Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City (8 page)

She was clad in a one-piece slip of sturdy, white cloth, laced at the neck and with short sleeves. The slip ran down to just below her knees, exposing her shins and ankles. She wriggled her toes and Peter caught himself looking.

He pulled his gaze away and grinned at her. “You’ll make them come back into fashion!”

She tossed him the remaining bundle. “Your turn.”

As he got behind the screen, she sat down on the bed to watch. “Other than almost breaking yourself, how was work?”

“Not bad,” said Peter, draping his trousers over the top of the screen. “It actually feels good to work with my hands. Well, not physically. But it feels good to build something. It helps that Mr. Proctor’s sort of taken me under his wing.”

“Mr. Proctor?”

“The foreman. I was right, by the way; he lives in this shed on-site. He has one kerosene lantern. I couldn’t find any spares.”

Rosemary sucked her teeth. “Those things are expensive.”

Peter didn’t say anything. He folded his shirt and draped it over the screen.

“I know,” said Rosemary. “But Faith and Edmund sound like they need the money. They’ve given a lot to us, and I feel guilty just taking from them.”

“I know.” He shrugged on the clothes Rosemary had tossed him, and looked around for the rest of the bundle. He couldn’t find anything. He looked down at himself, then stared.

“Peter? What’s wrong?”

He stepped from the cover of the screen, wearing a white nightgown in the same cut as Rosemary’s. “We didn’t accidentally switch, did we?”

Rosemary smirked and patted the sheets. “Come to bed, Miss Nightingale.”

Peter rolled his eyes and crossed the floor. As he pulled back the sheets, Rosemary stopped him. “Hey.”

Peter looked up. She knelt on the bed and looked him in the eye. “You’ve been good, these past couple of days. When I ...,” she faltered and looked at her fingertips, “... panicked, you were level-headed. You kept me steady.”

“It was nothing.”

“No.” She took his hand. “It’s everything. It’s terrible being here, but ... it would be a whole lot worse if you weren’t here with me.”

He looked away. His mouth quirked. “Thanks.”

“Thank
you
,” she said. And she kissed him.

He kissed her back.

They kissed again.

They paused a moment, and then reached out and pulled each other in. They kissed longer, lingering. His kisses strayed from her lips and over her throat. Clasping him, she leaned back. He pressed her to the bed.

Then they stopped. Peter pulled back. They stared at each other. After a moment, Peter coughed. “So many reasons we shouldn’t —”

Rosemary couldn’t quite catch her breath. “Level-headed. That’s my Peter.”

“We should go to bed ... I ... I mean, to sleep.”

“Yeah. Sleep. Right.”

They stared at each other a moment longer. Then he rolled off her.

As he sat up and put his feet to the floor, she caught his arm. “Stay? Please?”

He looked at her. Smiled nervously. Then he blew out the candle and slipped under the covers.

ALDOUS BIRGE

Rosemary ran downhill, wild and free, the skirts of her blue dress billowing behind her, dancing like marsh light, shimmering with a phosphor glow. The damp grass mushed beneath her bare feet and she laughed to the sky.

Then she looked down and saw bricks lining her path, turning the grass to gravel. The stones bit her feet. She cried out and tried to jump over the bricks, but the line grew into a wall and she bounced off it, back onto the straight and narrow. She ran faster than ever. She couldn’t stop.

Water bubbled around her, rising from the gravel and turning her blue skirts black. The bricks rose around her and closed in over her head.

The water cried out, “Release me!”

She ran face first into a metal grate. Her skirts tangled around the bars. The water pressed into her back. She
pushed away, desperate, and felt another grate fencing her in from behind. The walls narrowed until she was in a brick-and-metal coffin, black water rising over her chin. She screamed.

The water cried out again, “Release me!”

Her glow flickered and went out.

She woke, gasping. It took a moment to realize where she was, whose arm draped over her, and who snored in her ear. She sighed, levered Peter’s arm up, and kissed the back of his hand before slipping out of bed.

Peter rolled onto his stomach. “Turn the water off,” he mumbled.

Rosemary wrapped a shawl over her nightclothes. Then she heard a soft knock at the door. She padded over.

Faith was on the other side, holding out a bundle. “Good morning! I meant to give these to you yesterday.”

Rosemary blinked sleep from her eyes. “Faith? You already gave us clothes.”

She pressed the bundle forward. “These are a little old, but they were my Sunday best, once. I thought you could use these today.”

“Why? What’s today?”

“Sunday,” said Faith, as if that said it all.

“What happens Sunday?”

Faith stared at Rosemary as though she had sprouted horns. Rosemary clued in a second later. “That would be church!”

Faith kept staring.

“Which we go to!”

Silence stretched.

“Every Sunday,” Rosemary added.

More silence.

Rosemary snatched up the bundle. “Thanks!”

Faith turned away, casting looks behind her as she went downstairs. Rosemary closed the door and banged her head on the frame. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

She snatched a dress out of the bundle and tossed the rest at Peter. He woke with a grunt. “Wha—?”

“Get up!” She darted behind the change screen and pulled off her nightdress. “We’ve got to go to church!”

“But I wanted to sleep in,” he mumbled. “What is this, Easter?”

“Just do it!” she snapped. “We’re Christians, after all!” She emerged from behind the screen, hoisting a brown brocade dress over her camisole. “Help me with my buttons!”

Peter rolled out of bed, grumbling about rest for the wicked.

The toll of church bells rolled across the city. Faith walked as though she were pulled to church on a string. Among the crowds, the others struggled to keep up. Rosemary pulled at the collar of her dress. It had been starched to
within an inch of its life. Peter slouched, blinking sleep from his eyes. As for Edmund ...

Without breaking step, Faith turned back and glared. “Edmund, come on! You shall make us late!”

Edmund started. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and he’d been staring at the gaps in the sidewalk. Rosemary nudged him. “You okay?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I had a late night last night.”

“Are you
sure
you couldn’t use my help with the ledgers?”

He reddened. “No. I’m fine.”

The crowds converged on their church — the same church Peter and Rosemary had passed when they first arrived. Rosemary glanced at the crowds in their Sunday best, wondering if anyone would recognize her with her clothes on.

Her eyes tracked to an alleyway between two stores. A group of three boys, barely older than ten, huddled in the doorway, their skin mottled with grime. They frowned at the people in their fine clothes. One of the boys caught her staring and stuck out his tongue.

They hurried up the church steps. Peter held the door for Faith and Rosemary. Faith entered, but Rose-mary took the door and nodded Peter inside. Faith looked back. “Edmund, come
on
!” He woke from his reverie.

“Edmund!” another voice called. He froze.

Rosemary stood at the door. A man strode up to Edmund, cane clicking on the wooden sidewalk. He wore a beard and a fine, cream-coloured suit. Rosemary thought he looked familiar.

Edmund stood at the bottom of the steps, hands at his sides, eyes wide, as the man came up and clapped him warmly on the shoulder.

Rosemary frowned and craned her neck to see more, but the crowd shouldered her inside.

As she made her way to the pew where Faith and Peter were sitting and slid in beside them, she cast an eye on the church. It was Presbyterian, just like her own church in the twenty-first century, with no stained-glass windows and no ornamentation save for a cross on the altar, but there was an air of strictness that had no place where she was from. Faith sat ramrod straight in her pew. People packed into row upon row of uncomfortable wood. And something told her that the service was going to be a lot longer than what she was used to — on those occasions when she went to church. Her dress began to itch.

The congregation stood. Peter and Rosemary followed a half-second later. At no cue Rosemary could hear, the congregation burst into song.

“Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him, all creatures here below;

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

As Rosemary fumbled through her hymnal, she heard Faith mutter beneath her breath, “That Edmund! Where is he?”

Edmund rushed to the pew and slid in, flinching under a dozen disapproving stares. The man he’d talked to sauntered past and took his place two pews down.

Rosemary found her place in the book. Taking a deep breath, she hoped she could get through the service without offending anyone.

“Faith? Are you still mad at me?”

It was after dinner. Faith and Rosemary were in the kitchen. Faith’s books were spread out over the table, but the two women were washing dishes.

“Mad at you? Why would I be mad at you?” Faith’s towel blurred as she scrubbed a pot. “Save for the fact that you made me laugh in church!”

“I said I was sorry!” said Rosemary. “It’s an old joke. When the pastor goes on about throwing alcohol in the river, you say, ‘please turn to the next hymn: Shall We Gather at the River.’ How was I to know that would actually
be
the next hymn?”

Faith snorted. Then she caught herself and glared. “So, you laugh in church often, do you?”

“No,” said Rosemary. She looked up. “But would God strike me down if I did?”

Faith stared at Rosemary a long moment. Then she sidestepped away.

Rosemary’s eyes narrowed. She took a step forward, putting Faith back within striking distance.

Faith took another sidestep away. Her mouth quirked. They giggled, then laughed, as Rosemary stalked Faith into a corner, and then tagged her. “Zap!”

Faith shrieked. “‘Zap’? I’ll ‘zap’ you!” She flicked her hand into the bucket of dishwater and sprayed Rosemary in the face. Rosemary gasped and tagged Faith again.

Then someone cleared his throat.

Faith and Rosemary looked up. Peter stood at the back door, staring. Both women were flecked with soap and water, hair straying from their ties.

“Um ... how are the dishes coming?” he asked.

“Come and see!” Rosemary’s smile showed her teeth. Her hand swirled the water. Faith beckoned.

“Um ... no.” He darted up the stairs.

Rosemary and Faith collapsed into fits of laughter.

“I envy you, Rosemary,” said Faith, once her laughter subsided. “You are a free spirit.”

“Me?” said Rosemary. “
You’re
the one going to medical school.”

“And I fret about it all the time.” Faith thumped the books lying open on the table. “I worry over classes. I worry over what the men say. You don’t care what anybody says. You speak your mind. You can laugh at Pastor Reeve’s
overlong sermons —.” She glanced sharply at Rosemary. “Tell no one I said that!”

Rosemary grinned. “Your secret is safe with me.” She frowned. “Have you been having trouble with what some men have said? Does Edmund give you trouble?”

“Edmund? No!” She looked shocked. “He teases me, and goes on about the bills, but he pays them. However, I have had more than one man tell me that women have no place in medical school. This includes teachers and fellow students. Sometimes I wonder if they’re right.”

“Have your marks been good?”

“Respectable.”