Remy takes Cleo’s hand quickly and squeezes. “Never doubt yourself. Okay? Never doubt what you know.”
Cleo gives a quick nod, panic setting in. Because the Tinman is waiting for her, and because the innkeeper is now freaking her out.
Never doubt what she knows? Cleo has doubted everything she knows. She’s doubted every part of herself and every part of her life.
All she knows is doubting.
“Okay,” Cleo says, just to get away, just to forget the warning.
She turns and hurries after the Tinman.
THIRTY-FOUR
Dorothy
We find the shed Remy pointed us to around the back of the house.
The old hinges creak when Rook undoes the latch and pulls the doors open. Dust swirls out. There is the scent of earth, old wood, and something that reminds me vaguely of citronella oil. There are a few uncorked jars on the shelves above the workbench, paper labels peeling away from the glass. Whatever was inside is a mystery now, the handwriting on the labels all but faded.
Rook goes to the back of the shed where faint light filters in through a grimy window. He crouches down and starts shoving things aside. A few canisters, a stack of wooden crates full of amber glass bottles, a pile of books, a crumpled box with several half-used candles inside.
Once those are moved, a trapdoor emerges.
“Judging by the location of the entrance,” Rook says, “it should be a short walk from here to the other side. Grab one of those candles.”
I turn around and reach inside the box now stacked on top of the crates while Rook searches the workbench for something to light it with. He comes up with a book of matches.
After sticking the taper candle into the end of one of the amber bottles, Rook strikes a match and holds it to the wick. The flame catches, the wick crackling, and light dances in the murky darkness of the shed.
“We should move,” Rook says.
There is still an unreadable tension to him, to the tenor of his voice, to the way he’s holding me at arm’s length. I hope it’s just the stress of being hunted and not something else I can’t put my finger on. I like to know where I stand with people and since he’s my only friend here, I want to know that we’re good. We haven’t had a chance to talk since he kissed me at the ball, after I told him about Edward.
“Come on, Toto,” I say, and scoop him into my arms.
“I’ll go first,” Rook tells me and quickly scales the wooden ladder down into the hole.
It’s not deep, maybe six feet down, and he has to stoop to fit in the tunnel. I hand him the bottle with the candle.
I take the first step down the ladder. Rook appears behind me, holding the ladder still, his presence a promise to catch me if I fall. Just like Edward. But vastly different from Edward in every measurable way.
My chest squeezes as I think of Edward and the question that is now hanging between us, hanging between worlds.
Marry me, Dutchie.
He wants me to be that girl, the farm girl, the mother, the wife, the homesteader.
But I can’t be.
Suddenly rushing home feels…
No. No. I have to get home. I have to get back to Em and Henry.
I take the last step off the ladder, my slippers hitting soft earth below.
Rook’s free hand finds me in the semidarkness and his fingers thread through mine.
The tunnel is silent as we make our way from one end to the other. I stumble after Rook, only getting half the bloom of candlelight, most of it blocked by the broad line of Rook’s shoulders. Old roots jut out from the earth, catching my step, making me stumble. Rook doesn’t slow his pace, doesn’t pause to let me catch up. His sense of urgency has tripled since we encountered the Tinman. And his urgency has anxiety burning at the back of my throat.
