by Sarah Diemer
Charlie squeezes my hand, her fingers warm against my cold ones. “You can’t send a Sleeper out into the night,” she tells Miss Black calmly. “It’s against the code of a Safe House.”
"Well…" Miss Black shuts her mouth, tapping her fan against the palm of her black-lined hand. Her shrewd eyes narrow. “If she is not out of my house at first light, I will send for the Sixers.”
Charlie pales but nods, mouth drawn into a thin, downward curve. “She’ll be gone by morning. We’ll all be gone, back to Mad House.”
“See that you are.” She turns without another word, black skirts whirling, and weaves into the silent crowd of Sleepers watching us—staring, listening.
“A Snatcher refused her?” I hear the whisper. And then there are more whispers, as Sleepers speak behind cupped hands, pointing to me, staring, eyes wide and fear-filled, mimicking Isabel's eyes. Isabel still watches me, though she's moved across the room with Miss Black and taken up her chair by the fireplace.
“Come on,” says Edgar, breathing out, stepping back. “I’ll take you all up to my room. It's more…private.”
“Great,” mutters Charlie, putting her arm around my waist and steering me away from the gaping, gossiping mass. Violet follows behind us, her eyes on the floor.
“This just keeps getting more and more interesting,” Edgar grins, wolfish, as we ascend the staircase. There are little faces carved into the railing, baby faces with sharp teeth and wide, wooden eyes. I look away from them, shudder.
“Hey,” says Charlie, pressing her fingers against my side, drawing me back to the here and now of the wide, plush staircase and her warmth beside me. We’re at the top of the steps, and Edgar is leading us down the many-doored hall, eventually opening a nondescript door on the right and tilting his head to usher us inside.
In the center of the room, there's a large, soft-looking bed covered in rumpled covers and a simple washing table holding a slouching, cracked bowl. Edgar sits down on the edge of the bed, patting either side of himself with a wide smile.
“So many pretty ladies… I’m a lucky guy today,” he says, but he quickly sobers when Charlie gives him a hard glance. He leans back on his hands, almost pouting. “So the Snatcher didn’t want her.” He glances at me. “That doesn’t…necessarily mean that—”
“Don’t, Edgar,” sighs Charlie, sitting next to him, rubbing her face and looking up at me with her brows furrowed. She takes my hands in hers and squeezes, half-smiling. “It’ll be all right,” she tells me in her soothing, husky voice. “I promise you, Lottie. We’re going to get to the bottom of all of this, and then…”
"Then?" Violet sinks down to the floor, rubs her face. “What if we can't figure it out? Things have gone strange here before—but never like this. Not with a Sleeper. What does it mean, Charlie?”
Charlie shakes her head, glancing to Edgar. “I don’t know. But just because we don’t know doesn’t mean we can’t figure it out. We will.”
“You know who could figure it out,” says Edgar mildly, staring down at his fingernails as if they’re a source of sudden fascination.
“No,” says Charlie, standing. The word is unyielding, but Edgar’s eyes flash when he turns and looks at her.
“Lottie should be the one making that decision, shouldn’t she?”
“What decision?” I’m so tired, I feel like I’m wilting. I slide down the wall to rest upon the cold, wooden boards, crumple there. My mind tumbles a single thought, over and over and over: The Snatcher refused me. The Snatcher refused me.
Edgar crosses his left leg over his right and regards me evenly. “The Sixers know everything about Twixt—or at least more than we lowly Sleepers do.”
A chill creeps along my spine, and my head is shaking long before I will it to do so. “No. I mean, I don’t know…” I begin, and breathe out. “I’ll…have to think about it.” I slur the words together so quickly, they sound like one word, like nonsense.
Violet, standing next to the door, is watching me, picking at the edge of her hoodie’s sleeves. “The thing about the Sixers,” whispers Violet slowly, “is that once you’ve been seen by them, you can’t be unseen. If something intrigues them about you, they’ll keep you." She pauses, her blue eyes distant, glazed. "The Sixers take what they want. They always have.” She slumps against the wall, her head bowed to her chest.
I glance down at my palms again and, scowling, curl my hands into fists, hiding the failed shadows of Nox from my sight.
“It’s not so bad,” says Charlie gently, leaning forward, lowering herself to the floor beside me. She takes one of my hands in hers and slowly uncurls my fingers. “You get used to the lines. I can’t remember a time, really, when I didn’t have them on my palms.”
I glance up at her. She’s not watching me, is still staring down at my hand, unseeing.
“What was one of your Mems like, Charlie?” I ask her, voice soft. She looks up, locks eyes with me and glances away, breathing out.
“Um..." She sits back, filling the space beside me, resting her head against the wall. "Very few of my memories were good ones, to be honest." She glances at me quickly. "It’s not like that for most people. Usually, they experience good memories,” she says, shrugging slightly.
Edgar draws up his feet, curls up on the bed with his chin in his hand, and Violet crosses her arms over her stomach, watching us.
Charlie clears her throat, turns her head back to stare at the wall above the bed. "My mother and father fought all the time. I got a lot of Mems of their fights." Her mouth twists. "Screaming. Doors slamming. My Waking life… It doesn't have monsters, I guess, but it’s not all that much better than here. I don’t think I have a lot of friends…” She gazes down at my palm, threading her fingers through mine. “Here I do. So that’s different. Nice.”
“There’s this boy,” says Violet so quietly, I wonder if I imagined it. I gaze at her, see her eyes bright with tears. She rubs at her face, sniffles, sighs. “His name’s Billy. He was my first kiss. I was fourteen, and he said I was fucking beautiful. He said it just like that. He didn’t make fun of my worrying like everyone else did. We stayed together for a couple of months. Most of my memories are about him. I think I loved him.” Her voice catches. “I…can’t be certain. But I think I did.”
Edgar watches her quietly, frowning, and then casts his gaze away, to the floor, staring at it as if it might open up, or show him a lost scene from his Waking life. As if it’s a door to another time and place.
After a long moment of silence, he takes a deep breath, says, “Mother was a nurse. She used to sing me lullabies. I remembered them, all of them… Most of my Mems were of her singing, rocking me to sleep her in lap. She had a starched cap, kept it very neat. She contracted a coughing sickness from her ward, and she was…gone before I was fifteen.”
I sit up straighter. The walls had seemed to stretch around us when he whispered, struggling, the word gone. There’s another word, a word he wanted to use, a stronger word, but he couldn't think of it. I can’t think of it. Edgar seems to concentrate for a moment, eyes closed, but then he looks around the room, claps his hands, and everything’s, seemingly, back to normal.
“There were many girls,” he laughs, voice catching. “But there was one I loved more than all the others. Lucy. But she didn’t love me. Heartbreaking, isn’t it?” He snorts, runs his fingers over his moustache, glancing at Violet again. “She said I was one of those types. Not certain what that means. I’m still trying, in my Waking life, to win her, I think. That was my last Mem…”
Violet, very pointedly, doesn’t look at Edgar, though he seeks her eyes for a long while, finally giving up and contemplating the floor again.
Charlie’s fingers are twined around my hands, holding me softly but securely, somehow fiercely. “I loved a girl…” she whispers, her eyes closed, her eyelids trembling.
I gaze at her, swallow. She's so lovely, with her pale lashes grazing her cheeks, with that shock of unruly blonde hair falling
over her forehead. But she's lovelier still because of the way she's touching my hands, because…she hasn't abandoned me, the Sleeper that Snatchers won't even touch.
Bowing my head, I squeeze her hands, listening.
“The girl didn’t love me," Charlie goes on, her mouth fixed in a straight line. "She was…disgusted by me when I told her how I felt about her. And that was the last Mem I ever had. Her staring at me as if I were a monster. I gave up Nox after that.”
She opens her eyes, brimming with tears, and they spill over her cheeks, glistening in the light of the Wisp-filled lanterns.
I breathe out, squeeze her hands again. “Oh, I’m so sorry…” I whisper. One of her warm tears falls upon the back of my hand, tracing over my skin. “I don’t know how anyone could say that to you, how they could ever…” I shake my head, dark hair shifting over my shoulders. My heart hurts, and I’m breathing too quickly, as if I've just run too far, or fallen from a great height. I watch the sadness move over Charlie's face, tearing at all of my sharp edges.
“You’re wonderful, Charlie,” I say quickly, words tumbling out of my mouth, tasting golden and true. “And anyone who doesn’t see that isn’t worth the pain of knowing. Isn't worthy of you.”
Charlie looks at me, then, for a long, still moment, and we share the same air, both of us breathing fast, hard, our eyes locked on one another.
Edgar clears his throat, stands smoothly. “Violet, dear…” he murmurs, holding out a hand to her. “Will you come, uh…help me situate the new Sleeper? Bless my garters, but I forgot about the poor man.”
“But—” Violet resists, even as Edgar places a hand at the small of her back and more or less pushes her through the door.
Charlie laughs a little, wipes away her tears, sighing. “He’s ridiculous.”
I watch her in the half-light, breathless.
Even when she cries, she’s beautiful. The realization of that is warm as it fills me from the inside out.
“You…you must have a good memory,” I murmur, watching her. “At least one?”
She runs her fingers through her hair, sighing, thinking, eyes up to the ceiling, head tilted back against the wall. “I did once.” She grins then, a private grin, and glances down at the floor again. “It was a short Mem. It was cruel, how short it was." She shrugs her shoulders, still smiling. "But I’m at a school dance with a girl. And I put my arms around her, because I don’t care who sees us—and everyone sees us—and I kiss her." Her eyes skip over me. "I felt so happy in that moment. I don't know what happened after… But that moment, short as it was, was good. So…I have that.” She pats the pocket over her heart, smiling.
I’m suddenly so hot, I feel flushed, as if I’m sitting before a fire. I lean toward Charlie a little, trembling. “What was it like?” I whisper. “A kiss?”
Charlie’s eyes go wide, brows up, wondering. She watches me for a long moment, licks her lips. Then she says, “Lottie…?” The word is weak. It questions everything.
I close my eyes, breathe out, lean forward just a little more…
“Oh!” Violet’s voice. I open my eyes, inhaling deeply.
Violet stands in the doorway, hand on the knob, mouth open a little. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I wanted to ask—”
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” says Charlie, shaking her head. She looks my way for a heartbeat, and I feel that rush of warmth again.
She’d leaned forward, too.
*
Light streams through the open doorway as we slip out of Black House, into Abeo City.
Morning. Finally.
I don’t think I could have endured another heartbeat in Black House—all of those suspicious, fear-filled eyes trained on me, on Charlie's hand in mine, as we came down the staircase. Judging, expelling...
We pause together on the porch outside, and I breathe out the stale, musty air of Black House, breathe in the cool air of Twixt.
“The Bone Feast is coming up in a few days,” says Edgar, falling into a chaise lounge on the porch. He stretches his long legs in front of him, his arms drawn up overhead. “So that’ll be something different. Matilda’s coming into the Need Shop this morning to take inventory on the Nox we have left for it.”
“The Bone Feast?” I ask.
Someone twitches a curtain inside the house, peering out at us. I try to ignore that, stand still, though I know all of the residents of Black House want me gone, are likely quivering with the need to see my back from a safe distance. And I want to go, but I wait as Charlie stretches her arms above her head, then places her hands on her hips, while Violet, beside her, is hugging herself, shivering a little, looking uncomfortable and cold.
“Oh, it’s great fun,” says Edgar dryly, brow up. “The Sixers come out to Abeo City, and they pluck a few Snatchers and hand out free Nox." He rolls his eyes, smoothes his mustache. "And then they parade a Snatcher around in a cage, and everyone feels wonderful for a night, or pretends to—or is too busy writhing under a Mem to notice their surroundings.”
“All of the Houses must be represented,” says Charlie, folding her arms, breathing out through her nose, “so even though Mad House doesn’t allow Nox past its doors, Abigail must go, and I must go, and Abigail complains the entire time about being around so many hooligans. So like Edgar said, it's great fun.” She grins a little, sighing, pushing her fingers through her hair. “Speaking of Abigail, we’d better get going. There's going to be hell to pay, and I’ll have to explain about…" Her eyes find mine, regard me uncertainly, almost shyly. "About what happened in the courtyard," she finishes, biting her lip.
I take a deep breath, remembering the Snatcher on the awning, the tilt of its bony head as it watched me, only watched…
“I’ll see you later,” says Edgar, waving at us from his chair. His eyes linger on Violet, I notice—though she doesn't notice—before he rises and slips back into Black House, where he'll likely be bombarded with a thousand questions about me. He shuts the door as we troop down the steps.
We walk close together, quickly, Charlie’s hands deep in her pockets, shoulders slouched, Violet's arms swinging loose, though she blows on her fingers to warm them. After awhile, lost in dark thoughts, I slow my steps, follow after them rather than beside them, two paces behind.
“We’re going to get to the bottom of all of this,” says Charlie over her shoulder, shoving the hair out of her eyes. “We’re going to figure it out, Lottie, even if I have to talk to every Fetcher in Abeo. Even if I have to talk to the Sixers.” She whispers Sixers like it's a forbidden word, a curse.
“You wouldn’t,” Violet hisses out.
But Charlie shrugs, shakes her head. “What choice do I have? Edgar’s right. They would have a better idea than the Fetchers as to what might be going on. It makes the most sense, Violet.”
"I just…" Violet turns her head to stare at Charlie, and her eyes are round as she breathes out, slumping a little. “I just think the Sixers should be the last resort.”
I shiver, skin crawling, and I peer over my shoulder, back the way we’ve come, back toward the Wanting Market. My eyes alight on a shadow that moves beneath the overhang of a building’s slanted roof, a shape swaddled in furs.
When I blink, the shadow is gone.
“The last resort,” Charlie promises, quickening her step. The road blurs around us, and then I recognize the pile of bricks and rubble, the turn of the street, and ahead of us, like a beacon, like a home—home, I mouth, recognizing the word with a pang I can't place—lies Mad House.
Abigail is bent in the doorway, drawing her many shawls closer around her, wrinkled fingers paling in the growing light. When she sees us, she waves us toward her. Hurry, faster. Charlie breaks into a trot as my heart, already a rock in my chest, grows heavier.
Even from this distance, I can see that Abigail’s mouth is puckered, as if she’s bitten into a sour fruit.
Something’s wrong.
“Florence,” she spits out, when we pull even with the porc
h.
“What’s happened?” asks Charlie, her tone frantic, her words crackling into the stillness.
Abigail shakes her head, points back the way we’ve come. “I couldn’t stop her. I tried. At daybreak, she slipped out right past me, pushed past me on the stairs and flew out the door. I think she’s gone to the Need Shop, Charlie. You’ve got to get her before she’s Memmed herself away.” Abigail works her mouth. “She’ll Fade…”
Charlie says nothing as she turns, but I can see the line of her jaw, tightly clenched, and the wild, worried look in her brown eyes. She breaks into a run, long legs eating up the broken road. Violet and I follow after, though we're not nearly as fast. We double our pace, taking in great lungfuls of air, retracing our walk and drawing closer to the Wanting Market.
Charlie slices through the lanes of rubble and garbage, and onlookers watch her move through the rows of stalls in silence. Though it’s early, the Wanting Market is filled with people blithely snipping off locks of hair in exchange for stupid, useless junk. The man who stood at the fountain before is there again, yelling something about Snatchers, but I tune him out, pull my gaze away, as we run after Charlie, as we near the steps of the Need Shop.
Edgar walks along the street, top hat cocked on his head, aiming toward the shop, as Charlie climbs the steps two at a time, hurling open the door and moving quickly inside.
“What…?” Edgar turns to Violet, but he makes a guess based on her pale expression—unmasked fear—and bolts up the steps after Charlie. I’m beside him as he opens the door, and we three enter together.
An older woman stands behind the counter, hands folded before her against her impeccable black skirts. Her graying black hair is swept up in an old-fashioned twist, and her features are severe, sharp, like a buzzard. Her eyes narrow as she peers past Charlie to Edgar.
“First off, you’re late,” she tells him, clipping out the words as she lifts a quill and piece of paper, holding them out to him. “And second, what’s the meaning of this, barging in here with a gang from Mad House and…” Her eyes find me, then, and her words fall away. She’s staring, her jaw hanging open, her gaze still and wide.