Page 9
Another clank.
“Come.” He sighs, more like a man being inconvenienced than frightened. “Night is not the safest time. We need to light every fire we can. Rooms without fireplaces must be secured.” He lifts his lantern and strides into the hall.
I set my cup aside and follow.
“Rule number two,” he adds, voice low. “If you see something out of the ordinary, ignore it.”
My stride falters. “What do you mean?”
“Come. I will show you.”
We move down the long hallway, passing the narrow staircase Daisy led me down earlier, and veer right. Several doors line this passageway. At each one he tries the knob and if it is locked, moves on.
“What’s going on? I thought we were lighting fireplaces?” I ask, fingers catching his shoulder for a moment.
He doesn’t answer. He moves forward, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. At the next open door, he peeks inside and sweeps his lantern in a slow arc.
On the ceiling, the shadows cling in clusters as if they are alive, flattening themselves away from the light. For a heartbeat something shifts, a shape scuttling just out of sight.
He exhales sharply and glances at the floor. Another clank echoes from somewhere ahead.
Instinctively, I grip his shoulder again. Beneath the fabric, I feel a tension of muscle, taut and ready. He turns his head, and in the lantern’s glow I finally see his face clearly. The full symmetry of him hits me like a physical force. High cheekbones, a straight nose, a mouth that looks almost cruel. There is something ancient and foreboding in his stillness—a statue left too long to brace the harsh winter climate.
We are close. Too close.
The corner of his mouth lifts just a fraction. His bright blue eyes flick past me to the darkness at my back.
I can’t help turning to look. Nothing. Only the endless corridor and the threat of shadowed corners.
“Whatever happens, keep talking,” he says, moving past me. His tone is calm and practiced, like he’s done this a hundred times. “Let’s start with something basic. What do you remember?”
We continue down the hall with long strides. Dr. Lazarus opens another door, peers inside. Shapes retreat from the firelight, splotchy outlines of humanoid figures which appear to linger just out of sight. Unable to digest the dreadful awe coalescing into eerie tricks of the dark, I close my eyes so tightly that all I see are stars.
Another clank.
“Talk,” he prompts.
“I am trying,” I mutter, opening my eyes again. I think back to the rocky tunnel I’d been walking around in, briefly aware that I was watching myself traverse this plane beyond existence. Should I tell him about that? No. Maybe not. Maybe he’d think I had lost my mind, truly.
From an interior pocket of his jacket, Dr. Lazarus retrieves a glass bottle filled with a white, grainy substance. He then pours a thin line across the threshold of the door. Salt? He repeats this at several doorways.
Every threshold we had passed and continue to pass bears a similar pale line.
Unease slithers up my spine but I follow him dutifully as we cross a wide foyer and enter the dining room. He kneels before a tall black hearth, arranging kindling and logs with brisk precision. A moment later, a fire roars to life, casting a golden glow over a long table and tattered velvet chairs.
The clanking stops almost instantly.
“What was that about?” I ask. If he is afraid of something, he hides it well.
“You will see soon enough,” he answers. “For now, I’m serious. Tell me what you remember.”
I huff a sharp breath but his expectant gaze does not waver. “Fine.” I close my eyes. My mind sinks downward, toward the place beyond waking—the labyrinth that eats its own travelers. It feels like trying to pry open doors that have been welded shut. After a struggle, a few threads float up. “The obvious; my name Marisa,” I say slowly. “I know I was born in a city. I can see the vague outline of buildings, smell the bitter cold air but I cannot picture my own face. I don’t know what my favorite foods are. I don’t even know my family name.”
I open my eyes again. From his crouched position he simply nods, poking at the fire.
“The last thing I truly remember is the whistling of wind and the outline of trees peering down at me as I fell to the sea.”
Dr. Lazarus releases a short laugh and rises. Standing by the firelight, he looks like he’d been carved from stone and animated by a forbidden ritual. I couldn’t place my finger on the unnatural look and feel of him. He just looked impenetrable.
