Finding You Page 4

  I look down at my lap, and she turns away. Should we comfort each other? Are there words we should say? If there are, I don’t know them.

  One by one, each girl takes a seat on the ground or on one of the bunks, and we nearly fill all the gaps as we make an unofficial circle about the perimeter. There are more than a dozen of us. A dozen girls who should be at home in bed, dreaming of sweethearts.

  I hope Tam is thinking about me right now, looking for a way to get to me. I hope he dreams about me when he sleeps. I wonder what he feels when he thinks about kissing me, if he regrets it now, or wishes he’d done it sooner. The latter, I think, hoping it’s true. Maybe he’s already thinking about when he can kiss me again. Through the lace of my blouse, I touch the necklace, pressing my eyes shut and telling myself again and again that he’ll come. He’s the boy who breaks rules, the boy who stands up for the weak, the boy who wouldn’t see me attacked and not find a way to save me. He’s the boy who kissed me, the boy who loves me, I hope. He’ll find me. He’ll save me.

  At some point, Eugenia falls asleep against my shoulder, our backs to the iron bars of the cell beside ours. My body aches; I wish I could relax. The jailer’s rumbling snore tells me that he has fallen asleep, but even that relief isn’t much. Most of the girls drift off to sleep against one another, but across the cell, the cat-girl is still awake. I meet her eyes, and we stare at each other for a time.

  “I’m Isla,” I say finally.

  She regards me coolly. “Phoebe,” she says after a moment. Her voice is low and beautiful. It’s full of strength and pain and waiting, but somewhere underneath, there’s also fire.

  I only know one tie that connects me to every girl here. “How did they take you?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says, still cool. “None of that matters. Because I’m going to escape.”

  I believe her. “Will you take me with you, when you go?” I hold her gaze while I wait for her answer.

  “You can follow me, but I won’t wait for anyone.”

  I nod and we are quiet.

  Has it been two days I’ve been in this nightmare of a reality? A night on the train, and now a night in this cell? In my head, a lifetime has passed.

  I close my eyes and lean back my head, letting it drop against Eugenia’s. At least if I sleep, I might dream. And if I dream, I might see Tam.

  five

  A sound wakes me, jolting me into reality. The jailer is sitting upright, looking behind and above him. I follow his gaze up a set of stone stairs, different from the ones we came down, to an open door. Figures appear, illuminated by a lantern that one carries. I sit up straighter, alert.

  There are three men, crowded precariously together on the narrow stairs. I can’t see them well until they reach the bottom, but it’s clear that the two on either side are guards of some sort. Their uniforms are a little like soldiers’, crisp and simple, belted at the waist with a pistol, their boots tall and heavy.

  The third man, the one in the middle, isn’t as tall. There are chains about his wrists, and his clothes are torn and grungy. After some muttered words, the jailer gets grudgingly to his feet and fiddles with his keys to unlock the cell at my back.

  The prisoner is thrown carelessly inside and the door is bolted. I watch in amazement as he scrambles to the bars and, taking hold of them, calls, “Always a pleasure, gentlemen! I’ll take my tea anytime after three, thank you!” In one swift movement, the nearer of the guards draws a small club from his belt and cracks it against the bars with a ringing crash.

  “I’m afraid you missed me that time,” calls the prisoner, jumping back. But his voice catches slightly. I think he’s lying.

  I turn to watch him through the grating as the guards pause a moment to speak with the jailer, blocking the light, so I can barely see the man’s face. “Are you mad?” I whisper, sitting cross-legged.

  “Perhaps a little,” he says softly. I get the distinct impression he’s grinning, even though I can’t see him. “A couple o’ years in this place will do all sorts of things to you.”

  I exhale. “Years?” I ask, wanting to ignore the despair that is nipping at me.

  “Three, I think,” he says resignedly. “I’ve lost count of the days, you see. You all must be the new load.”

  I won’t cry. I won’t.

  The guards bid our jailer good day, and as they move toward the stairs, yellow lantern light floods our cells. The man lunges toward the bars, eyes wide, staring at me. “Lillian?” he says, sounding frantic.

  I pull back slightly. “I—I’m not—” I start, alarmed.

  “I’m sorry, no, I’m sorry.” He sinks back, shaking his head. “I thought…” He takes a deep breath and shakes himself, as if it was nothing. Everything is quiet. Finally he says, “Never mind,” plastering on an unconvincing smile and sitting back a little farther, so part of his face is hidden by the shadows.

  “I don’t know who Lillian is,” I say softly, drawing close to the bars again. “I’m Isla.”

  He watches me intently, the muscles in his arms taut, his neck strained. “I thought you were my sister,” he says, his voice very quiet. “You look just like her.”

  I feel as if I should apologize, or console him somehow, but I don’t know what to say. For a long minute I just stare back. He can’t be more than twenty or twenty-one, but his eyes look older.

  “I’m Des,” he says, extending a loosely shackled hand through the bars.

  “What kind of name is that?” I ask, shaking it.

  He grins wryly. “No one in his right mind would let a pretty girl call him Despard.” I like the way his eyebrow seems to crook of its own accord. I can feel the tension easing until he asks, “When did they bring you in?” I don’t answer, and he goes on. “It must have been sometime last night, when I was working. Did you go straight to Curram, then? Nobody get at you first?” Finally he must notice that I’m upset. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, studying my face. “Fresh, then, huh?”

  I nod. “I guess. I was free two days ago … or three. I don’t know now.”

  His hand grazes my fingers where they rest on the bars. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “The first few days are some of the worst. Everything lovely is still fresh in your memory. You’re better off just trying to forget, Isla.”

  “I don’t want to forget the lovely things. There’s nothing here but horror.” Des watches me and sighs.

  “You’ll learn to forget,” he insists. “You’ll want to. There’s only darkness in here. Thinking about the light just makes the shadows seem deeper.”

  “Who is Curram?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.

  “All silk and velvet, dark beard and darker eyes; he would have gone to pick you out.” The man Des describes is still fresh behind my eyelids. “That’s Zachariah Curram. He owns you now; he owns all of us.” His insistence on spitting out the truth is grating on me.

  “Are you bleeding?” I ask as he presses his knuckles to his ragged shirt.

  “Not much. I’ll be better by the next time he tries to smash me in.” That grin again. The pain at the mention of his sister is gone, replaced by carelessness and joviality. His next question confuses me even more. “How do you like the food, then? As good as home, or better?”

  “Food?”

  “They haven’t fed you yet?” His indignation is mocking. “Just wait, Isla. You’re in for a real treat.”

  “I wasn’t sure they planned on feeding us at all.”

  “Why else would they install that charming toilet in your cell? Don’t be silly, my dear girl. There’s a perfectly lovely hole in the ground in the far corner for your convenience once they’ve fed you. Curram doesn’t want skeletons.”

  “There’s a tunnel?” Phoebe’s sharp voice interrupts our conversation. The cat-girl scrambles over to the bars and shoves her way in beside me.

  “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Des.” He grins, extending his hand again.

  Phoebe takes no notice. “Does i
t lead to anywhere? Where does it come out?”

  “She’s Phoebe,” I say, and Des nods his thanks. “She likes to eavesdrop,” I continue, teasing. It’s strange to joke here, when everything is wrong. My words echo back to me, scolding.

  “The tunnel is only about a hand’s breadth wide, but you’re welcome to try it,” Des says. “Don’t eat anything for a few days and you should be fine.”

  “Don’t mock me,” Phoebe hisses, settling back in momentary defeat. “I’ll be gone one morning and you’ll wish you had listened to me.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first one with grand schemes of escape,” Des says quietly. He isn’t smiling now, and I try to picture him, three years ago, as desperate to leave as we are now. How can that go away? How can time make a place like this, a life like this, more bearable? He turns away from the bars, and when I look up, I find Valentina’s eyes on me. She makes a weak attempt at a smile, pulling her knees up to her chest, but there are tears on her cheeks.

  “Are you all right?” I ask, and she nods, her eyes welling up again. I glance once more over my shoulder at Des before crawling to where Valentina is sitting against the back wall and settling next to her. She’s shaking, trying so hard not to cry, her hands clasped in white fists at her sides. “You don’t have to pretend,” I say softly.

  She fights it for another moment, but her next breath comes shuddering out, a dam breaking. “I don’t want to forget,” she sobs, her voice trembling. “I don’t want to, but remembering hurts.” She swipes at the tears streaming down her face, staring at her hands, shaking her head.

  “What happened?” I ask, hoping it’ll help her to talk it through. Tam would have a handkerchief to offer her, I think, momentarily distracted.

  Valentina tries to take a deep breath, but she’s still shaking, stammering through her words. “They must have thought I was—was alone in the garden,” she gets out finally. “It’s hardly a garden, really, just—just a pathetic square of grass in front of the house, with the peonies that I … it doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head like she’s clearing it. “There were three of them, men like at the warehouse. They grabbed hold of me but my—my brother saw and came running into the yard, to stop them, you know? To help me. Davey.” She exhales slowly, pressing her eyes shut. “One of them shot him. There was blood everywhere. He was thirteen. I’ll never forget him, and I don’t want to—that he tried to help, that it was the last time I’ll ever see him. But, Isla, it’s all there in my head, whenever I close my eyes. The blood, on the house, on the ground, coming out of his shirt. I can hear his gasping, and the little ones screaming inside, the noise, and my own voice, saying his name I think, over and over as they pulled me away.” She lifts her hands, looking at them hopelessly. “I couldn’t save him. I tried to fight them and I couldn’t save anyone, not even myself.” When she stops talking, the silence feels hollow.

  “I’m so sorry,” I hear myself saying once, twice, a dozen times. “I’m so sorry.”

  It must be hours later that a pair of serving women come with a pail of stew, spoons, and chipped bowls, and a loaf of bread almost as hard as the stone we sit on. They set the food down on the ground outside the cell, looking anywhere but at our faces. There’s also a jar of water to pass around, but it tastes like rust.

  One of the girls serves the stew. I’m too hungry to turn my nose up, but it tastes like we’re eating the burnt scrapings of different pots all mixed together. There are shreds of vegetables in the greasy broth, along with some indistinguishable meat. At the first bite, my stomach lurches, and also at the second, but I force myself to eat. Slowly, so I won’t get sick. At least the stew is still warm. I’ve eaten half before I notice that Des doesn’t have anything. “Take the rest,” I say, moving closer and slipping the bowl underneath the grating.

  “Nah,” he says nonchalantly. “I snatched a biscuit from Curram’s study earlier.”

  “Des. Take it.” My stomach growls, and I hope he can’t hear it. Even as he picks up the bowl, he’s still insisting he isn’t hungry, but Pa pretended the same countless times, to make me eat when there wasn’t much. Thinking about him hurts.

  A moment later, the empty bowl clatters on the ground. “Thank you,” Des says.

  “Don’t they feed you?” Valentina asks, leaning toward the bars.

  “Not if Curram’s cross, no.” He watches her for a long minute. “Who’s your friend?” he asks.

  “I’m Valentina,” she says, frowning.

  “Lovely.” Her frown deepens when he winks at her. “Well, Isla, Valentina, I’m going to get a few hours of sleep, but I’ll see you in the morning. Or the evening. You never really know for sure down here.” He grins once more and climbs onto the nearest bunk, and in seconds he’s still.

  Most of the other girls have begun whispering in their own tight clusters. Some still sit numbly without speaking. A few are asleep already, and one is still crying.

  Valentina falls asleep against me as I sit and blankly watch the shadows cast by our jailer’s movements. I hate the sickly yellow of oil light. How long has it been since I saw real light? Just a day, since the cart? It feels like longer. I miss the sun on hot shingles, the sun glinting off Industria’s many machines. I miss Tam and his bronze arms, his golden head in my lap, his hastily spouted dreams sinking into my skin. Why was I so certain I could keep him, when he was always telling me that he’d leave? Why did I think what we had was untouchable?

  Tucked into the corner of this cell, with the cold seeping into my bones, I feel nothing but fragile. Exposed, alone. I hate that I already don’t notice the smell anymore. I’m scared to think what will happen next. But I’m tired, and slowly my eyelids start to droop, and the next thing I know, I’m waking up, with a dream somewhere in the back of my thoughts.

  My neck aches from the stone, and my temples pound. A pillow should be the last thing I have time to wish for, but I can’t help it. At least I have a moment to myself, I think, trying to be grateful for something. Then I catch sight of the jailer, watching our cell from his bench with his dark, beady eyes.

  I shift slightly, willing him to fall asleep, or better yet, disappear entirely.

  If it’s morning now, then this is the fourth day, I decide, though it could be more or fewer; it’s so hard to tell without sunlight. I trace four vertical lines on the floor with my finger, though it leaves no mark. I’ve survived four days.

  Instead of giving me hope, the number makes me worry.

  This won’t last much longer. I’m sure Zachariah Curram did not spend his precious money only to leave us in a dingy hole and never … make use of us. I’m starting to guess what comes next.

  This moment, this quiet, must be the calm before the storm, so to speak.

  Still, I start when the door at the top of the stairs snaps open, and two men appear, silhouetted by the relative light outside. They descend the staircase, talking quietly and easily.

  I hold my breath, heart pounding.

  But it’s only Des they want.

  They unlock his cell and haul him out, up the stairs, and out of view. Des doesn’t tease or cajole them this time. The door closes with a soft thud, and all is quiet again. My lungs collapse with relief, even though I know I shouldn’t give in to it.

  Around me, whispered conversations start as everyone wakes fully. Phoebe, of course, says and does nothing, and yet I can almost feel her mind working. I think about asking her what her plans are, but I don’t. Instead I listen as Valentina tells me about the flowers she learned to grow, the seedlings that did poorly in the rainy months, the bulbs she found in the window boxes of an abandoned shop, and the care her brother Davey took to water them all when she was sick one summer.

  “Around us, everything is ugly, even in the nicer months. It’s just part of living there. But my boxes are like a little way out of that. A piece of prettiness in all the gray, even though Mama says I’m wasting my time. But I don’t agree. My flowers give people a break from all of the plainness.�
�� I’m sure Valentina is wondering what will happen to them now, but neither of us says so.

  The peace is broken suddenly by the door at the top of the stairs bursting open. We all start as one, and Valentina’s flowers are forgotten. Is it Des already? How long has it been, an hour? Two? The silhouettes of three men appear: two soldiers, as always, and another. It isn’t Des.

  I catch my breath and watch as they descend the steps, the prison soundless but for the muffled thuds made by their boots. No one else speaks, moves, breathes.

  The stranger is not a prisoner; if anything, he is leading the men. His clothes are fine, velvet and silk, but unflattering: his cravat tight but everything else ill-fitting; a black bombin hat perched awkwardly on his close-shaven head. He walks quickly with jagged steps toward the cell, and I recognize him: Curram’s man, the one who handled the money at the warehouse.

  He stops only inches from the bars and looks in at us, his face twisted into an ugly, condescending sneer.

  We all shrink back at the same time, as far from the cell door as possible. Someone’s hand clutches mine, small and cold as ice; Eugenia stares at me, trembling. I squeeze her fingers with my own, wishing I could tell her to be strong, that we’ll be all right. But I’m sure we won’t be.

  The man is smiling now, his pale eyes raising gooseflesh on my arms. He puts a key in the cell’s lock, turns it, and opens the door.

  six

  I can’t back up any farther. The walls feel closer, the cell smaller. Someone starts to cry, and my pulse races in my ears. The man looks like a giant, towering over us with his arms crossed, amusement evident on his face.

  He is still as stone except for his eyes, which flick from one of us to the next. I brace myself for him to move, but when he lunges forward, I jump anyway. It’s Eugenia he grabs, yanking her to her feet, pulling her hand out of mine. I’m too startled to hold on, fixated as her hair tumbles forward to cover her face, and it’s as if I’m seeing myself taken away, her skin as white as bone in the shadows.