Graham stuffed his hands in his pockets and ignored the books, ignored the lamps, the bear rug before the fireplace. He ignored the memories this reignited, how much Starkey had loved old books, how he’d had a collection of them back home.
“Didn’t you?” Graham snapped. “Gingham Range is a pile of ashes. Victoria’s mom is hurt. Rosalind Baxter is hurt. The shore watcher died. That one girl, Dahlia, disappeared. Victoria told me about that Powell lady who died. How long are you going to let it go on? These lives are on your hands, Starkey! You’re not helping these people, you’re damning them. You’ve got them trapped in this fake existence, in a world they can’t leave if they wanted to. What are you going to do if they figure out what’s going on? That you’re the one who’s doing it?”
Starkey’s nostrils flared. He slammed the book to the carpet and rose to his feet. He was tall, but not as tall as Graham.
“I tell you, boy, I didn’t use it!”
“Then how did this happen?” Graham shouted. If Starkey was telling the truth, that could only mean one thing. “Things are out of your control, Starkey.”
The old man shook his head. Graham was shocked. He had to have heard the siren or looked out his window. How could he be so in denial about all of this?
“There are two of them now. And if what you said is true, that you didn’t trigger this attack, then you’re losing control of them.”
“You know how I found Oscar?” Starkey said. “He’d just gotten beaten up by his gang, his supposed family, for wanting out. He was a bloody pulp on the sidewalk, and when I tried to help him, he pushed me away. The kid almost died, Graham, and yet he held so much devotion to the people who nearly killed him he refused to speak against them. Enid Digby was dying of a drug overdose. Jarvis was once an Air Force pilot, but the government refused to uphold his VA benefits and he was living on the streets, begging for money from anyone who passed his way.”
Graham ignored this. Starkey couldn’t argue his way out of it this time. He couldn’t keep trying to justify it. Not anymore.
“If you don’t destroy the Kreaks, everyone in this town will die.”
Starkey’s nostrils flared. “If I do destroy them, we’re all stuck. No one will be able to enter. No one will be able to leave.”
“Then you’ve got to let everyone go.”
“No,” Starkey snapped. “I saved these people. I brought them here to a safe reality where they could have a good life.”
“They’re not safe here!” Graham shouted.
“Everything I’ve done here will be lost. If you go back to Chicago, you lose Victoria. Do you really want that?”
Graham’s argument slipped from his lips.
“She’ll lose herself, boy. You’ll be condemning her—and everyone else—to their misery.”
“She’s already miserable,” Graham said, pitying Starkey. Could he really be that blind? “Most of these people here are. Admit it, Stark, your experiment was a failure. You’ve ruined these people’s lives instead of saving them.”
Starkey’s lip curled. With a roar, he upturned the table beside his chair, his shoulders rising and falling from the exertion.
Graham took several careful steps toward him, hands raised. “I know it’s the last thing you want to hear. And I’m sorry. But you know I’m right, Stark. You know it.”
Starkey blinked. Over and over. It was silent for so long Graham opened his mouth to go on when the old man finally nodded.
“You’re right,” he said, sinking into the chair beside the overturned table. “Blast it all, you’re right, boy.”
“People will understand. It might be difficult, but at least the Kreak won’t be there to keep killing them.”
Starkey stared off at his study, trapped in whatever thoughts were tumbling through his mind. “It will be impossible to send them all back through at once,” he finally said, his voice tepid.
Graham sat too and stared right at him until Starkey’s blue eyes returned to his. “So we pick a few at a time.”
Starkey shook, looking older than Graham had ever seen him. He closed his eyes and rested his hand against his head as if doing difficult calculations.
“See to it, my boy. Select a few people you think should go first. You should go with them. Be there to help them transition.”
“When?” Graham asked. “When do they leave?”
“Midnight tonight.”
Tonight. His chest tightened.
“I’ll alert the Nauts to be at the ready,” Graham said. “And when it’s all over, we destroy the Gateway. It’s how it has to be.”
Thirty-eight
Rosalind felt her way along the hall. It had only been within the past few days that she could decipher distinct outlines of things—the suit of armor in the corner, a long table with a lace runner topped by two vases of lilies. She counted doorways until she reached her father’s study. The forlorn hum of a cello rang down the hall, winding around her veins the way it’d done since she was a child. She loved the sound, but now it only filled her with dread.
Each reedy sound extricated memories of her father, yes, but mostly of Oscar. He’d learned the same instrument under her father’s tutelage, after all. And that was exactly why she could no longer sit by, not after she’d snuck out again last night. Not after hearing Oscar tell her he loved her.
Not after he’d asked her to marry him.
Rosalind knew her father hated to be interrupted when he was playing. And from the passion resonating through the sad, solemn melody pouring down the hall, she knew he was playing his heart out at that moment.
He was angry—he’d made that clear plenty of times over the last few days, especially at having to permit the Digbys and Graham Birkley to stay with them after the destruction of their home. Papa was definitely not pleased to allow the instigators of his daughter’s almost-blindness into his home, to partake of his charity. But Rosalind had insisted in front of Victoria, leaving her father no other choice.
“The last people in the world who deserve it,” her father had grumbled as they’d arrived on his doorstep.
Rosalind finally made it to her father’s study. The sound of the cello dispersed and was followed by polite applause. Rosalind blinked, trying to discern who else was in the room with him. A set of seated silhouettes created a circle a short distance from where her father sat.
Her courage faltered for a moment. She was tempted to slink away and remain unnoticed.
No, she told herself. That was the old Rosalind. I must speak with him now, before it is too late.
“Rosalind,” came Enid Digby’s chiming voice. “Lovely to see you walking about, my dear.”
“Thank you, Lady Digby,” Rosalind managed. Her brain teemed, searching out ways to politely request an audience alone with her father.
“And how are your eyes today?”
“Better,” Rosalind said, remembering to smile too late. “Thank you.”
“It was lovely, Danton,” Lady Digby said to Rosalind’s father. Rosalind watched their shadows and heard her footsteps leave the room until silence was all that remained.
“You should be lying down,” Papa said. He propped his cello against her harpsichord. She imagined the stern bend of his brow accompanied the disapproving tone.
Though she could discern light and the shapes of the furniture, she still held a hand before her, ensuring the space was clear while moving forward. “Papa, there is something I must—”
“Not now, Rosalind.”
“Yes, now!” She stomped her foot, nearly losing her balance. “You cannot keep pushing me away until you hear what I have to say.”
“I know what you have to say. That boy came to me this morning. But my answer is no.”
She could hardly believe it. “Why? What is so wrong with my marrying Oscar?”
“Everything! I h
ave worked too hard for too long.”
Tears rushed to her eyes, but she forced them away. “I should have known. You withheld his letters from me, didn’t you? I should have known you’d never allow me to—”
“I did nothing of the sort. That boy never wrote to you. Not once.”
Rosalind blinked. How she wished she could see! Oscar wouldn’t lie to her, not about this.
“Then where did his letters go?”
“I’ve put far too much into your future for you to spend it with him. You don’t know what that boy was before, but he’s certainly no one . . .”
“Before? What are you talking about?”
Papa tapped a shaky finger to his temple and turned away from her, his silhouette disturbing the light. “I should have known you’d come with questions. It’s all that Birkley’s doing. I should never have allowed him to stay here, not when Goshawk warned me about him.”
“Papa?” Rosalind asked, utterly confused.
“No. You can’t interfere, Rosalind. We must have continuum. We must keep the momentum we’ve started here, and you marrying Oscar is not part of the plan.”
“Shouldn’t that be my decision?”
“You are my daughter. Your decisions belong to me, and I’m telling you no!”
Rosalind’s chest heaved. The tears she’d been warding off pushed in, streaking down her cheeks and riddled with all the despair exploding in her chest. She ran from the room.
She couldn’t stay here any longer, but neither could she make it clear into town again on her own. With her father in such bad humor, he’d undoubtedly warned the servants off from helping her. Perhaps she could get a message to Oscar. They could run away, they could—
Voices just down the hall from her room caused her to stall.
“I will—I promise I’ll tell you,” Graham’s voice carried, soft and hushed. “I’m honestly just trying to figure out how to say it.”
“Why not just have it out? Be forthright, Graham. You can tell me.” Desperation dripped from Victoria’s voice.
Rosalind tarried. This was obviously a private conversation, but she was running out of options. She had to act now.
She fingered the wood of the wainscoting along the hall, waiting for the right moment to interrupt.
“Starkey has this room at his house,” Graham went on. “He uses this stone and every time he does, the Kreaks emerge.”
“You mean the mayor is the reason for the attacks?”
Graham cursed under his breath and added something that sounded like, “I’m not doing a very good job of this.”
Rosalind took this break as her cue to enter. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, rounding the corner.
A blush climbed her cheeks as their silhouettes parted and allowed light between the two. They’d been embracing.
“Forgive me,” Rosalind said, backing away.
“No, Roz.” Victoria’s voice held a smile within it. “Please, come in. How are your eyes today?”
“I can discern the outlines of things,” Rosalind said, holding her hand out and feeling her way forward. Victoria’s soft hand took hers and she led Rosalind to a chair.
“How do I get ahold of Oscar?” Graham asked. His taller silhouette stepped closer, and he knelt beside her chair. “We need to talk to him.”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing myself,” Rosalind said, her throat tight. Oscar’s voice replayed in her head. I love you too.
Victoria rubbed her friend’s back. “What happened?”
“He asked Papa for my hand and has been refused. What am I to do?” Rosalind plunked her face into her hands.
“Easy,” Graham said. “Come back to Chicago with me.”
Rosalind gasped, hearing her friend do the same. She wasn’t sure where Chicago was, but if it was far from here, that was all she needed.
“Leave Chuzzlewit? Do you—are you in earnest?” Rosalind asked.
Graham shrugged. “Why not?”
Rosalind sniffed, pulling a handkerchief from her skirt. “I—I suppose I shall have to speak to Oscar about it.”
“Call him over then,” Graham said with a laugh. “You guys are in serious need of cell phones.”
Rosalind blinked, trying to focus on him and Victoria who’d fallen silent. “Of what?”
“Never mind him,” Victoria said. “So you are leaving?” she added to Graham.
“We have to.”
His apologetic tone made Rosalind cower inside. She grew more and more aware that this was an entirely different conversation, that she’d walked in on some kind of intimate moment. She’d heard Mr. Birkley was from a strange town, but she didn’t care where they went, as long as they got away.
“You would do that?” Rosalind asked, breaking the silence. “You would take Oscar and me with you?”
“You betcha.” She blinked, the tears adding more than outlines to her vision in that moment. Rosalind gasped at the clarity she saw in Mr. Birkley. She could see how Victoria could have been so taken with him. It was obvious to the world, Victoria was besotted.
Victoria sniffed and rose, her footfalls heading away from them as though she was upset for some reason. But inside, Rosalind soared. All those years of forced lessons, of a life not lived, the feelings she’d wrapped in Oscar, the future suddenly provided nothing but possibility. She felt limitless in that moment, unbarred, and the freedom beat through her chest like a bird’s wings.
“I believe I could hug you right now, Mr. Birkley,” Rosalind said.
Graham laughed, and Rosalind was surprised when his arms did just that. He wrapped them around her and squeezed her tightly. Neither of them noticed until it was too late that Victoria had left the room.
Thirty-nine
Oscar scrambled around his room, cramming clothes into his satchel until it bulged. He couldn’t believe it. Of all the things Lord Baxter could have said to him when he’d asked for Rosalind’s hand, he’d said that.
The refusal hadn’t even been based on Lord Baxter’s dislike of Oscar’s social status or his supposed unworthiness of the man’s only daughter. It was a response Oscar had never expected:
“Marriage for you in any capacity is not possible, Mr. Radley.”
Oscar grimaced in frustration and rubbed his shoulder as the old, familiar ache resurfaced. Baxter had no right, Oscar thought, no right at all to make any presumptions about whether or not he was capable of marrying.
To make matters worse, his tone had been cloaked with sympathy. Sympathy! As if he could feel sorry after saying such a thing straight to Oscar’s face.
Oscar, for one, was going to prove him wrong. He would go to Rosalind’s that very night. They would get out of Chuzzlewit. He knew Wolverton; they could make a good life there. Rosalind would not refuse—she’d said as much when she’d promised to give herself to him the night before.
The memory of that moment rendered movement impossible. In fact, it nearly took his breath away. He’d never held her as tenderly as he had last night, and her mouth had an impossible effect on him as well. He shuddered, remembering it open against his, making him want to bind her to him then and there.
He would give his name to her, whether her father liked it or not. Mrs. Rosalind Radley. Oscar could think of nothing more fitting.
Hastily, he shoved several books into another satchel and reached for the loose brick in the wall. They’d need all the money they could get their hands on. His fingertips wedged the brick out when the ache in his shoulder stabbed again, pricking harder than it ever had before.
Oscar inhaled through his teeth. Though the brick was no heavier than a river rock, its weight became too much. The ache gnawed, biting into full-on pain. The brick slipped from his limp hand and dropped to the floor. Oscar cried out, dropping right along with it.
He forced his mind, trying to r
emember the genesis of this pain. It was an old injury. He couldn’t fully recall the details. Trembling, his eyes stinging, he tried to stand. Rosalind. I must get to Rosalind.
He pushed against the brick wall, climbing against the strain until he reached his knees. Wincing, he reached into the small hole for his money and shoved the wad into his pack.
And still, the biting pain wouldn’t cease. It pestered him like a bird, pecking right at the joint between his collarbone and shoulder. It deepened, dug, chewed its way in, striking him clear to the nerves.
“Aaargh!” Oscar cried out. He slammed through the door and out to the landing, shuffling his way to the water closet. Light gleamed through the narrow window, and he frantically tore his shirt up over his head. He reared back, letting out another mortified sound when he saw his reflection.
His bare chest was toned and smooth—something he’d always been proud of. But as the skin reached his throat toward his right shoulder, it was as though someone had melted his skin right off to reveal the bone. Only where he knew bone should be an off-white color, where there should’ve been blood from an open gape in the flesh, instead there was metal.
His exposed shoulder was made up of tiny, intricate cogs all pieced together. Each piece was rounded, soldered together like silver, copper, and brass bubbles all creating an intricate miasma of machinery.
Oscar couldn’t help the scream that ripped from his throat.
Forty
Rosalind stood at the harpsicord, tracing her fingers over its delicate, detailed beauty. The warm, rich wood, the painted sky beneath the open lid, the black keys and their white counterparts, all were dear friends to her. This was the one thing she would truly miss. That was ironic, really, considering how it had also served as her prison bars.
The Perilous In-Between (The Chuzzlewit Chronicles Book 1) Page 24