I gathered my friends, and we tromped up to the Horse topside and each found a place to crash. I took the old couch, per usual. I didn’t shower or hum-read, though. Instead, I just sat staring at all the photos on the wall of Henry mugging with countless bands through the years and quietly singing “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”—Dylan’s original version, which was pretty metal, if you asked me.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The Asphodel Meadows and the Endless Dark represent two states of the same transitory frame between death and whatever next existence a soul may find.
—Alex Peters,Soul States: A Transience Guide
Just after teno’clock the following morning, we were racing down the Abyssal Steps toward the Renaissance Stratum. Emaline had texted me saying all she’d been able to learn was that Brach’s recovery team was headed there, and to hurry.
The stairs here had been crafted of stone blocks, but much of the mortar had eroded, dusting them with a sandy grit. The whole chamber smelled like a dry, crumbling well. And unlike the Steps above, they turned in a slow, arcing spiral downward.
They eventually dropped us at the stratum door, four black planks fastened together with thick iron nails and elaborate iron scrollwork in the shape of trees. A heavy iron ring hung at its center.
The old pressure rose, and the throbbing behind my eyes sent stabbing pains into my head. With it, the large scar in my soul began to shine bright amber, the light pulling at Lady’s sutures, escaping in streams. It was becoming a major disruption to my shadow’s gleam notes. I held my head as memory erupted . . .
. . . I dig in my drawer and find the honorable mention certificate for the
science fair project Mama helped me build. When I see her at Ardells, she’s going to see what a good team we make . . .
My project had been about meteorites. I’d told Henry about it one night while we lay on the roof of the Iron Horse. That was the first night . . .
. . . I try to sing Mama’s verse for Henry, but I can’t finish. He puts his hand on my shoulder, and London suddenly feels more like home than home ever did . . .
I’d put away some of the good times, I realized, because if I didn’t remember the good stuff, the bad stuff didn’t seem so bad.
I struggled toward the stratum door, traced the Who quote, and Church shoved the heavy door open. The room teemed with instruments—lutes, shawms, viols, sackbuts, naker drums, harps. Around them the familiar smells of chalk dust, linseed oil, and aging songbooks filled the air.
On the far side, we opened another door into a music schoolroom. Instructors in feathered hats, with blooming shirtsleeves and pantaloons, stood before children and teenagers seated in rough semicircles around the outer walls. Each instructor held a different instrument and gestured to chalkboards marked with music notation.
I stepped into the cacophony of barking teachers, screeching oboes, and thumping lap drums. Everyone stopped playing and turned wide eyes toward us. Lady rushed ahead and explained to them who we were so they wouldn’t panic.
My skin was slick with sweat, and I collapsed into a chair near the door, uselessly fingering the hair ties around my wrist.
Chuey bent close, his rosary in hand. He was acclimating better to the pressures of the Strata than I was. “The old memories?” he asked.
“And then some,” I said. “Just need a tune to get my balance.”
He looked around the room, then made directly for a harpsichord against the rear wall. He whipped back imaginary coattails, sat on the bench, and ripped into “The Fifth Door” by Mannheim Steamroller. Chuey had a terrible voice, but he could have been a concert pianist.
The forceful rhythms and melody got inside me, soothing the ache and pressure. When I could think clearly again, I realized the song was part of a Renaissance-style fantasia sequence and smiled over at Chuey. He mugged back at me—we hadn’t wasted our library days. He then finished the song with a flourish, the music instructors and students breaking into immediate applause.
I took a deep breath, grabbed my bow, and pulled a long reverse stroke against two contact rods on my lantern, the way Madam had shown me. Darkshine filled the room, and I called to mind the coda-style pattern I’d seen in the mature wraith and all its souls.
In the darkness, I saw glimmerings of the coda symbol. But they seemed too weak to be the collection of the wraith’s many souls. I turned a slow circle until I saw a flaring coda pattern against the music room’s west wall.
When the darkshine faded, the music instructors and students were gaping at me.
Lady returned to my side. “You all right?”
“Good as I’m gonna be,” I said. “Did you let them know what’s going on?” “They’re ward-folk,” she replied. “They canfeel it collapsing. They were more concerned with the rumors that you killed Henry. But I set them straight.”
Church raised his voice to address the entire school. “Any of you who has a weapon, keep it at hand.”
The instructors began to marshal the students together as my friends and I hurried across the room and out the door into the street.
The daylight of the Renaissance Stratum shone brighter and more golden than any stratum I’d been to. Smoke filled the southeast sky, but the light turned it shades of wheat and hay. I still marveled to think this was all somehow underground. Or was it? But beneath all that golden light, a few yards outside the door, several dozen prowlers crowded the edge of the ward.
“The barrier hasn’t collapsed as far on the lower strata,” Lakshmi observed. “But there’s still no way through.”
