The darkness inside her words didn’t match the gentle lines of her face. And while I had to find Henry, I hadn’t thought about the possible cost until she laid it out so nonchalantly.
She escorted Cassius and me to the opposite end of the hall, stopping next to a tank. “Tell no one of our collaboration. I am pleased with our arrangement, but if others found out, I’d be censured.”
“I can keep a secret,” I told her. “So, I guess we have a deal, then. Do we need to make some kind of oath?”
“You mean like a blood vow?” She laughed. “That’s topside cinema at its worst.”
“What about your little blood-flicking trick?—”
“It gets awfully dull here sometimes. No, how about this?” She leaned in and gave me a kiss. Not long, but not short. Her lips were soft and warm, and carried the mild scent of lilac.
That certainly seemed binding. “I can’t tell if we’ve just had our first date or not?”
She laughed again, but softer. “It’s a risky proposition you’ve committed yourself to, Jack. I’m so very glad you did. Now, you’re welcome to use these steps to return to the surface.”
Behind the battered old German Panzer IV, an unassuming door stood unguarded. It opened onto a dark stairwell. My field manual had a map of each stratum’s steps to the layer above and below it. Those marked in red were monitored. This obviously wasn’t one of them.
Cassius and I stepped in behind Margaretha, who’d agreed to lead us up since I didn’t feel ready to try it on my own.
Going up was a lot like going down. The silky touch of the dark wrapped us in its cool embrace. The old pressure pulsed in my temples, though not as bad as it had coming down. And I followed without needing a hand. Still, I was eager to breathe the stinking air of my own London again, and when we got outside the museum topside, I took a few deep breaths.
I’d just traveled back in time and returned to the present. And that wasn’t even the strangest part.
It was still night, the stars and moon shining high above—the sky in the present world had a depth it didn’t have in the Strata. I checked my watch. It seemed time passed below the same as it did above. Then we caught the first taxi that came by, and I promised the driver double fare to speed us back to the Horse.The ward had shrunk past my flat, so I’d sleep in the greenroom for the foreseeable future. I texted the gang to let them know where I’d be.
When we passed through the ward barrier on Charing Cross Road, a thanatist was prowling at its edge, a Shiguan tattoo on his neck. He scowled as we went by. We ignored him and had the cabbie drop us off out front of the Horse.
Cassius said he’d walk patrol out on Manette. Fine. I ducked inside, grabbed a quick shower in the rear-venue john, snaked some cold chicken tenders from the kitchen fridge, and plopped myself down on the old greenroom couch. Someone—probably Church—had fetched my books and left them on the end table. It was nearly three in the morning, but tired as I was, I wasn’t sleepy. So, I dove back in, reading like mad, humming softly to speed the words and boost my recall.
The safety of the Iron Horse and peace of the greenroom felt as good as they ever had. More home than home. I really hoped Emaline could help me save this old place.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The sixteen-year-old boy set fire to houses at the height of the Blitz to guide the Luftwaffe to their targets. He was the first of hundreds of British Fifth Columnists—Berlin sympathizers—whom Nancy Wake, Chancellor of the Raptorial faction, hunted down and killed.
—Excerpt from the pending challenge to
Ms. Wake’s fitness for a seat upon the Strata Chancery
I opened my eyes,realizing immediately where I was. Last time I’d been in the greenroom, I’d talked Angela DuFresne up for her gig. That was just two days ago. Now she was dead. The thought brought on an avalanche—dying and being reborn, the wraith that had my scent, my agreement with Emaline to avert a revolution . . . Henry.
Tension pushed against the backs of my eyes. I turned down the volume on my phone and checked my voice messages.
The first was from my landlord. The Phoenix had been sold. New ownership intended to “revert the theater back to its music hall origins.” I had a week to clear out my things. The second was from Sixth Angel Entertainment—the Hounds’ new management. Again, something about their new singer. Apparently, it was nowurgentI get in touch.
Losing my home. Losing the band. The skin at my wrist began to itch. I needed music.Now.
I grabbed the old dreadnought we left here in the greenroom and headed out into the pub. I liked sitting near a window when I wrote. I cranked up the shutter and sat down at my booth. The morning sun fell on my back, casting my shadow across the table—storm-grey shimmering against charcoal, like a lake under winter sun.
I recognized the gleam-note pattern from before—theShawshanksound with two notes down, and two up—lighting in quick succession. This time, though, in a corner of my shadow, I noticed another pattern, a small circle with a cross through it, the music symbol for coda—like I’d seen in Jimmy’s shadow the day before. None of the books mentioned the coda symbol, so for now, I put it out of my mind.
Then, I fingered the first chord of “They Always Go Away,” brushed the strings, and sang the first line. Like a mild wind blowing over embers, the largest occlusion in my shadow brightened with a soft amber light—just the central scar, not the many smaller scars that snaked away from it.
And it ached the way this song always did when I worked on it—like a wound that hurt to touch. Somehow, though, the music made the pain bearable.
So, inside the quiet of the Iron Horse, I played and told the story: standing in the front-room window, watching Mama back down the driveway, a suitcase in the front seat next to her.
As I approached the third verse, my fingers started trembling and my voice quavered. Maybe if I kept my eye on my shadow, maybe if I stared at that one occlusion, I might get it right this time.
