Finding You Page 7

  “Who’s that?” Valentina asks softly, turning to look up at me.

  “My best friend in the world,” I answer, feeling as if I’m somewhere else for a moment, somewhere I like for once, with something beautiful to show off that no one can take from me. “He’s brave, and sure, and lovely. He’s a lot like the sun, bright and strong, nothing like me. All he wants is to go on a proper adventure. I’d give anything to have him back.” My fingers stray to the locket around my neck. I wonder if Tam has held on to his key as tightly as I have my little heart. I wonder, too, if he uses the spyglass I gave him, even though looking back with it won’t let him see me after all.

  “Did something happen to him?”

  “He joined the army. I went to say good-bye and they took me. I should have told him how much I loved him, but … I never did.”

  “He probably knows,” Valentina whispers. “If you love him that much, he must know.”

  “He gave this to me, before he left,” I say, holding the necklace away from myself so she can see it. “He’s got the matching key.”

  She sits up and looks at me, her eyes wide. “How did you keep it?”

  “I put it in my mouth when they took my clothes,” I say. “It’s the only thing I have from him. I couldn’t lose it.”

  “You’re very brave, Isla,” she murmurs.

  I want to ask her to tell me about herself, but I don’t know how to phrase the question. Eventually I say haltingly, “Is there somebody at home that you love, Val?” I don’t mention Davey.

  She shrugs slightly. “No, I hardly know anyone—I didn’t go to school for long. My pa died and Mama couldn’t send me because she needed me to look after the little ones. She didn’t tell us what she did and we didn’t ask. She was gone most nights, so we guessed that … well. It doesn’t matter. I taught my … my brother what I had learned, and we tried to take care of things as best we could. Even when Mama hit us or had fits, we managed fine.” She sniffs and goes on. “Benedict and Cara are real little, though. They’re sick a lot, so I … I don’t know what Mama’ll do now, without … without Davey and me.”

  I don’t know what to say, so we sit together in silence, and I think about how beautiful my old life looks now, and my head swims with thoughts of Tam.

  I can’t remember the day I first saw him; he was just always there. Across the alley, in the flat that mirrored ours one building over, clambering along the railings that lined the tall complexes where we lived. I’d sit outside my window on the piece of roof that stuck out, wrapped in a patched coat with a book in my arms. Often enough I found myself watching him instead of reading, though. Even when he was young, he was stronger and taller than me, while all the other boys his age at school were waiting for their height. He was sure of himself, too; he never fell.

  I knew he saw me, because sometimes he’d wave before doing something impressive, even though I rarely returned the gesture. We might have always been strangers, living parallel lives, but it happened that his pa and mine stopped in at the same pub sometimes, and our mums brought their washing to the same place.

  We only started talking when his mum sent him over with messages or things for mine, to save herself the trip. He’d climb out of his window and to the ground, jog across the alley, and then make his way up three stories of rusty ladders to my roof. He’d ask what I was reading, and I’d start to tell him until he got excited and interrupted because I’d reminded him of something he wanted to tell me, even though he hardly knew me. It was hard to think he was rude when the things he’d tell me were so fascinating and he was so eager to share them.

  During the winter that saw his family sick with a bad fever—the one that took his mum and sister Elsie—I was so afraid for him that I read every book and magazine at the library about illness and sent a hundred paper aeroplanes with suggestions for treatment through his window.

  And when he came to see me at the end of it all, when my own mum had died, too, he wrapped his arms around me and held me for so long that I thought we might stay that way forever. He told me he’d always look out for me, and it was then that I decided that nothing would separate us. As if drifting apart was the worst thing that could happen.

  Eugenia’s blood on the stone floor is proof that there are worse evils in the world than disappointed hopes.

  “It’s hard, thinking about home,” a girl I don’t know says suddenly. Her voice is shaky, and she stares straight ahead, her eyes unfocused. “I don’t know what my grandmother’ll do without me. She can’t walk much anymore and it was just the two of us.” She looks lost, sitting in the corner of the cell, her thin face awash with freckles that stand out in the dimness.

  “I wish someone’d miss me,” murmurs another, looking at her hands.

  The girl beside her scoffs. “No one even knows we’re gone, Caddy. Even those missionaries with their soup pots an’ words of blessin’ don’t recognize a face day to day. Where else were we goin’, anyway? The orphanage wasn’t gonna keep us any longer. Someplace like this was comin’ to us all along.” Her bitter tone is a poor mask for the pain seeping through her words. Pa and I sometimes served meals on Sunday afternoons to children who came from orphanages or lived on the streets, though we had little better to eat at home.

  “I know,” the quieter one responds. “I just wish is all.”

  Time doesn’t feel real anymore. Has it been nearly a week now? Five or six days, I think. I’ve lost track of their beginnings and ends.

  Opposite me, Phoebe opens her mouth to say something but snaps it shut when I look at her.

  To my left, one of the girls sits with her legs crossed, her knees against the wall. Her eyes are closed, but her fingers, delicate and white, move across the stone like she’s drawing something, twisting and turning, sweeping up and down.

  “Are you an artist?” I ask, gesturing at the wall.

  She nods. “I painted every day at home. I even convinced my parents to hire a tutor so I didn’t have to go to school and could spend all my time with my canvases. There’s a gallery joined to my bedroom.” She looks like a fairy, graceful and lithe, her white-blond hair standing out in the dark.

  “I was never a very good artist,” I say quietly, imagining the grand house she must have lived in.

  She just shrugs. “I’m Cecily,” she says, extending a hand. When I shake it, even her fingers seem to teem with manners and good breeding. She glances at the wall, seeming shy. “I know I’m strange for pretending, but it’s a kind of escape and I … I need to escape. At least if I close my eyes, I can imagine that I’m painting. It helps a little.”

  “I’m Isla.” I smile as reassuringly as I can. “We all need a way to stay sane.”

  “It’s my own fault that I’m here,” she says, her eyes sad and lost. “I was stupid, I—”

  With a bang, the door at the top of the stairs opens.

  A pair of soldiers appears, but no one else; I hold my breath, and beside me, Cecily does the same.

  The soldiers descend the stairs slowly, enjoying our uncertainty. My heart drums faster and faster as Dunbar questions their demand that the cell be unlocked, and one of them sneers, “Mister Boyne is otherwise occupied. We’re here to pick up tonight’s order.”

  No, no, no.

  Our jailer begrudgingly gets to his feet and fiddles with the lock, and all we can do is wait, afraid. There’s nowhere to go, no corner I can press myself farther into. The door swings open, and the men stand side by side in the opening. One of them crosses his arms over his chest. “You’d pick a blonde, if it was you, right?” he asks. The other scans us, his lip curling with something between disgust and desire.

  As he nods, I look from Cecily to Phoebe, the only fair-haired girls in the group. “That one,” says one of them, and his partner lunges forward, grabbing hold of Cecily’s arm.

  “No!” I scream as he jerks her to her feet, dragging her out, away. Her eyes meet mine, wide and panicked; she struggles, but it’s no good. “No, don’t—�
� I lurch to my feet, my thoughts all in a jumble. Hands shove my chest and send me tumbling backward. I shoot to my feet again, lunging after them, but the door shuts and it’s too late. I’m too late.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my throat aching, my eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” What was I going to do, trade myself for her? How was I going to help?

  “No, please!” she shrieks as they lock the door and drag her toward the stairs. One of the men slaps her hard across the face and shouts at her to be quiet. She blinks away her shock, tears streaming down her face. Her eyes find mine. “Find my family, please, tell them I love them, tell them what happened.”

  They get to the top, to the door, and she wrenches around one last time so I can see her face. Her eyes are full of fear. “Give him hell!” I shout. “Make the bastard pay.”

  “I will,” she says, so quietly that I barely hear it.

  Then she’s gone.

  ten

  For a while I sit and wonder about the rest of Cecily’s story. Why did she think it was her fault she was taken? What did she do that was so stupid? How am I supposed to find her family and tell them what happened, when I have no idea who she is or where she came from? I have fewer tears this time; maybe they’re almost used up.

  When Des returns, he’s somber; he must know that someone was brought upstairs.

  “Does it always go the same way?” I ask when he sits down at the bars.

  “As the last one?”

  I nod.

  “Only every so often. Different words, of course…” His voice trails off. “Sometimes if he sends them back, they make a fuss, so usually they just … don’t come back. I doubt you’ll see her again, whoever she was this time.”

  I’m not going to say anything else, but the words come out on their own somehow. “I’m going to get out of here.” Des looks up at me sharply, his eyes full of pity.

  “Isla,” he starts, but I already know what he’s going to say. He’s going to tell me how many times he’s heard girls just like me on this side of the bars say the same thing. And he’s going to tell me how every one of them failed, how I’ll only be getting my hopes up, how it’s a waste of time.

  “Don’t try to talk me out of it; my life is the one at stake here. It’s time someone fought for a way out and didn’t give up.”

  He flinches at this, but his eyes stay fixed on me, sad. “I know what you probably think of me, that I’ve given up, but if it weren’t for Lillian, I’d have found a way out long ago. I know I look like a coward … I don’t know, maybe I am one. But if Curram is still keeping her somewhere, how could I take a chance?”

  She’s probably dead, I think.

  Des goes on, letting his forehead fall against the bars that separate us. “Maybe I’ve no heart left, you know? This … every day … it’s all been eaten away. Maybe that’s why I’m too selfish to help anyone get out.”

  Beside me, Valentina takes a shuddering breath. “It’s hardly selfish to stay here in this horrible place,” she says quietly, “for the sake of a sister you’ve no proof is even alive.”

  Des looks up, meeting her eyes and holding them. “Thank you.”

  “You’re not helping,” I snap, glaring at her.

  From across the cell Phoebe meets my eyes. Her sharp, serious face is lit up on one side by the glow of Dunbar’s lantern. After staring back at me for a moment, she smiles a little; there is no pleasure in it, just a dysfunctional camaraderie of sorts.

  I get up and take a seat in front of her, next to the bars. It seems that the only times Phoebe has moved since we were brought here are to berate Des or to use the makeshift toilet, and even then she always slips back to her place with her quick, catlike movements.

  “We don’t have to be friends, but we should work together to leave this place.”

  She studies my face. “I’ve learned,” she begins, her voice husky with emotions I doubt she’ll share, “that helping other people can be overrated. I’ll work with you only if it benefits us mutually.” I’m tempted to guffaw, but I hold it back.

  “How does freedom not benefit us both?”

  “I won’t risk my life just so you can get away on your own in the end,” she snaps.

  “I would never do that,” I respond evenly, fighting my temper. “No one is going to be cheated or left—”

  “No one?” She’s on her guard now, drawing away from me. “Since when is this a party?”

  “It’s my plan. I decide who comes,” I say sharply, and she looks taken aback.

  “‘Your plan’? When did that happen?”

  “I’m working on it. Will you help me or not?”

  “I’ll think about it,” she says eventually.

  * * *

  I return to my corner on edge, irritated by Valentina and Des’s whispered conversation. I can’t stop thinking about his sister, the only reason he won’t risk an escape. It’s hard for me to imagine that Curram would hold her for leverage and actually leave her alone. Maybe it’s easier for Des to believe that Curram would keep his word for some reason, but to me it sounds too good to be true. If Lillian is here, I can’t imagine where he would keep her. In a bedroom? Locked up in a pantry? More likely she’s gone. If we do escape, and we free Des with us, I hope someone will know what’s become of her.

  Dunbar leaves for the night, and we settle into sleep in what is becoming an uneasy routine.

  It seems like just moments later that the door at the top of the stairs opens loudly and we’re all startled awake. It isn’t our jailer, but it isn’t the usual soldiers or servants with our meal, either. There are only two men this time, Boyne and a younger man, a servant, behind him. Not enough to take one of us upstairs, I think, though the sight of Curram’s right-hand man still makes me sick with nerves.

  After the men reach the bottom of the stairs, Boyne strides over to the bars, glances around at us, and then back at his companion. “You know the rules, then: no fraternizing, no inappropriate touching or talking. Always be ready to assist me with the keys when I arrive, or if there’s trouble. Your meals will be ready with the other servants’ at the appropriate hours. You’re allowed to leave only then, to relieve yourself, and at the evening bell, to sleep. You’ll be expected again at dawn, when the rest of the house wakes.”

  A new jailer.

  The man taps a set of keys at his belt, and they jangle loudly. “Thank you, sir,” he says quietly, and I start because I’ve heard his voice before.

  Boyne looks at us once more, and then at the other cell. “I’ll need him in a few hours,” he says, pointing at Des. “Be ready when I come.” The new jailer takes a seat on Dunbar’s chair.

  As soon as the door closes behind Boyne, he jumps to his feet, and suddenly his face is at the bars. I do know him: Robbie. No doubt he put in a word to get Dunbar dismissed the same day he kissed me and carried away Eugenia’s body.

  I wish he didn’t have a set of keys. I have an idea that rules won’t stop him if he thinks he might get away with breaking them. “Can’t say I’ll mind a job like this one,” he says in a syrupy voice, like he’s bringing us in on a secret. “I could be doin’ a lot worse. Sittin’ ’round all day watching pretty girls gossip? I could be movin’ stone like my old man. It’s all about grabbing yer chances, eh?” He continues to smile at us, and his eyes find me, snagging for only a second before they move on to sum up each girl in turn. In the poorly lit dungeon, his hands and face are ghost white; they look independent from his dark-clothed body.

  Ghosts can walk through walls, I think, and then try to forget the thought.

  His eyes are the worst: pale and wide, glued to us as he backs away and takes a seat again. He pulls something from his pocket; I don’t know what it is until he flicks his hand and a blade slides out. There’s a piece of wood, too: a long, thick stick about the length of his hand. With slow, deliberate movements, he slides the knife along the wood, peeling off sliver after sliver and letting them drift to the floor.
/>   * * *

  I can hardly keep still all morning, with Robbie watching everything we do. Des gives me pointed looks to stop fidgeting, but I ignore him. When Boyne eventually does come to fetch Robbie, a servant brings our meal at the same time: the usual chipped pitcher of water, a few cups, and more than enough bowls with a bucket of stew.

  Behind me, Jewel, the bolder, more snide of the two girls from the orphanage, opens the lid on the pot and laughs, a short, bark-like sound. “Feels like home after all,” she says, smirking. Caddy, her shadow with darker skin and a quieter voice, comes closer to look. Even Phoebe inches forward to see.

  I’ve never seen anything so ugly that’s supposed to be food: something pale and twisted and slimy-looking that smells like the wharf on a hot day fills the bucket. Jewel slams the lid back on and glances around at us, grinning. “Pass me yer bowls,” she says.

  One of the girls raises her hand timidly. “What … what are they, exactly?”

  “Never had a pickled whelk before?” Caddy looks genuinely surprised, but Jewel smiles knowingly.

  “Course they ain’t ever had a pickled whelk. This is just cheap leftovers from the kitchen. I bet none of ’em have had anything coarser than a plum duff in their lives.” I don’t ask what a duff is.

  A couple of the girls look stricken. “I’ve just never eaten something that looks … well, or smells…,” says the timid girl again, unable to finish. She looks like she’s about to be sick, and I almost laugh. It’s not as if the food is the worst part of all of this.

  “Are they any good?” I ask, deciding to be brave.

  “You’re not going to try one, Isla—” Valentina starts.