Finn grabbed my hand, and the pressure of it burned.
“You wouldn’t be wrecking the city, killing innocents . . .”
“Do you trust me?”
I kept silent.
“Mari? Do you?”
Did I trust the Finn who came to me in the night swamped in illusion?
No?
Yes?
I couldn’t give an answer.
The train pulled to a stop, and the doors slid open. It seemed we’d been gliding along the Third Avenue El. In the 1880s, the tracks had run like metal centipedes over the city streets, blocking out both sun and rain. They were dirty, noisy, and they ejected coal and steam onto everyone who walked under them. I didn’t see the El tracks very often. They tended to flicker in and out of reality at very infrequent intervals. I was glad for that though. It was awkward walking down the street feeling as if a giant insect had squatted on top of you.
“I think this is our stop,” I said, not answering Finn’s question.
We were outside City Hall. The tower was lit from below and shone brighter than the moon. City Hall was old. There were Corinthian columns and arched windows, a beautiful rotunda, and of course, plenty of rag men slinking outside in the shadows.
Why?
I didn’t know. They were there before I was born. Maybe they were there before the hall was completed in 1812, spanning back to the Revolution. I couldn’t be sure. Rag men didn’t speak. They’re only the faceless, wordless wraiths spawned from a soul’s abandoned hopes and dreams.
Once we were on the street, the ghost train clattered away. Finn grabbed my hand, and then, smiling at me, he said, “Come on.”
We raced past the rag men, under the shadow of City Hall, and down the empty street. There was a park, and its trees were still and quiet, drenching us in inky shadows. Finn ran, pulling me after him, grinning over his shoulder.
It was strange. I was myself, but I was a kid again. Eight years old. My legs were short—shorter than Finn’s—but I ran with a loose, happy glee I hadn’t had in years. I was soaring. My chest was wide-open, and I was weightless and free. It felt like I could fly.
Finn’s cheeks were pink as he darted forward, pulling me through the park.
He was playing. Dodging and ducking, and when he let me go, I ran after him. We used to play in Central Park—games of tag, games of chase. They always in ended in us rolling down a hill or in a pile on the ground.
We’d fallen back into our childhood selves, chasing each other through the park.
“Finn!” I shouted, and he looked back at me, laughing.
Then he caught me and tugged me onto the tiered fountain. I saw the glint in his eye, and I knew.
“No!”
But it was too late. He jumped in the fountain, and I rolled in after him, splashing in the water.
I came up sputtering and laughing. I splashed water, and Finn chased me in the hip-deep water. Coins and wishes were slippery under my feet, and I fell, swallowing a mouthful of water.
I coughed, and he pulled me upright.
Water dripped down his face, and his clothes were sopping-wet. “I forgot how your laugh used to sound like?—”
I narrowed my eyes. When we were kids, Luvic would tease me that my laugh sounded like a chicken being chased with a cleaver. I grew out of it, but . . .
“It does not.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Angels singing.”
