Finding You Read online

  He adjusts his grip on her arms as she screams for help and thrashes uselessly. He’s bigger, stronger, and I’m frozen in horror.

  I hear her cries, and they might as well be mine.

  The man’s hat is knocked off his head, and with a grunt he flings Eugenia out of the cell and to the ground outside. The soldiers hoist her to her feet; she looks like a porcelain doll, pale and fragile, between them. They drag her up the stairs, weeping and still begging for help, and I sit, unable to move.

  The fancy man is still standing in the entrance to the cell, but now he is watching us. He bends very deliberately to pick up his hat, his eyes running over us the entire time. When he places the hat slowly onto his head, he’s smiling.

  Then he backs out of the cell and shuts it behind him, turning the lock and hooking his cluttered ring of keys on his belt once more. He turns, climbs the stairs, and is gone.

  Eugenia’s screams echo off the walls, or perhaps only inside my head. Fear fills the air, pushing my heart faster and faster. I can’t think about her. I don’t want to imagine what comes next.

  It sounds as if half of the girls in the cell are sobbing loud, ugly tears. I run over math problems and lists of principal cities in my head until I manage to drown out my imagination and at last feel numb. Someone begins to cough, and it seems to go on forever. Outside our cell, the jailer sits and watches us. Eventually he takes out a charcoal pencil and sketches on scraps of paper. I’m sure we’re the subjects. Sometimes he drinks from a flask kept in his boot, and sometimes he tips his head back and snores. I stare at him until I forget that I’m staring, wishing he would drop dead.

  Beside me, Valentina is trembling, trying not to cry. Comfort is pointless here, I think, but I bring her head down to rest in my lap and stroke the hair from her face, clasping Tam’s locket in my free hand.

  Eugenia had a brother the same year as Tam in school, I think.

  We all jump when the door opens again. But it’s a pair of sentries with a familiar figure between them, looking strong and confident, even in chains.

  Des is tossed into his cell with no more gentleness than before and responds with familiar wit. When the sentries leave, he leans his face against the bars and studies us, one eyebrow cocked. “And how are you ladies faring this fine day?”

  I have no patience for him this time. “You might have warned us how suddenly he’d come, or told us that he’d—that—something! You might have tried to prepare us!”

  His face drops, looking ashen. “Boyne came? Today?” His voice is quiet as he looks over our number, taking a seat on the ground. “How many did he take?”

  “One. Someone I knew from school.” Some of my anger is siphoned away by his genuine sadness, but I wish I could hang on to it, as a sort of defense. “When will he come back?”

  Des seems to sink lower. He glances around our cell, then back at me, closing his eyes and holding them shut for a moment. “It’s impossible to say. It could be tomorrow, or tonight, or in a week or a month. I thought—I thought Curram was too busy—had too much—” He grasps at empty words.

  “Apparently not,” I murmur. Our jailer gets up and shuffles up the stairs, distracting me. “Will he be gone all night?” I ask, hopeful for a second.

  “I couldn’t say,” Des answers, sounding tired. “He’s allowed to leave, to eat and relieve himself and sleep. But I think he likes being down here, or he’d go more often. Doesn’t miss the sun. He’s made for the shadows, and the filth.”

  “I don’t suppose he ever leaves the keys?” Phoebe’s voice drifts across the cell, low and smooth. I wonder if she’s always listening, or only when there might be an opportunity for escape.

  “Never. And unless your arms are a lot longer than they look, it wouldn’t do you any good besides.”

  Valentina is sitting up now, watching Des as well. “I don’t understand you,” I say, growing more frustrated. “Aren’t you a slave here, too? Why would you mock her wanting to escape?”

  He goes very still for a moment, holding her gaze. “You shouldn’t ask questions,” he says. “None of what goes on here is pretty.”

  I glance at Valentina. “We don’t need pretty,” I press.

  There’s a long silence and Des looks as if he’s gearing up to make another joke, but his eyes are afraid. “I’m not a slave like you, no,” he says finally. “I work for our dear Mister Curram. I’m a part of the reason you’re here.”

  “What the hell?” hisses Phoebe, at my side in an instant, her face close to the bars.

  I try to ignore her, holding Des’s gaze. “What do you mean?” I say slowly. “The whole story.”

  He swallows hard. “I’m a thief,” he states simply, the words heavy. “A good one, too. At least Curram thinks so.” His voice becomes quieter. “When I was a kid, I lied my way into places, picked enough pockets to afford good clothes, and lied my way into better places from there. I wasn’t hurting anyone. I only took from the ones rich enough not to miss it. Money, mostly; whatever was at the back of the vault, you know? I was always a good liar; it didn’t take much to charm my way into a party at a great house or onto the arm of a woman with an invitation. I robbed at least a dozen fools in the first year.” He takes a breath, glancing around as if to ask whether or not he should go on. Phoebe glowers at him, and his eyes drop to the ground.

  “Early on I got books for my sister and me to educate ourselves, and with my pa not working, I was taking care of the three of us and it felt good, you know? Outsmarting all of these peacocks in their big houses? That was it. I was too confident. Me, cocky.” There’s a smirk at this, but it’s gone in a second.

  “Money wasn’t enough. I told myself I needed to feel challenged. I was an idiot. By the time I worked my way up to stealing ledgers and family heirlooms for the thrill of it, I wasn’t nearly as careful as I had been before. I didn’t know who Curram was; just another rich face as far as I was concerned. I danced with his wife and took a bracelet right off her wrist, a whole string of sapphires. He was the first to ever notice. Had me followed home, and before I realized what was going on, I was out cold. I woke up tied to a chair in Curram’s office.”

  He stops, and no one speaks for a long moment.

  “But what do you do for him?” demands Phoebe, pressing in close again.

  “I make him rich, simple as that. At parties, meetings. If he needs to blackmail someone, I get the dirt he needs.”

  “What else?”

  Des scoffs. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Then why not escape?” I ask. “You could think of a way. You have time we don’t. Why aren’t you trying to leave?”

  “What does it matter why?” snaps Phoebe, glaring at him and gesturing around the cell. “Did you bring us here?” The other girls are looking over now. “If it’s your fault that I’m sitting in this damned cell, I’ll tear your head off—”

  “Go for it,” Des says, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. “We’re back to your long arms, I see.”

  The cells grow quiet, and the stillness feels sad. A part of me wants to stand up and demand more answers, but it’s clear that Des is done talking. Phoebe slinks back to the corner, her face contorted into an angry scowl, a promise that she won’t let this go. I watch Des for a moment, running over his story in my head. He’s had three years. He could leave, I’m sure he could. When he’s above ground, stealing something, he could find a way. He must have a connection to Curram that he’s not telling us.

  Sitting in dismal silence, my thoughts turn to Eugenia. I don’t want to think about where she is. Will I even see her again? What will Curram do with her after … after he’s finished? I could ask Des, but I don’t. Whenever I glance over at him, he’s staring into the shadows with a vacant look on his face.

  When Tam told me stories, he knew how to make places sound familiar and thrilling at the same time, like the islands he longed to see were old but unpredictable friends. He’d manage just enough patience to finish a book
written by a sea captain he thought very brave, and then come to my roof to list the number of times the man had beaten death.

  “I could do that,” he’d say, sprawled out across the shingles, squinting up at me.

  And my heart would start to race at the idea that he’d go, and I’d think of an obstacle. “What if your sails had been torn in the storm, though? And they’d gone down with the ship? What would you do then?”

  “I’d figure something out,” he’d mumble, and I knew that I could keep him for at least as long as it took him to read another adventure story. He was the only person whose inability to read quickly never bothered me.

  I wish I had a story to listen to now, instead of just my own thoughts. I wish I had Tam. Hurry, my love. Fight the odds and find me quickly. Solve this problem like you solved all the others.

  seven

  I wake up on the floor, achy and cold.

  It was so hot in the city. How can it be so cold underground?

  The jailer is back at his post, sketching something. He meets my eyes when I sit up, and I look away. I’ve only been awake a moment when the door at the top of the stairs clicks open.

  All around me other girls wake up, rubbing sleep from their eyes and murmuring to each other. “Shh,” I say, a finger against my lips. The door swings open, and I hold my breath. I look at Valentina; her mouth is set in a grim line, her eyes wide. She gives me a tight nod.

  Wordlessly, everyone shrinks against the back of the cell.

  Four figures this time: the man who came before, with the ill-fitting clothes and bowler hat, another pair of guards, and, held between them, the limp form of a girl. Eugenia. But it’s the man who holds my attention. The hair on my arms stands up; his eerie, intense strangeness makes me feel almost sick.

  When he reaches the bars of our cell, nobody breathes. He puts the key into the lock and turns it creakily, enjoying our fear. The door opens and he stands there a moment, waiting to see if we’ll react.

  “There’s no need for you to volunteer, ladies,” he says, smirking. “I’m only returning one of your own today. Don’t fret, I’ll see you again soon enough.” I look straight at him and refuse to turn away. His gaze meets mine for the second time, and he hesitates, smiling a little. Then he steps aside and his soldiers toss Eugenia carelessly inside.

  The cell door clangs shut, and in a moment the fancy man—Boyne, Des called him—is gone, leaving the soldiers in conversation with the jailer. None of us moves or speaks; the soldiers’ presence makes me uneasy, and when I steal a glance at the other cell, Des only looks at the ground.

  Eugenia is curled into an unmoving ball on the dirty floor. At first I wonder if she might be unconscious, but when I look closer, I can see that she’s shaking with silent tears. The frilly, revealing dress she was wearing when they took her upstairs is gone, and in its place she wears the sort of underclothes that I imagine are sold in the stores with black curtains. Her corset, which has been laced up carelessly, barely covers her breasts, and her pantaloons are lacy and revealing, almost transparent in the lantern light. Her stockings droop unevenly, gathering around her knees, and her hair is disheveled, spilling out of a ribbon that does little to hold it in place.

  She seems unaware of her surroundings, crumpled on the floor, trembling but otherwise unmoving. I want to do something, but I don’t know what, and Valentina acts first, taking quiet steps toward Eugenia and crouching at her side. When she puts out a hand to touch her shoulder, Eugenia jerks sharply, twisting away and scooting backward against the cell door. Her eyes are wide, red-rimmed, and startled; she looks from one face to the next, her knees held tightly to her chest.

  “Don’t touch me,” she says in a shaky whisper.

  “I want to help you,” Valentina says, her eyes shining.

  “D-don’t!” Eugenia stutters. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Please, let me—”

  “I don’t have to let you!” she shouts at Valentina, making us all jump. “I—I don’t have to let you do anything. I don’t belong to you, or to anybody. I don’t. My name is Eugenia Margaret Rigney, and I belong—I belong to myself.” Her voice catches on a hiccup, drops to a mumble. “My parents are Matthew and Veronica Rigney. I went to get a newspaper and tomatoes from the stand. I didn’t mean to get lost … it wasn’t my fault.” She’s stopped talking to Valentina at this point; her eyes stare off at nothing.

  “They probably sent Jonah over to fetch them, when I didn’t return. I meant to hurry back, but it wasn’t my fault. I hope they looked for me. Maybe they’re worrying now.” She goes on and on, as if the rest of us don’t exist. There’s bruising along her collarbone and arms, and a tear along the top of her corset. I feel like I’ll be sick.

  The guards finally turn to go upstairs, but one glances back at our crowded cell and sneers, looking pointedly at Eugenia. “Don’t know why he wants that skinny creature back again,” he says, spitting in her direction. “Why save her when you can have a new one any night?”

  Before I can even take in what he’s saying, Eugenia whirls around, scrambling to her feet and throwing herself against the bars. “He will never touch me again!” she shouts, her voice rough, hoarse. “I will never go back to him!”

  But the man just chuckles, looking her up and down disdainfully. “You’ll do whatever the master wants, whore.”

  “I am not a whore!” she cries, sobs racking her body. “I am not!” She continues to call after them, but they climb the stairs as if they don’t hear her. “I am not a whore. My name is Eugenia Margaret Rigney!” She shouts the same string of words again and again as she rocks back and forth against the bars. The words pound into my head, sear themselves into my memory like the X on my hand: “My name is Eugenia Margaret Rigney. My name is Eugenia Margaret Rigney. My name is Eugenia Margaret Rigney.”

  She screams until her voice breaks, and still she repeats and repeats the same words.

  I try to cover my ears, but it’s useless.

  It might be just minutes, or it might be an hour later that Eugenia finally wears herself out. She sinks to her knees, falling forward against the cold metal of the cell door, sobbing, pleading the words now, forcing them out with the last of her strength. I don’t know why it’s so important to her to say her name. Maybe she feels that it’s all she has left.

  How many others has he destroyed?

  Eugenia knocks her head lightly against the door, then again. She finds a rhythm in it, clinging to the bars until her hands are white. The constant thudding is almost as bad as the screaming. I wrap my arms around my ears and press my eyes shut, picturing Tam and Pa and anything to distract me. Just when I think I’ll go mad myself, I’m startled by a noise and the sight of the jailer lurching to his feet and bolting up the stairs with surprising speed.

  With any luck his head will forever ring with the sound of her name.

  I don’t want to watch Eugenia, but I can’t help it. Is this the fate that awaits each of us? Taken one by one, used by Curram, and then returned to our holding place, miserable and tarnished? Driven mad because we are supposed to keep on living? Or is that only for the ones who amuse him? Will the rest of us be quietly disposed of? Maybe the unluckiest of us all will be resold, to a buyer who doesn’t require, as Curram does, the “freshest meat.”

  It all sounds feasible, making my stomach queasier with every second. I clutch my locket, wishing that Eugenia had something like it to ground her. I tell myself to be grateful that I was able to hold on to it. Tam will come, Tam will come, Tam will come. I make it into my own sort of chant. Against all the odds, he’ll come.

  What calm we have is short-lived. The door opens abruptly to show the jailer with the bombin-wearing man at his side. Behind them is the tall figure of Zachariah Curram himself. Eugenia sees him and goes mad.

  She lurches to her feet, gripping the iron bars with renewed fervor. “Bastard!” she screams at him, her face pressed against the grating. “I am not yours! I do not belong to you!” He reaches
the foot of the stairs and comes toward the cell, and she spits in his face, throwing herself against the bars like an animal. “You cannot rob me of who I am. I am not yours. I am my own. My name is Eugenia Marg—”

  He cuts her off coolly. “You know very well that I bought you, my dear. And I only part with my money for the most important objects. Objects I intend to hold on to, or make very good use of.” He wipes the spittle from his face with an embroidered handkerchief and steps a little closer, his eyes darkening. “You’re acting like a child, and your immaturity offends me. Will you behave, or will I have to punish you? I require good manners of my belongings.”

  She tries to laugh, but it comes out as a sob. “I will never obey you,” she says, her whole body trembling.

  Curram smiles an apologetic smile, shrugging a little. “You will, though.”

  She spits in his face again, swearing that she won’t, that he can’t have her again, that he’ll burn in hell. He wipes his face once more and returns the handkerchief to his pocket. And then there’s something else in his hand, a pistol, only inches from Eugenia’s head. I can’t breathe.

  “Shall I warn you again?” he says very quietly. He is perfectly calm, perfectly serious. But he wants her, I remind myself. He saved her to have her again later, because he’s selfish. He won’t dispose of her. He won’t waste his money. I try to quiet my heart, but I can’t stop shaking. I wait to see whether he’ll replace the weapon with words of warning, or deliver an insult that will put her “in her place.” Boyne’s eyes flick between Curram and his latest trinket. He’s timid in his master’s presence, but he’s enjoying the scene.

  “My name,” she says quietly, “is Eugenia Margaret Rigney. I am not yours.” Curram’s eyes widen, and his mouth quirks upward in what looks like an incredulous smile. His hand tightens on the gun. The barrel is only an inch from Eugenia’s forehead, at the most. My panic resurfaces. He won’t. She’s useful to him. “My name,” she says again, louder this time, “is Eugenia Mar—”