Falling For Henry (2 page)

She knew her classmates—most of them a year younger than she, even though they were all in Year Ten together—called her stuck up. She'd heard their nickname for her—Big Apple—and tried not to think about it. Being from New York had its disadvantages. Her cheeks burned as she scratched at her waist. Why did school uniforms have to be so hot? And ugly! Dad wouldn't have made her go to this stupid school and wear these stupid clothes. He'd have known right away that she wasn't happy here, and listened when she told him how awful everything was. Unlike Willow. Not that Kate had ever really told her sister much. Why should Willow care?

She gave the lump of grass one last kick backwards onto the lawn and then doggedly turned along the Thames. The water's silver surface was deceptively smooth, making her wonder about its hidden depths. She'd heard of currents in the river, undertows that would drag you down. The very thought made her take a deep breath, filling her lungs to capacity, and then shaking her head at the dizzy feeling that accompanied too much air. Of course, the air here was polluted. Probably breathing it too deeply wasn't even healthy. Once she'd rubbed a spot on the wall in the living room she shared with Willow, and was surprised by the circle that emerged on the oily surface.

“If you're going to mess with the wall, you should get a rag and do the job properly,” said Willow in a voice that always seemed too loud, too demanding.

“I'm not washing walls,” retorted Kate, and quickly turned the spot into a question mark.

“What a princess,” said Willow, rolling her eyes.

Stopping for a moment at the place where the
Cutty Sark
was moored on dry land, Kate thought about how useless it was to keep a ship that couldn't float. Fenwick had told them that this was the last clipper ship ever used as a merchant vessel. She threw it a cursory look where it rested in the dirt. Nothing about history interested her. What's past is past, she thought. As she walked by the ship, the smiling witch on the figurehead momentarily caught her eye and then—or maybe it was a trick of light—its smile was replaced by a look of serious contemplation.

There were remnants of construction along the wooden walkway, and Kate had to plan her route around obstacles. Soon she saw where the path ended, bounded by a bright orange ribbon. Past the ribbon, the ground sloped sharply, seeming to fall away into darkness. That must be the way to the walking tunnel, she thought, the footpath to the City that would lead their class home, although why it was fenced off she couldn't be sure. Perhaps so small children wouldn't go inside unattended? She shivered as she took one last look at the Thames. All that heavy gray water would be weighing on whatever flimsy construction people had built to support a passageway, guaranteed to spring a leak sooner or later. Later, she hoped, her hands beginning to sweat.

Kate took a deep breath and stepped off the boardwalk, climbed over the orange ribbon, and headed dubiously downhill along the dirt trail. She thought Fenwick had said there was an elevator—a “lift”—descending to the tunnel's entrance; perhaps, though, as with almost everything in London, the elevator shaft was under construction and this was an alternative access route. She glanced around, unsettled, as the returning drizzle pushed the trees around her out of focus.

It had been a dismal day from the very start. She'd woken early to discover the milk was sour, the bread was moldy, and the only thing for breakfast was prune yogurt. Since Willow had begun her health kick, Kate had been forced to eat things she'd never imagined people could eat. “Slugs in a blender”—that's what she called prune yogurt. In New York, her father had created amazing brunches for their bed and breakfast guests—mushroom and cheese omelets, chocolate hazelnut crepes, berry salads, and his specialty coffee.

In comparison, what Kate was eating in London was a disgrace. Willow should be hauled to prison for punishing her with this disgusting stuff. Or to the Tower. The Tower of London. Kate had gone by there on a sightseeing trip, but figured it wasn't worth the twenty pounds to go inside. The old royal prison didn't interest her at all, in spite of the sinister ravens flapping about. She sighed, her stomach growling, and wished that she'd just skipped school today, something she'd been doing with increasing regularity, unbeknownst to Willow, whose name she forged on the notes explaining various illnesses. Strep throat, bronchitis, pink eye. Kate had used stomach flu twice. She'd soon have to consult a medical dictionary, just to get some new ideas.

Her father would have noticed her skipping school and wouldn't have liked it. He had been the kind of person who paid attention. Busy with guests at the house, he'd always had time for Kate, and when she talked to him about anything, he listened. It was this, perhaps, that she missed most of all—just being listened to. Of course, you had to talk in order for someone to listen, but she didn't want to think about that now.

A sudden wind made the branches above her shake collected raindrops from their leaves, and then the sky disappeared in a hard rain that brought dirt splashing up onto Kate's ankles. She rubbed her sleeve across her eyes, her sweater—jumper, as they called it here—already soaking, and then spotted the tunnel. In spite of her unease about small spaces, Kate ran toward it, grateful for shelter. Once inside, she stood looking at the storm, conscious of the need to block out the tunnel walls that seemed to press closer the longer she lingered here. An odd smell hung about, a warm animal scent that Kate couldn't identify. She dizzily took another deep breath and then turned to face her fear as the wind pushed her deeper into the tunnel.

Kate blinked at the greenish glow that seemed to emanate from the ground, and then stared ahead at the deep path into darkness. Her impulse was to run back into the rain, but conquering the underground path now would ensure she didn't disgrace herself later in front of anyone. She could just hear the snide remarks from Tiffany Fielding, and that rat-faced Cynthia Abbott, if they discovered her terror, the reaction to small enclosed spaces that had been with her for as long as she could remember. She blinked again, glanced at her palm, and then concentrated on taking slow, careful breaths. That was how to avert a full-blown panic attack—just keep breathing.

Kate wasn't sure when she'd developed the claustrophobia that rose at the most awkward times. Her mother's disappearance, when Kate was five, seemed to be the beginning of conscious memory, and this strange terror had been with her then. That was almost ten years ago. Could her mother have locked her up, kept her in a closet or some other small space, as punishment? Kate shivered. The idea was awful, but possible. Everything about her mother was such a mystery. Her father hadn't liked speaking of Isobel Allen, and so Kate hadn't asked the questions that plagued her. And now she couldn't ask her father about anything.

On the day her mother left, Kate had dropped a pitcher of juice on the kitchen floor. It slipped through her hands and smashed, the orange liquid streaming everywhere. Trying to sop it up with a towel, a shard of glass had pierced her palm, leaving a white scar that resembled the letter K. “K for Katherine,” she'd say to herself when she could feel an anxiety attack coming on. “K for Kate.” Somehow the reassurance of herself, her name, gave her strength.

I hate the way I am
, she thought, spiraling into panic as she stood alone in the confines of the tunnel.
I hate myself!
She stared at her palm, the familiar breathlessness making her ears ring. She tried not to remember the way a woman with red-blonde curls and a soft voice had told her to sit on the sofa until Dad came home, said that he'd bring some Band-Aids, that everything would be all right. The woman smelled like lemons and Kate thought about the jar of lemon drops that had always been on the coffee table. She'd sucked one after another as she sat there by herself, waiting for her father, her hand wrapped up in wet paper towel, and as she remembered this, her heart gave a warning squeeze. This was her first and last memory of her mother, and she'd traced it so often over the years, she'd worn it smooth and flat as a skipping stone. Her one memory of Isobel. And after that—nothing. Isobel had simply vanished.

Kate took a hesitant step deeper into the tunnel, her eyes slowly adjusting to the absence of light. She felt misery squeeze from every pore. Was she heading toward the elevator or was this actually the path that would take her under the Thames? She had reluctantly studied both the elevator and the tunnel in Fenwick's history class, and fuzzily remembered something about two Edwardian lift shafts housed at ground level in brick rotundas with glass domes … but maybe that was something else, something to do with the museum? The route under the Thames was all muddled up with the history of Greenwich and the items in the museum that they were supposed to be viewing. What she needed was the footpath that connected Greenwich Park to the City of London, and it didn't really matter whether or not she took an elevator to get to the footpath. She took another step forward into the dim passageway. This seemed like the right direction.

Suddenly she felt the world revolving as though she were on a ride at the fair. She dropped to her knees and then fell forward, her body flattening as if gravity were a rolling pin. Hysteria beat against her temples. She tried to move her arms and legs, and could not. She tried to catch her breath, and could not. Terror poured its black ink into her body, filling her from feet to head, and then she was conscious, for a few heady moments, of being zero, of being subtracted from herself until nothing was left. Then, jarringly, she sensed herself back inside a body with shape and form, a body that needed to breathe. She choked, her throat straining for air, and lifted her head from the dirt floor of the tunnel. There was a pinpoint of daylight in the distance. She stumbled to her feet and ran crazily, her arms and legs numb, toward the widening entrance of the tunnel.

Dazed, she emerged into daylight, expecting to see and hear the City of London. That's where she'd be if this were the other end of the footpath under the Thames. Instead of the anticipated cityscape, she found herself in the middle of a pastoral forest, a boggy area nearby exuding a pungent smell.
Mint
, she thought, bewildered. She took a tentative step forward, then stopped when she heard the long, echoing notes of a horn. The clearing up ahead was suddenly filled with activity as horses and dogs came plunging through the undergrowth.

Her eyes feeling stretched and sore, Kate tried to take in the action before her as about a dozen men and women rode into view. It looked like a hunting party of some kind. They wore odd clothes, the men sporting long, colorful coats, puffy around the hips, overtop green or brown leggings, while the women had on long dresses. Most of the men carried bows and arrows, but there were a few spears, and the horses bore extravagantly embroidered saddle cloths, their manes and tails done up with festive ribbons. The scene looked like something from a movie.

“I've gone off my nut!” Kate breathed, borrowing a phrase from Gran. She held onto the slender trunk of a nearby tree and stared at the impossible images before her. The women's gowns were tight-waisted and of rich material, with elaborate hoods. They sat sidesaddle on their horses, their bodies twisted in what Kate thought was an awkward position, yet they managed to ride gracefully, nevertheless. On the edge of the clearing, Kate saw another girl carefully maneuvering her way among the trees. She was riding a gray pony that she quickly drew to a walk, sidestepping behind thick bushes which masked her from the hunting party. It looked as if she had just ridden quite a distance, and in her hurry was now breathless and disheveled. She seemed to be trying to avoid the hunters. She was wearing a blue-gray gown; her hood was down and she was working her waist-length auburn hair back into place while staying atop her mount. Something about her was very familiar, and Kate stared hard, trying to get a better look.

Suddenly, Kate glimpsed what the hunters were after. A muscular buck with huge antlers bounded from the trees, branches snapping with its passage. A young man a bit taller than Kate stood up in his stirrups and shot an arrow. The arrow caught the deer full in the chest and it fell to its knees, struggled to rise, and then went down in the grass, thrashing in panic. An echoing panic ran through Kate's chest. This picture no longer pleased her; unlike a movie, she couldn't pass it off as make-believe. This hunt was real! An animal was being killed, right in front of her eyes!

She tore her gaze away from the deer as the fellow's red hair, caught in the sunlight, looked as though it were on fire, a mesmerizing effect. He turned and Kate had a glimpse of his face. She'd never before seen such a look of triumph or, a moment later, such grace of motion as he slid from his horse and ran toward the deer. Something about him both interested and frightened her, and the drama of the moment made her heart beat faster. The deer tried to heave itself forward and Kate saw the bright gleam of blood. She felt sick to her stomach. This was definitely no movie.

The knife flashed in the young man's hand and he gave an excited cry, his eyes glittering as the buck shuddered and then was still. Not just still, thought Kate: dead. Had she called out, made some kind of noise, could she have saved it? Shaking, she backed further into the shadows. The hunting party yelled jubilantly and horns heralded their success. Harm and harmony, Kate thought, her legs trembling, her hands cold as ice. She saw the girl on the gray pony edge further into the concealment of the forest, trying, as Kate was trying, not to be seen. Kate retreated a little deeper into the tunnel, tripped over her own feet, and fell into a side passage that opened into an alcove. She found herself facing wide blue eyes set in a small, furry gray face. A dog! A puppy of some kind. It stumbled to its feet and tried to run, but one of its front legs buckled and it crumpled back onto the ground. As if it knew it had no chance, it sank back in the dust, eyes gleaming piteously within a band of white fur that ran across its brow and down its muzzle.