“I can’t leave Henry and Elise.”
“Well, bring them along. There’s a park near my building. I’ll pay for the fare, of course.” I reach for my bag.
“There are no paid conveyances in the lower city.”
He pushes his chair back from the table. The wood of the chair leg scrapes the wood of the floor, and the noise makes both of us wince.
“Who wants to work a puzzle?”
He chooses a box from a low shelf and dumps the contents onto a table. The children fight for pieces of a colorful jigsaw puzzle. The muted light slipping through layers of blankets over the window has become oppressive rather than comforting.
“You never take them outside, do you?”
Will and I stare across the table, into each other’s eyes. “No.”
He holds my gaze for longer this time. I look down first.
“Do you want to help with the puzzle?”
“I’d rather lie down.”
I go back to his bed. It feels odd, but there’s no other place to be alone in this tiny apartment. Pulling the blankets to my chin, I try to disappear. His wardrobe door is slightly ajar. I want to open it, see the shirts that he wears to the club, something more familiar than this place. But instead I curl up and try to sleep.
I dream that I am on a sled, at the top of a hill. My arms are around Finn, but when we reach the bottom of the hill, I’m all alone. It’s icy cold, and there’s nothing but snow, no other children with sleds, no father, no Finn, even though I can still feel the warmth of him.
I am alone. Crying, in a bed that belongs to a stranger who didn’t want me to die on his shift.
“Don’t cry,” little Henry says. He moves soundlessly over the wood floor to stand beside me, but instead of just staring at me, he presses his cheek against mine, in an effort to actually comfort me. I can’t help wrapping my arms around him, this child who has taken the place Finn occupied in my dream. Holding him feels wonderful and comforting, but now I’m sobbing.
“I don’t mind if you dry your eyes on my blanket,” Will says. “But maybe I’d better remove Henry.” He lifts the boy out of my embrace and gives him a gentle push toward the doorway.
Will slides into the chair beside the bed, and I can’t get over how different he looks here, even though his clothes are the same, his hair, his tattoos. Maybe it’s just that I’ve never seen him in the daytime before.
“Are you okay?” He sounds genuinely concerned.
“You need to get masks for your brother and sister.”
His jaw tightens. “You think I don’t know that? Do you have any idea how expensive…? Of course you don’t. How many masks do you own?”
I swallow hard. I used to live underground. I don’t want to tell him that I have five masks: the regular porcelain one and a black full-face one in case I ever get invited to one of the costume balls that Prince Prospero loves. A purple mask with sequins, and two spares, in case my first mask gets chipped or stained.
I can’t give one of mine to the children. Once you breathe through it, it is useless to everyone else. People used to steal masks. But now, even after a murder, you will see the mask, still covering the face of the victim, tossed aside with the bodies of the dead.
“Come here,” Will says, leading me back to the kitchen. The children work their puzzle, uninterested in us. Opening a drawer in the china cabinet, he takes out a box. I recognize the heft and shape of it.
The only things that are still manufactured in this city are masks and the boxes to put them in. He opens the lid, and though I’ve seen a thousand of them, I still let out a tiny awed sound. Nestled in pink velvet, is a small mask.
“This is Elise’s. I saved all of my extra money, every penny that didn’t go to some essential, for three years to earn enough for this. I just picked it up yesterday.” There is something both adorable and frightening about such a small mask.
“Do you have one for Henry?”
“I’m working on it. I decided to go ahead and buy this one so Elise can get used to wearing it. A new school semester begins in two months.”
My stomach plummets.
One of the children will have a mask. The other won’t.
CHAPTER
FIVE
I WAS THE FIRST PERSON EVER TO BREATHE through a mask. I remember Father coming out of his workshop with it.
“Try this on.” Father held out the mask to Finn.
Finn refused to take it. “It looks silly. If I wear that, my face will look like a china doll’s.” We were thirteen years old, and he refused to play what he considered girl games with me.
“I used one of Araby’s dolls. It isn’t a perfect design, but it’s workable, and it keeps out the germs that cause the Weeping Sickness.”
Finn pushed the mask away, and I grabbed it.
The china felt brittle and unpleasant; the scent was upsetting, though I couldn’t define it. I didn’t see the horror on Father’s face, but I often imagine it.
I didn’t know that I would be wearing a mask every day for the rest of my life. They changed the design for mass production, and I don’t have the first one anymore. Looking at it would be more than I could bear.
What if Finn had put the mask on first? It was designed for him, after all.
Henry takes a puzzle piece that Elise was reaching for. She tries to retrieve it, but he’s too fast. They both laugh.
If Elise wears the mask, then she will be safer, they will both be safer. But imagining him, the little brother with no mask, makes me go cold.
Will returns from his bedroom dressed for work, and I realize that he never got to go back to sleep. He’s walking me home—prepared to work all night at the club on just those few hours that we slept. I want to tell him that I’m sorry, or possibly thank him, but I can’t find the words.
We escort the children downstairs to stay with their neighbor. Outside the door, he kneels and kisses both of them. There’s a lump in my throat, and I have to look away for a moment.
“Be good,” he says.
“We’ll be sleeping,” Elise says seriously.
“Well, sleep successfully, then.”
As the door swings open, both children rush to hug me. I’m surprised by the way they cling to me.
“It’s time for us to go,” Will says.
“Come visit us tomorrow,” Elise begs. Will leans in to disentangle her skinny arms from around my neck and gives her a little shove through the door.
He puts on his mask, and we go outside.
The shadows are lengthening as we begin the walk. I’m not used to seeing him in his mask, and I don’t like it.
The building where he lives is brick, and identical to all the buildings around it—four stories tall, wood front door, and quilt-covered windows. A lonely little tree stands right outside the door.
On this street Will and I, walking so close that our arms touch, are an anomaly. I’ve never been in the lower city on foot before.
“Keep your purse close so no one grabs it,” Will says.
“Is it a long way?”
“Yes, but walking with you is much easier than carrying you.”
If I were April, I might say something flirtatious. Even the Araby who goes to the club with sparkly lashes and a red smile painted on might come up with something clever to say. I just stare shyly at my feet, and we walk in silence.
His neighborhood has more graffiti and broken windows than I’m accustomed to. The red scythe marks many doors. Some of them have been painted over with white, but the symbol of the contagion bleeds through.
In several windows red banners hang, emblazoned with black scythes. I’m not sure what it means. I try to stay close to Will.
We have to step over dried blood more than once. And yet someone has planted flowers along the edges of the sidewalk, and there are a few trees. We even pass an abandoned open place where a dilapidated sign reads PUBLIC PARK. People used to care about these places, and surely some still do.
I avert my eyes as we pass a black cart. The corpse collectors are out early.
On a building directly before us there is a large, bold message scribbled in enormous letters. DOWN WITH SCIENCE. REMEMBER GOD.
“What nonsense,” I say, welcoming the distraction from the reality of the body cart.
“Science has failed us,” Will says. This shocks me. How has science failed? Science saved us. “Religion failed, too,” he says. “But maybe we should try it again. I don’t know.”
I’ve seen the graffiti, but I’ve never heard anyone question the worth of science.
I trip over an uneven spot in the sidewalk. Will steadies me.
“I wish you would be more careful.” The lack of teasing is notable. Not like at the club.
Since I can’t promise that I will be more careful, I don’t answer. After a long silence he says, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about me, about my life.”
“Who would I tell?”
“Your rich friends? Some of the members of the club—they can be aggressive about things.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Prying into a person’s private life.”
So I haven’t been the only one to notice how attractive he is. Jealousy burns through me, followed by a touch of excitement. I know things that these other girls don’t know, and he wants it to stay that way.
We are close to the border now, where the lower city gives way to the upper city. Armed guards stand along the sidewalk. They turn toward us, but we’re both wearing masks, so there is no reason to stop us.
The buildings here are more ornate, but storefronts are mostly closed, with windows boarded and merchandise removed. Couriers rush from place to place, hired by wealthy families to run their errands so they never have to leave their homes.
“That’s where I live,” I say, pointing up. Mother says the Akkadian Towers were designed to emulate something from a fairy tale. There were supposed to be multiple towers, but the second building was only partially built when the plague hit.
“Of course,” he says. “The richer you are, the farther from the ground you want to live, right?” He gives me a long searching look. “But there’s something different about you.”
I am different. I wasn’t always rich. I’ve been hungry and afraid. But I’ve never told anyone about those days. Never spoken of the fear, or the hunger, or the way I still dread the darkness.
I’ve never told anyone about the day my twin brother died. I think I could tell Will.
We are directly in front of the entrance. The guard watches, frowning at Will. I avoid eye contact, hoping he won’t approach us.
Will leans forward, pulls off his mask, and kisses my forehead. “I’m glad I was the one to save you this time,” he whispers.
The look in his dark eyes makes me wonder what might happen if this mask weren’t covering my mouth. I have to remind myself that I’ve sworn never to kiss anyone. I break eye contact quickly, and when I look back, he just smiles.
I imagine he’s going to say something more, but then he glances up at the building where I live, puts his mask back on, and walks away.
The guard edges closer. “Miss Worth?”
“Yes?” I am still watching Will.
“Allow me to escort you to the elevator.”
The Akkadian Towers have the only working elevator in the city. It makes the ascent to my home much too fast. What will I tell my parents? How will I deal with their accusations and worry?
Our courier is noticeably absent in the hallway, but the door is unlocked. When I walk in, no one rushes to greet me or to ask where I’ve been.
Finally I slide the door of Father’s laboratory open. He is bent over one of his experiments. His hair has gone completely white. It seems that last week there were a few strands of gray left. Maybe it’s just this light.
“Father?”
“Let me jot this down, one moment.” He isn’t fully aware of me.
“Can you tell me how to purchase a mask?”
Blinking, he turns toward me. “The factory on Oak Street, the one where they used to make ammunition? They manufacture the masks there.”
“How do I order one?”
“Get the money from your mother and send the courier to fetch it.” He picks up his notebook and begins to write.
I leave him to his work. He won’t be out in a few minutes. He’ll forget he ever spoke to me. He doesn’t realize that I was out all night, or he doesn’t care. Either way, I feel unequivocally sad.
Settling into my favorite chair to wait for Mother, I take the book of poems out of my bag and run my hand over the cover. It smells like Will’s house, like warmth and love and freshly baked bread.
I thought, yesterday, that I would enjoy reading these poems, but I’m too unfocused.
Mother enters the apartment with a rush of cool air. I watch the emotions play across her face. Anger. Disgust. Worry? I try not to look at the dark circles under her eyes, try not to let myself feel guilty. Was she worried about me for the two years we lived in a cellar without her?
She crosses the room in three steps and throws her arms around me. I try to return the embrace but feel myself stiffening, pulling away, even as I think how nice her response is after Father’s disregard.
“Thank goodness you and April are home safe.”
“April? Didn’t she come home last night?” Mother shakes her head. “I thought she left me,” I say in a whisper. I should have known better.
Mother raises her hand to pat my shoulder but pulls back when I recoil. It was unintentional, but how do I tell her that?
“April never came home?” I ask again, stupid with surprise. My stomach hurts and my chest feels tight.
“Her mother is frantic.”
I study my mother’s face, but I’ve forgotten how to read her. Had she been frantic?
“Where is her steam carriage?” My voice sounds even smaller. “It isn’t like she’s never stayed out all night before.”
“Araby, they are saying that the carriage was attacked by bats.”
I want to laugh.
But not really.
April and I were making jokes about bats last night. It would be too coincidental … but then, Father saved humanity and couldn’t save his own son. I don’t discount coincidence. Or ugly, gut-wrenching irony.
“Mother…”
“There were bits of hair in her carriage. You know how people say bats like hair....”
That is what they say, that if you have an elaborate hairdo you will attract the bats. I always envied April’s perfect hair.
“At least you weren’t with her.”
“Yes. I’m pretty lucky.” For once Mother hears the implication and flinches. Does she have survivor guilt, too, or just survivor hatred for the daughter who lived?
I steady myself with a hand on the back of the sofa. The hopeless masses watch us as we pass on our way to the Debauchery Club. Sometimes they have the energy to yell at us or shake their fists. Who is to say that they wouldn’t attack April, a rich girl in a fancy carriage? She was probably drunk. I remember the dark figures who materialized from between the buildings while the young mother gave up the body of her child. The rock, seemingly thrown out of nowhere.
And there was that boy, the one with the blue eyelids. What was in those glasses that he was handing around? Did he drug April? I feel dizzy. Did he drug me?
“Where was the carriage found?” I ask.
“Near a club owned by her uncle.” Mother gives me a look. She’s too much of a lady to use a word like debauchery.
I could lose April, like I lost Finn. I’m weak suddenly, and glad I’m holding the back of the sofa.
“You’re pale. Should I have the cook make you something?” Mother places her hand on my shoulder. Apparently she’ll still touch me if I’m about to collapse onto the floor.
The cook… Will and the children ate their last apples before we left. I can do nothing, in this moment, to he
lp April, but I can help Will. Our cook will be happy to prepare something; she doesn’t think we appreciate her cooking, since none of us ever has much appetite.
“I’m glad you’re home.” Mother isn’t looking at me. I believe her, but I also know that, like me, she’d be happier if Finn were here.
She’d trade her living child for her dead one in a heartbeat.
“I need money for a mask,” I say. “Has the courier returned?”
“Not yet. April’s mother borrowed him. She sent her own courier to all the places April usually goes, and our courier to search the carts, just in case.” There are too many dead to allow everyone the privilege of identifying their loved ones. People die and are carted away.
She can’t look at me. The constant reminders provided by the corpse collectors are one of the reasons she rarely leaves our apartment.
Mother hands me a purse filled with heavy coins.
I sit down because my legs are shaking. I should never have let myself care about frivolous April with her silver eyelids and her evil sense of humor.
I drop the purse of coins onto the table, and it knocks my poetry book to the floor. A slip of paper falls from between the pages.
Meet me in the garden at midnight.
CHAPTER
SIX
THE GARDEN?
Midnight?
An eye has been sketched at the bottom of the note. I glance through one of the inner windows at the overgrown garden, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of being watched.
I run my hands over the book’s scarred leather cover. This book belonged to someone else. Does that mean this message did as well? Did whoever it was meant for already meet whoever wrote it, at midnight in a garden? Perhaps years ago; perhaps both are dead now.
I wish the message could be from Will, but he’s always working at midnight.
Would April leave a message for me? I stare at the handwriting, but it is blocky and unrecognizable.
I walk to the interior window. In the mud, I see something that might be part of a footprint. You wouldn’t see it if you weren’t expecting to.