin, with the understanding that we respect one another’s privacy and solitude.”
Connie retreated to the couch, joining Adelle, slipping her arm through Adelle’s as if anchoring her there and away from Severin. It all felt ridiculous; Adelle was recovering and fine, at least physically. She didn’t know if or when her mind would recover from what she had seen.
“You see, Miss Casey, I am his neighbor. His friendly neighbor. I only came to inquire after your health. There was such a commotion, and then I heard your voices! A welcome surprise, to be sure, but it distracted me completely! I could not at all concentrate on my art knowing you had suffered such an ordeal.”
“We would never dream of keeping you from your art,” Caid replied.
Adelle did not miss the slight sarcastic emphasis Caid placed on art—or the general edge to his tone.
“We should go,” Connie whispered. “While they’re at each other’s throats. Are you okay to walk?”
“How far is this woman’s shop?” Adelle asked. Frankly, Caid’s sanctuary was so welcoming, so precisely her type of place, that she dreaded leaving it. She knew that the second she left, she would miss it.
“Not far,” Connie said. “Just north of here, out by the surplus shop and that baseball diamond, right on the water.”
“All right. I’ll follow your lead.”
The boys continued bickering while Connie escorted Adelle toward the door. Severin and Kincaid fell silent as they noticed the girls maneuvering around, ignoring them completely as they opened up the door and stepped out into the hallway.
“Miss Casey needs some air,” Connie told them lightly. “We won’t go far.”
“Let me join you, I insist.” Severin bowed again, tousling his fall of curly black hair. “Even this neighborhood can be dangerous.”
“I can manage,” Connie assured him, tapping the rifle over her shoulder.
“But, ladies—”
“I said I can manage.” She turned a politer smile to Caid before saying, “Thank you for the hospitality. Will you be here when we return?”
Caid leaned against the door, his brow furrowed with concern, yet he didn’t fight Connie on her decision to guard Adelle alone. “Of course. I will leave the warehouse door open for you. Miss Casey, if you are not too tired, perhaps later you would be willing to answer more questions for me.”
“I can do that,” Adelle said, not knowing who to look at. They were both regarding her so intensely.
“Ah! So you will answer his questions but not mine.” Severin pouted, crossing his arms over his paint-stained shirt. “How unjust—you have broken my heart.”
Adelle could feel Connie rolling her eyes without seeing it. “I will be happy to tell you all about what happened when we get back.”
At that, Severin brightened, sweeping up her free hand and dropping a kiss on the back of it.
“Mademoiselle Mystère, you will have my undying appreciation if you do. The name is even more fitting now—wouldn’t you agree?”
Connie had clearly had enough, and jerked Adelle down the hallway and away from the two boys. Hurrying to keep up, Adelle found that her leg at last felt perfectly fine, still tender if touched directly on the bruise, but not sore enough to make her limp. Her midsection was another story, throbbing still from the force of the Wound’s tentacle crushing her. If she lifted her dress, she knew she would be black-and-blue.
“You don’t have to be so rude to him.”
Outside, a light rain had begun to fall. They pushed into the drizzle, the afternoon sky as dark as if it were already dusk.
“He’s annoying,” Connie muttered, marching along at a quick clip. “And he punched me. Weak-ass punch, but still. Don’t you dare get an actual crush on him.”
Adelle yanked her arm out of Connie’s grasp, wanting to walk all on her own. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means. I know he’s your number one book boyfriend, Adelle; I saw the way you were looking at him in that kitchen. And I’m not blaming you! I’m sure if I had run smack into Moira the second I got here, I’d be smitten or something.” She pulled the map out of her backpack, one hand on that, the other securely on her rifle. Her eyes swept the way forward and behind as they turned left out of the warehouse.
“No, you wouldn’t!” Adelle cried. “She’s horrible. Just . . . the absolute worst—you would hate her! She’s vain and selfish and cruel. Look what she did to my hair! You said it yourself, I look like Prince Valiant’s ugly little brother.”
Connie grumbled and shook her head.
“Wait a minute. Why would you have a crush on Moira, anyway?”
“It was just an example,” Connie grunted.
“Fine, well, for another example, I don’t have a crush on anyone!” Adelle wasn’t sure that was totally true, but if she did, it wasn’t meaningful enough to keep her from knowing what was important, not anymore. Not after . . . “How could I? All I want to do is rip my brain out and get a new one. You don’t know what I saw, Connie!” She slowed down, nearly falling to her knees on the damp cobblestones at the memory of the creature, its wings spread. . . . “Oh God, what I’ve seen . . .”
“Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m the jerk.” Connie pulled her into a hug, keeping her from falling down.
“No, I’m the jerk!” Adelle embraced her in return, grateful to end the fight. “And I’m sorry. When I saw you in the larder I should’ve dropped everything and gone with you, but your friend had a gun and I didn’t know what to do. Everything is so twisted up; none of it makes any sense. This isn’t even the right book! It’s not a romance—it’s a nightmare.”
Connie pulled back, tugging her by the sleeve into the alcove of a random building, away from the rain. She took out her bag again, brought out their copy of Moira, opened it to the first page, and handed it to Adelle.
“Look at it,” Connie said. “Read it.”
Adelle scanned the lines, her lips parting on a gasp as she found them unrecognizable. The cover, the font, the whole look of the book remained the same, but the text was completely different.
“Is the whole thing like this?” She leafed through swiftly.
“No, just to where we’ve gotten in the story,” Connie said. “The back half is still the same—waiting, I guess, for us to determine how it’s written.”
“How can this be happening? How can any of it be happening?”
“I don’t know.” Connie leaned back against the shuttered door of the alcove, coal dust puffing around her as she did. “What did you see, Adelle? What really happened in that thing? Does any of it make this make sense?”
Adelle slicked the wet hair back from her forehead. “Most of what I told you and Caid was true.”
“So he’s ‘Caid’ now?”
“Shut up.” Adelle nudged her, but Connie was smirking, and nudged her back. “I fell into some kind of goop chute; it was disgusting, but then it got much worse. It pushed me into this huge chamber, so big it could hold all the people missing from the city.”
“Jesus, that’s bleak.”
“They were all just . . . floating there, not dead, but not alive, either.” Adelle hugged herself, all of it coming back to her, every detail branded into her brain. “For some reason I wasn’t like them, maybe because I didn’t sleepwalk into the Wound like Orla’s mother did. I was awake.”
“Sure, I mean, who would do it voluntarily?” Connie asked.
“I tried to wake up Mrs. Beevers, but nothing happened. . . .” Adelle steeled herself, already trembling before the words came out. She didn’t want to think about that thing speaking to her, its voice so loud it felt like it might shake her bones apart. “Then I swam to the wall. It felt like being inside a huge heart; I could hear and feel the pulse. It would light up the whole chamber. Then I tried to talk to it, and it answered me back. I saw . . . I saw something behind the wall, a city somewhere, and a giant monster walking through it.”
Connie stared, wide-eyed and unblinking.
“It didn’t want me in the chamber. It probably wants me dead—that’s why it let me go. This thing . . . it has a plan. It wants something.” She could no longer distinguish truth from deception. Even trying to speak about what she had experienced inside the Wound made her want to vomit. The words were sticky, the truth even stickier. “Whatever it wants, whatever this plan is, Connie, I think we’re part of it.”
They had reached the large X on the map, leaving behind what Geo had helpfully labeled CLACKER MIERDA—BEWARE, but Connie didn’t see any shops or houses, just an overgrown field that gradually grew sandy and rocky, turning from grass to sea. A barrier of fog as impenetrable and seemingly solid as any wall hemmed in the northern border of downtown. It was no wonder ships wrecked immediately—nobody could navigate waters like that.
“I don’t get it.” Connie checked the map again. “Did she lie?”
“Look,” Adelle murmured. She pointed ahead, toward the end of the field where the land met the fog barrier. “There’s something in the water.”
“I can go look first. You’ve had enough of weird crap in the water.”
“No, it’s all right.” Adelle took a few gradual steps forward and into the tall grass, her skirt brushing it softly. “It looks like a boat.”
Connie squinted, finding that she was right—an old steamboat ferry had washed up on the shore, its nose jutting up above the rocks, just visible in the mist. They set off across the field together, picking up their step to avoid the prickly, damp grass.
“Ow!” Adelle stumbled, holding her toe. She bent down and picked up something tarnished and metal, vaguely shaped like a rabbit. A brass rabbit. “What the . . . Is this a paperweight?”
“They’re everywhere.” They littered the field like mines. Connie scooped up a larger one shaped like a lion. She noticed other odd things hiding in the grass too: fountain-pen nibs—hundreds of them—distributed among the weeds like gold and silver seeds.
“Watch your step,” Connie warned. “And keep your eyes open. The Penny-Farthing girls are pretty tough, and even they’re afraid of this woman.”
“Well, she definitely has eclectic taste in lawn ornaments.”
“Guess they haven’t invented the flamingo thing yet,” Connie snorted.
Adelle brought the brass rabbit with them as they picked their way across the trash-riddled field, occasionally oofing when they didn’t see a paperweight and stubbed a toe.
