The Passage to Mythrin 2-Book Bundle (5 page)

Upstairs he knocked softly on the door of 3A. There was no answer. He unlocked it, opened it about six inches, then bent down, set the blanket and food on the floor, and pushed them through the dark gap. A bony hand clamped on his wrist and he froze. Two glinting eyes stared into his.
Like she's scanning my ID
. Then she let go and the door closed.

§

Simon dreamed of an elderly gerbil straining to spin a giant exercise wheel.
Squeak, clatter, grind
...
squeak, clatter, grind
. The rhythmic creaking scattered the last of his sleep.

Yawning, he sat up. Felt around on the floor for his socks. No socks. Groped on the coverlet for his robe. No robe.
What the heck?

Then he remembered.

On his way to the kitchen in pyjamas and a clean pair of socks, he thumped on Ammy's door. She groaned.

He was pouring orange juice into a glass when Ammy shambled in, still in her pyjamas and red silk dressing gown, and barefoot. Her red and yellow hair stuck out in all directions. She looked like a porcupine that had lost a paintball fight. He opened his mouth to tell her so, then got a good look at her face and closed his mouth. He reached for a second glass and poured.

“Well! Up at last!” came a voice behind them. Celeste stood in the doorway, trim and chipper in jeans and an Aran sweater, with her silver braid over one shoulder. “Shame on the pair of you! Nearly noon! And no wonder, romping around the building when you should be asleep.”

Ammy clasped her juice glass in both hands. “You heard?”

“I'm not deaf yet.” She laughed. “Don't look so guilty! I don't mind if you poke around in my storeroom,
so long as you keep things in good order. I do plan to sell that stuff, someday.”

“Uh, it was me up there too, Celeste.”

“Well, don't make a habit of it. Not in the middle of the night, anyway. At your age you need your sleep. Agreed?”

“You bet.”

“Of course, Grandmother.”

Simon put down his glass. There was that rhythmic, creaky sound again. This time he knew what it was. “That's the elevator.”

Celeste glanced upward. “Third trip this morning. I finally got Lillian Smyth to sell me the boxes from her attic. That woman hasn't thrown away a stitch in fifty years.”

“It's going in 3A?”

“Where else?”

Ammy and Simon looked at each other. Then Ammy bolted out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Simon was so close behind he nearly stepped on her heels.

The door of 3A stood open. They found one man stacking cartons along a wall while a second man sprawled on the couch, feet stuck out in front. The girl crouched on top of the armoire, in the corner. Neither of the men paid her any attention.

The man on the couch was lighting a cigarette. The plastic lighter went
click
,
click
, and the flame flared, and
the girl went as tense as a cougar on a ledge. It seemed to Simon that the shadows in that corner darkened and spread around her. He held his breath.

“And just where d'you think you are?”

Ammy jumped a mile. Celeste stood right behind them. She waved them aside and strode forward. “That!” She pointed. “Out the window!”

“Oh, but, please! She's —” Ammy began.

“Sh!” Simon had a glimmer of what was happening. What, but not how.

The man on the couch put on a martyred look, got up, opened the window, and flicked the cigarette out onto the fire escape.

“Cigarette smoke in my house!” Celeste said, as she signed the bill. “I ought to dock you for the stink. You're darn lucky I'm in a good mood.” They clumped out. Fists on hips, Celeste looked around the room. The girl crouched, watching, still as stone.

“There now!” Celeste spun around. “Who's for brunch?”

“I...” Ammy kept looking at the girl on the armoire.

Simon tugged at her wrist. “Me. I'm starving.”

“You're always starving.” Celeste ruffled his hair. “Just this once, I'll put myself out. Neither of you looks like you'd know one end of an egg from the other.”

As he left, Simon saw that the blanket still lay folded by the door. The nuts were gone, but the orange had only one bite out of it, right through the peel.

§

After brunch Celeste went down to Boomer Heaven. “Lots to do,” she said. “Got to be ready for tonight!”

“What's tonight?” Ammy asked.

“Tonight's New Year's Eve, of course. Dunstone's Night of Magic! I have to get my sale goods organized. Which reminds me. You” — Celeste pointed at Ammy — “before you leave this house, are going to find yourself a pair of mitts in the front cupboard. And you're going to wear them.”

“Mitts!” Ammy looked as if she'd been told to find a boa constrictor and wear it around her neck. “But I never wear mitts!”

“And why in Pete's name not?”

“They're so dorky! Nobody wears them!”

“You will, though. And you'll be happy not to freeze your fingers off. Make sure of it,” Celeste said to Simon, tapping him on the shoulder.

§

After Celeste left, Ammy rushed upstairs, still in pyjamas and dressing gown, balancing a stack of juice boxes and a plate of buttered toast. Simon dressed and was about to follow her when the phone in the kitchen rang. It was Ike.

“Simon! Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“About the blue flare last night.”

“No, what about it?”

“I asked my dad. He hadn't heard anything. So this morning I called the police and the hydro.” His voice dropped. “It wasn't anything electrical!”

“So?”

“Well, what else could it be? Think!”

Simon leaned back against the kitchen counter, prepared to be patient. “Lightning?”

“We both know it didn't go like lightning. Remember the slow fade?”

“You have an idea?”

“Yep.”

“A sane idea? Not like —”

“No, no, no, not like that time on the school roof.”

“Well?”

“You'll see. Meet me at one-thirty on Deacon Street by the trail down to the river. You got a ski pole?”

“What would I be doing with a ski pole?”

“Okay, I'll see what I can find. You just bring Ammy.”

“Ammy? Why?”

“Don't you get it? She found the ring, she had the blackout. She has to be the key to this whole thing!”

“What whole thing?”

“Just be there.” Ike hung up.

“Now, that's what I call hot!” Amelia smoothed bright red angora over the girl's shoulders and smiled at her in the bathroom mirror. It was the girl's own choice, that red sweater. A hopeful sign, Amelia thought. If you were really in a bad state of mind, bad enough to think of jumping off a building, you wouldn't wear red, would you? In fact, you probably wouldn't be interested in what colours you wore at all.

Amelia had also found jeans, socks, and sneakers in one of Celeste's boxes, and she'd lent some of her own underwear. The girl hadn't been sure what to do with it all, at first, but she caught on fast.

“Hot.” The girl watched her reflection with narrowed eyes. “Before, you say cool.”

“Hot is better than cool.”

“Good. Then I am hot.” She laughed. The laugh was low, husky. Rusty, like it hadn't had much practice.

“Where's she from?” said Simon from the doorway. “Have you found that out yet?”

“Sh!” Amelia backed him out of the bathroom. “You talk like she's deaf!”

“Well, if she doesn't understand —”

The girl looked at him over Amelia's head. “I understand. Much.”

“She's picking up English like crazy. So watch what you say!”

“That's good.” Simon stopped backing up and bobbed to see past Amelia. “Where are you from? Why are you hiding here?”

“Not hiding.”

“Are you in trouble? We can help you get home, or somewhere safe.”

“My home is far. I will go soon.”

“Well, that's good to hear. What's your na—”

Amelia grabbed his arm with both hands and rushed him to the apartment door. She snatched his navy blue dressing gown off the couch in passing, pushed the robe into his arms and him into the corridor, then slammed the door behind them and leaned on it.

“What's the matter? I only asked her name.”

“Well, don't! She hates that!”

“Why? Never mind. Come outside, we've got to talk.”

“Give me a minute, I can't go out in my pyjamas.”

After Amelia finished dressing she unplugged the radio from her room and carried it upstairs, where the girl was curled up on top of the armoire again. She plugged the radio into the wall and turned it on. Avril Lavigne was singing “Complicated.” The girl uncurled straight up and stared. “There!” Amelia patted the radio. “That'll be company for you.”

She zipped up her leather jacket on the way down the stairs. Because the thermometer said twenty below zero Celsius, she'd caved in and pulled on her only hat, the multicoloured woolen one, made by Peruvian villagers, that made her think of her parents. She coiled her red scarf (really long, and cool) several times around her neck.

Simon was waiting for her on the stairs. He already had his baggy old grey parka on, with the green plaid-lined hood. “I've been thinking about what happened this morning, with Celeste and those men,” he said. “I can't figure it out.”

“Mm ... well ... she was up above them, and that corner is kind of dark, and she kept really still. I bet I would-n't have noticed her, if I hadn't known she was there.”

“Celeste would've. Should've. She doesn't miss anything, usually.”

“Well, she did this time. No big mystery.”

“She creeps me out, that girl.” Simon led the way down the stairs. “There's just something about her....” He gave himself a shake. “I mean, she acts like she never saw a water tap before, or an orange.”

Or a radio,
Amelia thought.
Or underwear.

“It's other things, too. Like last night on the roof, her in her bare skin, and she didn't seem to notice the cold. That's totally weird.”

“She's just different.”
Not like anybody I ever met before.

“I wonder if she's running from the police?” They reached the lobby and Simon stopped halfway out the door. “We could get in big trouble by helping her.”

“She's not a criminal!” Amelia pushed at him and he stepped out into the wind and snow.

“So what's going on here?” Simon demanded. “Gang wars? Bikers? Foreign spies?”

“Maybe she's some kind of refugee. Or maybe a crazy boyfriend is after her.”

“Great. Just great.”

“And maybe she'd be killed if she went back where she came from, ever think of that? Anyway, we promised.”

“I know, I know! It's just...” They walked past a storefront with a painted sign above the window that said “DUNSTONE INDEPENDENT — FOUNDED 1910.” Next door to the newspaper office was Boomer
Heaven. Inside, through the window, they saw Celeste with a customer. Celeste was talking with her hands. The woman was laughing. Simon put his head down and walked faster. “I feel bad about not telling Celeste. It's like lying to her.”

“I feel bad about that too. But it won't be for long.”

“It better not be. Oh, here.” He stopped and pulled a wad of black leather from his parka pocket. He held it out. She didn't take it.

“What's that, mitts? I don't wear mitts.”

“Celeste says you do. You know what that means. Besides, they're not mitts, they're gloves.”

He stood there in front of her, holding out the squashed handful, blocking the sidewalk. He looked more than usually solid. As if he was prepared to keep her there all day, if he had to. She sighed deeply, took the gloves, and pulled them on. They were thick black leather, worn to softness, and lined with fleece. Too big, but they felt amazing on her hands. “Yours?”

“Yeah. Used to be my dad's. I figured there was nothing else in the closet I could get you to wear.”

“You got that right.” She shoved her gloved hands in her pockets and walked on, head down. It was irritating to have to admit Simon could be smart about some things. “They're cool,” she muttered.

“Thanks.”

“Just don't lose them.” He pushed back a navy blue wool mitten to see his watch. “Still time to catch Ike before he goes off on his own.”

“Go. I have to get back now.” She looked back along King Street. You could just see the top of their building from here, jutting above the lower roofs. What would the girl be thinking, all alone? That she'd been abandoned?

“Ike says you should come too.”

“Come where? Why?”

“He won't say, but I think I know. To the gorge. Where we saw that blue flare.”

“Why would I want to?”

He shrugged. “You said you saw something. Something that we missed, I guess. Then you forgot it. Maybe going there will help you remember.”

She thought back. Blue light, and something moving in front of it, and...
Do I really want to remember
? She caught her breath with a gasp and realized she hadn't been breathing at all.

A hand on her arm. “You okay?”

She shook it off. “Of course I'm okay! It's just — she'll worry.”

“Since we found her last night,” Simon said, walking beside her, “I've never seen her look worried. Not once.”

Well, that was true.

“It won't kill her to be by herself an hour.”

That was true too. She hoped.