Wister shook her head. “Clementine, please. I must insist.”
“Then I’ll go without you.”
“You don’t know the location of the portal.”
“Yes, I do.” Clementine gave a small, triumphant smile. “Indeed I do. Isn’t that why you’ve stayed at Keel House all these years, long after you were ready to rejoin the world? It’s not out of charity, or out of the wish to remain in the company of women at the edges of society. It’s because one of its doors is a portal.” The astonishment on Wister’s face was all the answer she needed.
Clem went on relentlessly. “It’s common knowledge that the only portals within striking distance are the one in Providence, now lost, and the one in Greater Boston used by the Cisneros Society—but there is a third. I knew not only because of your willingness to stay at Keel House, when you could easily afford to live unencumbered somewhere else, but also because of your tinted glasses. Isn’t that why you wear them? Because you enter the spirit realm regularly, and are perpetually burdened by the residues that you see upon your return? And the map. Your map is far too expansive, with far too much detail found nowhere else, to be the work of someone who hasnotspent time in the spirit realm. I believe you’ve explored it often.” Wister still didn’t speak, but her face acknowledged every point. “Tell me,” Clem demanded. “Are you also in league with the Cisneros Society?”
“Spirits below!” This accusation seemed to jolt Wister out of her astonishment. “Never. We are devoted to countering them.”
Clem’s eyes narrowed. “We?”
“Yes.We.” Wister crossed her arms and looked gravely at theyounger woman. “Weare the Sor Juana Alliance, an ancient and renowned society dedicated to the fair practice of enchantment. I am the head of the Massachusetts chapter. We are everything Cisneros is not, and we have protected this portal from them for years—I won’t allow you to imperil that.”
Clementine took a deep breath. “The Sor Juana Alliance,” she echoed. I could see that the name was new to her, as it was to me. “I won’t. I have no wish to imperil anything. Please, Wister. I’ll try every door in the house, and eventually I’ll find the right one. Please help me.”
Wister stared at her for several seconds longer, indecision and sympathy crossing her face in quick succession. “Very well, Clementine,” she said quietly. “I’ve heard you. And I will help.”
So saying, the two women left the apartment, making their way down the steps, across Salem, and toward the portal at Keel House.
The moment had arrived. At last.
On the other side of the portal, I was waiting.
PART VArmor Betrays
Sam: The Wall
It is a commonly held wisdom among the spirits in the realm that the wall has existed for thousands of years and that it is repaired and amended over time.
—Wister Amsel,A True Account of Explorations in the Realm
Monday, September 17, 1888
I waited for Clementine at the wall.
She would come. I knew she would come. If anyone had the strength and tenacity to come this far, my Clementine did. In place of Corbin’s lullaby, I had left her “Pretty Polly,” the tune played frequently by her downstairs neighbor. I’d transported the bottles painstakingly by rope and pulley, accompanied by a note in a glass jar. I hoped it would be enough. I waited. I stared into the fog.
There was no sign of her. Then, a sound that filled me with dread: I heard the slow, groaning rumble of an Oaring, still some distance off but coming our way, and my heart sank. “No, no, no,” I muttered aloud. “Not now.” If she hadn’t secured herself to the mooring line, the violent waves that came in the Oaring’s wake would send her adrift, carrying her off into the currents. “Miss Quinn,” I called out into the fog. “Are you there?”
It was so strange to be unable to see her, to have no idea where and how she was.
No answer came. The sound of the Oaring grew louder, and I glimpsed the dark shape of it some distance off, a giant shadow overhead, bulky and dark as a storm cloud. “Miss Clementine Quinn!” I called again.
Then I felt it: a tug on the rope. Not strong, but unmistakable. I tugged back twice, gently. “You’re almost there,” I shouted. “Keep going.”
She came out of the mist like a warrior emerging from battle, slogging toward me with labored steps, hauling herself hand over hand on the blue mooring line. I felt such relief and gladness at the sight of her. She wore the armored boots and the chain mail shirt; the rope she carried had been looped around the line and fastened at her waist. The Oaring was closer now, and its dreadful lamentations obliterated all other sound. I sent Clementine a surge of encouragement before remembering that she was here, in the spirit realm, and would feel nothing. She was only twenty paces away now, and the Oaring was overhead, casting its dark shadow over us. I feared she wouldn’t make it in time. She took a step, and another.
No, she wouldn’t make it. In that moment I didn’t think about the scree; Clementine was in danger, that was all that mattered. I needed to reach her. I vaulted the wall and closed the distance between us. Finally, I could do something with my own self to help her; I wrapped my arms around her, grasping the rope with both hands. “Hold on,” I cried.
Now the Oaring passed, unleashing a furious, swirling current. We were swept off our feet. She had one arm hooked onto the blue mooring line and one arm wrapped around my waist: I had both hands on the mooring line on either side of her. For several seconds we stayed that way: me weighed down by my stone-studded netting, holding her and the rope with all my might; Clementine hooked to the blue line, fluttering like a sock on a clothesline caught in a gale. Then, finally, the rushing current began to ebb, and Clementine’s feet began to drift downward, downward, back to the stones. She collapsed into a pile beside the blue mooring line.
The worst was over. We hadn’t been carried away.
“There won’t be another for a while now,” I said to her, drawing back. She nodded, gasping for breath. “You can let go of the line.”
She let go. After a minute, her breathing was less ragged, and she pushed herself to her feet. I was conscious, suddenly, of the space between us. She was a few inches shorter than me, and she was looking up at my face expectantly. Strands of hair were plastered to her damp cheeks. I stopped myself from wiping them aside, gesturing instead to the stony ground. “You should sit,” I said to her. “Rest a moment. It’s better if you don’t come any farther in,” I added. “The air grows even thinner. As long as we’re together, I can remain on this side of the wall.” She nodded. I was a little dismayed to see how spent she looked. We didn’t have much time.
