Nods all around.
“One thing,” I said. “Every time I go into the Strata, memories I’d forgotten get pulled up. Makes for rough sledding. Music helps if there’s some at hand. Just wanted you to be aware.”
My friends all nodded again, then one by one filtered out to eat, rest, drink in the pub. Chuey hung back—he could always sense when I wanted to talk. He handed me one of his pocket-sized caffeine drinks. I slugged it down.
With Wembley still on my mind, I asked, “You ever regret not taking that piano scholarship to Juilliard?”
“Every time I hear you sing,” he said with a laugh. “Nah, man. I’m good. I’m where I want to be.”
I shook my head in disbelief. Not that Chuey had the stones to turn down such a huge opportunity, but that I had a friend like him. A lot of things had come and gone in my life, but not Chuey. He made everyone around him better, happier. He slapped my shoulder and ducked out, leaving me again in the quiet sanctum of the greenroom.
With Chuey’s energy drink in me, I pulled over Henry’s books and started hum-reading again to the tune of “Behind Blue Eyes.” The language of thanaturgy was coming easier to me now, dots connecting. As much as that, reading the books and being here in the greenroom made me feel close to Henry. I was actually looking forward to finding Madam tomorrow, hoping she could help me get justice for my friend.
CHAPTER FORTY
English bastards came for my ancestral lands. Queen Elizabeth broke promises to do it, too. So, I harbor no affection for London’s ruling class, neither in the Strata nor in the world above. Nay, give me a good rebellion, the likes of which I and my Irish lords put forth. That’ll keep authority honest.
—Chancellor Grace O’Malley, statement on rumors of a Shiguan uprising
I slept past noon.Once I’d got to Henry’s books the night before, I was up reading ’til four in the morning. I grabbed a hot shower and snaked some cold kidney pie from the kitchen fridge. By two o’clock I felt almost normal again.
Everyone met in the Horse venue about quarter of three, all geared up. I checked to be sure Church had plenty of coin on him. Then, without much fanfare, we popped the hatch at the side of the stage and headed back down to the Strata to confront my would-be abductor.
As I descended the Abyssal Steps, my head started to pound, and I began to feel dizzy. Not far from the Modern Stratum door, lost memories pushed at me . . .
. . . Henry and I are lying on the Iron Horse roof, hoping to see a meteor. I tell him I did a science project on meteorites as a kid. Henry says he wishes he knew me back then . . .
I clutched the handrail and shuffled to the stratum door, traced the password, and we hurried inside. Music roared from the stage—thank the metal gods—softening the ache in my head. When we got out onto Manette Street, Chuey stopped and bent over. He had his rosary out and was working the beads.
“You okay?” I asked him.
“Why, you going to carry me?” He smiled. “I just know how delicate you are?—”
He gave me the metal salute and we got moving.
Neon billboard lights blazed with color as we turned on Charing Cross and ran south toward the Cambridge Circus Cinematograph Theatre, weaving through pedestrians and dodging trash bins. Ahead I spotted the white flashing bulbs of the Cinematograph marquee and pulled my lantern and bow. My friends readied their weapons, too.
But as we drew closer, something seemed off, or rather, normal. Nothing was on fire. Madam was nowhere to be seen, and no thanatists were battering the ward with light. Just semblances doing what people normally do, a few even going into the theater. The marquee above them showed three features:The Bright Path,London Today, andPaul Rutherford’s Swing Kings.
I wondered if someone had given Emaline bad information. “Let’s check inside,” I said.
Just short of the doors, we passed through the Iron Horse ward and stopped.
“Jack,” said Church, “the ward’s south end used to extend another few streets.”
Whatever this Madam was doing to contract the ward, it was happening from inside the theater, but going in cold seemed foolish.
“Lakshmi, will you see if there’s a rear entrance?” I pointed at the adjacent alley. “Come in behind any trouble we might encounter?”
“Wise plan,” she said.
As she disappeared up the street, I pushed through the theater door. Unlike the topside Cinematograph, the Modern Stratum version of the theater was rife with the fresh smell of popcorn and hot dogs. Old movie broadsides hung in the lobby bearing emphatic titles and men in uniform. A young woman stood behind the concession counter readingCrime and Punishment.
We cut left to the far aisle entrance and quietly pushed into the dark theater. Motes shone like tiny fireflies in the bright beam streaming down from the projection room. An almost entirely full house of semblances sat watching the title credits ofLondon Today. Then an old-time newsreel, complete with melodramatic voice-over, began to play. But it was showing news and video footage from the topside world—popular film and television programs set in London’s past, national museum adjunct-education videos, university enrollment campaigns for history departments.
The crowd began to jeer and toss popcorn at the screen.
On the screen, a figure stepped to a lectern. It was Morris Williams, London’s Minister of State for Creative Industries, Media, and Arts. Williams was one of the bodies I’d seen in Bazalgette’s watery graveyard. In the film here now, I could see his binding threads. Williams introduced himself and then toreinto a litany of complaints decrying topside London, gesturing wildly but with a rehearsed familiarity.
