Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City (6 page)

Rosemary looked up at the night sky, then clasped Peter’s shoulder and pushed him against the brick wall. He looked at her sharply, then followed her gaze. The words froze in his throat and he drew himself down.

A tall figure stood at the top of the embankment, silhouetted in moonlight.

It was the foreman; had to be. He raised a lantern and shone it across the ditch.

They held their breaths.

The foreman swung the light over their heads, then back again. Finally, he turned away and stalked off, deeper into the encampment. Rosemary touched Peter’s arm and motioned at the culvert. They carefully sloshed their way over.

At the opening, Peter took two steps before realizing that Rosemary wasn’t following. He looked back and saw her standing in the middle of the stream, staring up at the entrance, her bloomers and chemise glowing in the moonlight, her cheeks almost as pale. Her hands balled into fists.

He came back to her. “You okay?”

She took a deep breath. “Let’s go.” She pushed into the darkness.

He heard her footsteps steady in front of her, splashing in stray puddles. The water was too shallow to flow, but the bricks were slick and slimy, the stench oppressive. Peter breathed through his mouth. As darkness deepened, Rosemary’s steps faltered and he bumped into her.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he whispered.

“It’s just dark,” she muttered. “And wet. And stinky. And dark.”

“We’ll light the candles as soon as we’re a little way from the entrance,” he said.

“Are we there yet?”

“Just a little while longer.”

Rosemary clasped Peter’s hand hard and they pushed forward.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were claustrophobic?” asked Peter.

“I’ve never liked close places, you know that.”

“Yeah, but —”

“I told you,” she snapped. “It’s wet. Stinky. This is not some closet. Or cave. Though I hate caves, too.” She halted. “Candles.”

“Are you sure?” He looked back. The entrance was a postage stamp of moonlight.

“Now.”

He stared at the hunch of her shadow. “Okay. Hold one out.”

He patted his pockets for the matches. Rosemary’s breathing quickened. Finally, he found them and struck one on the box. And struck again. And again. The air screeched on his fourth try. Light dawned. Peter touched the flame to the outstretched wick. They blinked at the sudden brightness.

Then the match singed Peter’s fingers and he
shook it out. The light dimmed to a small flame on the candle’s tip.

Rosemary touched a second candle to the first. The light flared up, then faded. They stood in a circle, glowing as though lit by a dying flashlight.

“Got any more candles on you?” asked Peter.

“No.”

Peter sucked his teeth. “These will have to do, then. Let’s go on.”

The brick pipe encircled them, red and black, gleaming with moisture. Rosemary shuddered. Holding their candles close to their chests, they pushed on.

Gradually, a new sound sidled into hearing: a rush of flowing water. They glanced at each other and nodded. A few more steps, and the ceiling pulled away. A breeze brushed their cheeks, and the sound of a rushing stream filled their ears.

Peter took another step, but Rosemary froze. “I can’t see.”

He turned. “What?”

“These candles,” she said. “The light doesn’t go far enough.”

Peter looked around and saw she was right. Other than a thin circle of light on the bricks around their feet, and a glimmer off the walls of the half-pipe, all they could make out was shadows and a thin, phosphor glow. The cavern echoed with emptiness, black as a blindfold.

Peter swallowed. “Okay. I thought the candles would give us more light than this.”

“The wicks are too short,” said Rosemary. She scratched at the nib. “If I could remove some of this wax —”

“Careful!”

The candle snuffed out. Rosemary cursed beneath her breath. She touched the snuffed candle to the first, too fast, and killed that light, too. Darkness descended.

They stood for a moment in silence.

“I don’t think we’ve thought this through,” said Rosemary, her voice tight.

“No, we’re okay,” said Peter firmly. “I’ll just light another match.” He struck one. He struck it again. And again. And again. He grunted, frustrated. “I thought matches from the past would be easier to light. You know, less worries about safety? C’mon you stupid —.” The match flared and broke. Peter started, and the broken match and the box slipped from his hand, the box spilling out its matches. There was a splash like rain, and the lit match snuffed out.

“Oops,” said Peter.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Peter?” said Rosemary.

“Yeah?”

“Oops?”

“I —.” He cleared his throat. “I dropped the matches.”

“Saw that.”

“Yeah.”

More silence.

“Got any more?” asked Rosemary.

“No.”

Rosemary’s breathing began to echo off the walls.

“I think we should go back,” said Peter.

Rosemary sloshed upstream, keeping close to the wall. Peter struggled to keep up. “Rosemary,” he hissed.

“Quietly. You’ll wake the foreman.”

She spoke through clenched teeth. “Get. Out. Now.”

He caught up with her as the moonlit exit pulled into view. He grabbed her and held her as she struggled, a scream building in her throat. “It’s okay,” he whispered in her ear. “We’re there. We’re as good as out. Calm down. Be quiet.”

She held him. He could feel her heart thumping. She took a deep breath. “It’s the dark. I was okay when I had light. We need better light.”

“We’ll get some. Let’s get out of here.”

They walked out of the sewer in silence. They kept low. When they passed beneath the hoarding, Rosemary charged out of the stream and lay on the embankment beside her discarded corset and overdress.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. She beat the ground with her fist. “This is stupid!”

He touched her shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ll do it right, next time. We’ll get lanterns ... something that won’t
burn out. We’ve got plenty of time. Time’s moving slow on the other side of the portal, remember?”

“How can you know?” she said bitterly.

“Theo, remember?” But he couldn’t keep his voice from catching. “We didn’t hear him shouting after us after we fell through, remember? I’m sure, when we get back, the portal will take us to the exact moment we left. Theo won’t know we’ve gone.”

Rosemary closed her eyes. She thumped the ground again.

It was a tense walk back after Rosemary pulled on her corset and overdress. Peter stared warily at Rosemary’s hunched shoulders.

They heard the sounds of waking households as they entered the alleyway paralleling Yonge Street: a shout, a child’s cry. At the other end of the laneway, they heard the slap of water on the bottom of a metal bucket.

The shop was dark. They took a moment to clean the mud from their boots and frown at their wet pant legs and bloomers. At least Rosemary’s stains were covered by her overdress. They snuck into the kitchen. Together, they crept to the stairs.

The back door banged open. Faith came in, grunting, hauling a bucket over the threshold. She looked up. “Rosemary! You are up early!”

Rosemary closed her eyes wearily. She nodded to Peter, who was hidden by the wall, and turned back to the kitchen. “We’re both up. Peter’s still getting dressed.”

“Help me lift this onto the stove.” Faith grasped the rim of the bucket. Rosemary came over and pulled at the metal handle. Together, they hefted it up. Rosemary wrinkled her nose at the brackish, earthy-smelling water. “Ew!” she said before she could stop herself.

“I know,” said Faith, opening a hatch in the potbellied stove. “The condition of the wells is a disgrace.” She poked at the embers with fresh kindling. The fire flared to life. “That is why I always boil the water, no matter what the Public Health Department says.”

“Good idea,” Rosemary muttered. The water smelled like her damp bloomers.

“Put some in a pot when it boils. There’s a packet of oatmeal in the pantry.” Faith nodded at a small room in the corner. “I have to fetch my books.” She stepped upstairs. Rosemary fought down a surge of jealousy and set about exploring the pantry.

She was stirring a bubbling pot of oatmeal when Faith returned, followed by Peter, who was wearing fresh clothes.

“I am sorry I was such a poor host yesterday,” said Faith. “I hardly saw you between your late morning and my late studies. But I must say that this place was kept clean, and I thank you for it.”

Rosemary rolled her eyes and said nothing. She hated cleaning, but it was just the excuse she needed to search for and find those candles. Not that anything had come of her sacrifice.

“I see my education is in good hands.” Faith gave her a winsome smile. Rosemary bit her tongue.

Edmund entered from the front. “Ah! Breakfast! Good, I’m famished.” He pushed forward, grabbed a bowl, and stood waiting. Rosemary realized she had the ladle in her hand. Edmund made no move to take it. She dipped the ladle in the pot and poured the oatmeal into the bowl. He walked away, licking his spoon.

Faith set a bundle of books, tied by a leather strap, on the table. She picked up a bowl and stood waiting. Rosemary served her, too. Then Peter shrugged, picked up the bowl, and joined the line. He frowned at Rosemary’s glare. “Um ... please?”

Rosemary slapped a ladleful of oatmeal into his bowl. Peter walked away, wiping a fleck from his eye. Rosemary served herself and joined the others at the table.

Unlike dinner, breakfast was eaten in silence. Peter kept shooting worried glances at Rosemary, which soured her mood even more. Then Faith pushed aside her bowl and stood up. “I have to go to classes. I sign up for my new ones today.”

“Off you go, then,” said Edmund. “When you are through here, Rosemary,” he handed her his dirty bowl, “come up front. I’ll show you how to handle the shop.”

“Thank you again for the cleaning, Rosemary,” said Faith as she swept out the back door.

The room emptied out, leaving only Peter and Rosemary. Rosemary held Edmund’s dirty bowl in her hand.

She looked down at it, then swung it at the kitchen table with a shout.

Peter snatched the bowl from her hand. “Woah, woah! Easy!”

“I didn’t go off to college so I could keep house,” she snapped.

“You’re not just keeping house,” said Peter. “You’re helping Edmund out with his store, too.”

She grabbed the bowl back and raised it high, taking aim at his head.

“I’m really, really sorry I said that,” he said. “But it’s just a couple of days. Until we can get the stuff we need to go back. Okay?”

She lowered the bowl. After a moment, she set it on the kitchen table. “Lanterns, you mean.”

“Yeah. And rope, since we did fall in. And maybe climbing gear, if we can afford it.”

“We can’t afford it.”

“Well, maybe ...”

She looked up at him. “You thought of something. Give.”

“I was just thinking,” said Peter. “We’ve got food and shelter, thanks to you. I spent all of yesterday staring

at the construction site from the top of a hill. Maybe I can be more constructive, so to speak. They hire for odd jobs at the beginning of the day.”

Rosemary’s eyes widened. “You don’t even know how to use a hammer!”

“How hard can it be?”

Her hand went to her cheek. “Oh my God, you’re going to die.”

“It’s a good plan!” he huffed. “It gets us money, and I can scout the site properly. Perhaps even find things, like a lantern, to help us go back.”

She sighed. “Just be careful, all right?”

“Okay, Miss Worrywart.”

She reached for the bowl again.

“Backing up slowly,” he said. Then he turned to the back door. He hesitated there a moment, then turned back. “This may sound weird, but ... doesn’t this seem like an appropriate time to kiss?”

Rosemary snorted and shook her head, smiling at last. She came to him and kissed him on the lips. “Have a good day at work, dear.” She punched his shoulder softly. “Bring home that bacon!” She gripped the back of his neck. “Don’t get hurt.”

“Let me show you how this place operates.” Edmund led Rosemary into the front section of the store. He
pulled a black, leather-bound book from the desk. “This is the inventory. When we buy goods, we write down when we bought them and how much we paid. When we sell goods, we write down when they were sold and for how much. Understand?”