The book of living secre.., p.20
The Book of Living Secrets, page 20
Blond hair. Shorter than it should be, but blond all the same. Sodden black dress and Goth Victorian boots. She rolled the person over, disbelief and shock making her clumsy. But it was her. It was real. Adelle had come back, alive, taking tiny, shallow breaths as she lay splayed against the ground.
“Are you hurt?” Connie wiped the inky beads of water from her friend’s face. “Adelle? Can you hear me? Please be okay. . . .”
The others pounded down the wharf to join them.
“Holy Mother,” Geo whispered, crossing herself. “It is a miracle. Nobody has ever returned. Nobody.”
Adelle coughed, a spasm gripping her body as she lurched as if doing a crunch, her legs flailing out in front of her. Connie supported her head, drawing her upper torso onto her lap, sticking a finger into her mouth and trying to clear out any extra water or foam.
“I’m . . . I can breathe,” Adelle wheezed, coughing again. “And your hand tastes terrible.”
“Oh God, oh God, you’re here. You’re here.” Connie pulled her into a suffocating hug, then remembered Adelle had been picked up by a giant tentacle arm and shot at and dropped into a pit, and she eased her grip.
“Please,” Adelle murmured, racked by another shudder. “Just can we please go away from it.”
Connie crouched, bearing most of Adelle’s weight while helping her carefully to stand. Before she could say another word, Kincaid Vaughn was there, wiping black water from his spectacles and holding out his hands.
“Let me help her,” he said softly. Connie stared up at him, at his faint smile, and then at his shirt. He had given his jacket to Orla without prompting, noticing she was cold. But she felt like Adelle was too precious a package to risk with just anybody. Now that she had her back, Connie wasn’t letting go.
“You can trust him,” Orla told her.
“It’s all right,” Adelle rasped, touching her forehead to Connie’s cheek. “He’s carried me before.”
When she was safely in the boy’s arms and they were halfway down the pier, Connie vented a relieved laugh, gazing up with tear-glazed eyes at her friend. “He carried you before? That’s a story I need to hear.”
“How did you do it?” Orla stutter-stepped to a stop, clutching the coat around her shoulders. “I . . . I think I should stay. What if my mother returns too?”
“Stop, Caid,” Adelle told him. They turned, and Connie could tell Adelle was struggling with something. Her face looked drawn, even for a half-drowned person. “I don’t think she’s coming back, Orla. When I was in there . . . I was awake. I could see everything, all the people who went into the Wound.”
Orla’s eyes widened with hope.
“But they were all asleep, I think, or . . . or gone. I couldn’t wake them up. I saw your mother and . . . and I couldn’t wake her up either. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Orla. I wish I could’ve brought her back with me. I don’t know why it let me go, but it did. It just let me go.”
Orla’s lower lip quivered, and she cursed. “Then why did you not save her?”
She whirled and ran back down the wharf, only making it a few steps before she collapsed into sobs.
“Let me handle her.” Mississippi tipped the hat back off her head, frowning. “Get your friend someplace warm.”
“My workshop is not far from here,” Kincaid suggested. “Just north and west a short distance, near the Old North Church.”
Connie knew the place; it was the oldest church in Boston and hard to miss. That wasn’t a bad walk, and definitely closer than the Congregation hideout. She glanced at Geo and Farai, who didn’t offer any other solutions.
Mississippi, unsurprisingly, made the final call. “Good. Take them there, get something fortifying in their bellies. You feel all right going with Vaughn?”
Connie nodded. “I just need to stay with Adelle.”
“Fine. That’s fine.” Missi blew out a whistling breath. “What. A. Day. After I get all this sorted with Orla, I can send her your way. I doubt she wants to go back to an empty house. Too many ugly memories.”
“She is certainly welcome,” Kincaid said, curiously formal.
Connie couldn’t believe he was the same nerdy, pompous Kincaid Vaughn from the novel. From page one he’d seemed constructed to be the obviously bummer choice compared to Severin, but now she saw only a soft-spoken gentleman with charmingly crooked glasses and a knack for chivalry. She didn’t remember him being Black in the book, but then he was hardly even in it. Adelle’s stepfather had always railed against Moira for being anachronistic, but then the whole world of Moira wasn’t what Connie had expected. Maybe the universe of Moira was more expansive and more inclusive than what the author intended. Maybe it had taken on a life of its own.
“You two get back to the Congregation; see if you can’t rustle up Jack on the way. He is not the type to wander off.”
Geo and Farai seemed only too relieved to be dismissed, and hurried away from the wharf. Not that Connie could blame them—she couldn’t wait to get somewhere, anywhere else. Mississippi strode back toward Orla, leaving without so much as a goodbye.
Connie decided not to examine why that made her chest tighten up.
The walk to Kincaid Vaughn’s workshop took just over twenty minutes. With empty streets and no sign of Clackers or monsters, Connie arrived at the four-story yellow-brick warehouse knowing she had walked less than a mile, but feeling like she had run twenty.
“I can make it the rest of the way,” Adelle assured them when they reached the door.
“Are you certain, Miss Casey?”
Kincaid took an old-fashioned key from his pocket to unlock the door, but it was already open. That didn’t seem to alarm him, so Connie ignored it.
“Yes, I should stretch my legs a little,” Adelle replied. “My neck is sore, but that thing didn’t kill me. I don’t know why, but it didn’t kill me.”
She was deposited lightly on the floor, and steadied herself on Kincaid’s arm before taking a few steps into the airy front room of the warehouse. It was cool and well-lit, with plenty of windows and a skylight high above. They turned down the first hallway to the right, Kincaid leading them to a locked door on the far side of the corridor. This one did require a key.
“Welcome,” he said, stepping back and holding open the door. “It . . . well, it is not luxury and splendor, but I find it comfortable enough.”
Adelle hobbled to safety, Connie instantly beside her, holding her arm for support. They both paused just inside, knocked dumb and silent by the mad-scientist intricacy of it all. It was like walking inside Kincaid Vaughn’s mind: every taste, every interest, every passion put clearly on display.
The lofted space allowed for a bevy of windows along the wall facing the door. To the left, a narrow staircase that looked like it could be folded up led to a balcony overlooking the workspace. Directly ahead, two patched and scratched leather couches sat facing each other on a patterned rug. A traveling trunk had been repurposed as a table between them. To the right, Kincaid had constructed an indoor garden, almost a miniature greenhouse, with rows of plants clustered together on three long tables. Beyond the couches, Connie saw a telescope, a drafting table laden with charts and maps and, under the windows, an expansive library, though he clearly had a mind toward even further growth. The poor bookshelves were filled to overflowing, books stacked in tidy piles when the shelves proved impossible. Beside that was another table, this one stocked with cutting tools, scraps of fabric and leather, and piles of pristine paper.
There was more, of course, crammed into every corner and yet somehow eccentrically cluttered without being dirty—an eviscerated clock with all its innards pulled out, mid-fix, and sketchbooks, and under the balcony, next to a basin and woodstove, a number of wonderful dusty hutches.
Connie’s fingers itched to explore, like she had just stumbled upon the greatest flea market in history. But Adelle came first. Relieved to just be dry and warm, Connie helped Adelle to one of the leather couches. Meanwhile, Kincaid disappeared up the narrow stairs and onto the balcony, then returned with a thick patchwork blanket, implying that whatever was up there might be some kind of sleeping area.
“This is amazing,” Adelle murmured, gazing around even as Kincaid handed Connie the blanket, which was subsequently tucked around the girl’s legs.
“No, Miss Casey, you are amazing,” Kincaid replied. He stood beside the trunk table, hands loosely in his pockets. “How did you return?”
A weary look passed across Adelle’s face, but she rallied, picking lightly at her fingernails as she studied everything but his face. “I have no idea.”
Lying. Adelle was terrible at it. Connie glanced at Kincaid, but he only shifted.
“Forgive my rudeness, but you told Miss Beevers that you could see the inside of the Wound. What was it like?”
That same weariness returned, Adelle opening and closing her mouth a few times. Kincaid rubbed at his brow and strode off toward the woodstove beneath the balcony.
“What a host I am! Interrogating you without first offering tea. . . .”
Connie settled in on the same couch, sitting on the edge of the cushions, against Adelle’s bent knees. “You don’t have to tell him anything you don’t want to.”
“I won’t,” Adelle whispered back, keeping her eyes peeled for his return. They were out of earshot, but only just. “I can’t tell him everything. When we’re alone, I’ll . . . Oh, Connie. I don’t even know how to describe it.”
She saw the clench in Adelle’s jaw that came like the rumble before lightning. Trying not to cry, she found Adelle’s hand and just held it.
“We’re together now,” Connie said. “And when you’re feeling up to it, we can bounce out of here. I have a plan. We can get all the same ingredients Straven used for the magic that got us here and re-create the ritual to get home.”
Connie grabbed her bag and pulled out the wrinkled, stained map she had been given, showing it to Adelle.
“This woman? She has all kinds of witchy stuff. Missi’s friends think she’ll have incense. I grabbed a cup and a candle, and we can scoop up a rock anywhere.”
Adelle smiled, wiping weakly at her wet, splotchy cheeks. “You managed all this, and all I did was fall in a hole and get my hair chopped off by a nutcase.”
God, it was good to have her back. Someone familiar and grounding in the midst of all the strange, dangerous things they had survived. Connie hadn’t even let herself imagine what it would be like to try to get home alone. Behind them, the kettle whistled.
Connie folded up the map and tucked it away. “What’s the story with that? It looks, um . . .”
“It’s fine,” Adelle groaned. “You can say it.”
“Not the best look on you,” Connie chuckled, and she was glad when Adelle dissolved into giggles too. “It’s some Prince Valiant realness.”
“Mrs. Beevers did her best to salvage it. Moira attacked me with scissors in my sleep because I dared whisper Severin’s name. I was dreaming! It’s not like I meant to. . . .”
Connie just tried to keep up. They had each had some wild adventures apart, but now it was time to go home, alive and well, and reminisce about their Victorian misadventure while decompressing at Burger Buddies or passing notes in study hall. Eventually they would need to decide on an Official Story for families and cops, but just then, getting home was all that mattered.
“Mrs. Beevers . . .” Adelle’s face fell. “I saw her in there. Ugh, Connie. It was awful. The things I saw . . . I don’t know why it let me go. Why me? Why not anyone else?”
She couldn’t finish. Gently, Connie dropped her chin on Adelle’s knee. “Take your time. You can rest first. Soon this will all be over, and we can go home.”
“Mm.” Adelle looked away, staring back toward the woodstove.
Kincaid had returned, carrying a silver tray with three delicate china cups and a steaming pot of tea.
“Earl Grey.” Adelle closed her eyes dreamily. “My favorite.”
“Mine too,” Kincaid said, placing little metal baskets over the cups and then pouring the hot water over them. “I would ask about cream or sugar, but—”
“It’s lucky you even have tea.” Adelle cut him off. She lifted the cup to her chest and let the steam rise for a while, inhaling it. “How do you get the water?”
Kincaid settled on the couch across from them, his height and size making the sofa look comically small. Even so, he held the pretty cup with ease, a man born into the life of social graces and standards. “I collect rainwater. Even that is not fit for drinking, but I found a way to purify it, using a modified version of Charles Wilson’s ingenious system. Did you know, his invention provided fresh water to an entire mining town in Chile? Absolutely brilliant . . .” He trailed off, seeming to hide behind his teacup. “Here I am blathering on about Wilson while Miss Casey has seen the inside of the Wound and lived to tell of it. I am practically the John Franklin to your Joseph Bellot!”
Adelle forced out a polite laugh, but not one good enough to fool Kincaid or make him think she at all understood the reference. It flew completely over Connie’s head, but his obvious zest for dunking on John Franklin made her wish she could whip out her phone to google it.
“You see, Franklin was an absolutely dreadful explorer, just shocking, really, and . . . Well. The point is that Miss Casey should have the floor.”
Connie had never seen someone trip over their words with such flourish. She couldn’t help but think he was flirting with Adelle, especially the way he kept glancing at her whenever he thought she wasn’t going to notice.
Or maybe it was simply nervous energy, considering Adelle was now the local miracle and celebrity. Maybe the novel could be retitled Adelle. The novel. Connie’s heart sank to her butt. She would have to show Adelle what was happening to their copy of Moira. After today, Connie couldn’t even imagine what would shift and rearrange.
“It was . . . very dark at first.”
Connie could hear Adelle choosing her words carefully, but Kincaid leaned in, riveted, tea steam fogging his spectacles. Admittedly, she was also eager to hear about what Adelle had seen. It didn’t even seem real. She had gone into the Wound, disappeared for at least ten minutes. Any normal person would have drowned.
“But then I started to see bodies all around me, just floating there,” Adelle continued, lowering her cup and resting it on her stomach. Her eyes fixed on a point over Connie’s shoulder, glazed, or maybe unfocused, one blue and one green, misty with memory. “It was this giant chamber—I kept thinking I was inside a stomach or something. And I could think and breathe somehow, and swim around. But I couldn’t make the other people wake up. It’s like they were just . . . frozen.”
“But not dead?” Kincaid asked quietly. Connie heard the note of hope in his voice, remembering the rearranged first passage of the novel—in this demented version, Kincaid Vaughn had lost his entire family to the Wound.
“I don’t know, honestly.” Adelle twisted, staring at him. “I tried to rouse Mrs. Beevers, but she wouldn’t respond.”
“You called it a stomach,” he said, scratching thoughtfully at his chin. Connie could tell the moment he clicked into analytic, science mode. “Implying that these bodies would be food.” He struggled with the word, for good reason. “But they were intact? No sign of degradation at all?”
Adelle shook her head. “They were fine. It’s not like they had been, um, you know, digested or eaten away or anything. They even had their clothes on.”
“Fascinating,” Caid breathed, forgetting all about his tea. “Baffling.”
“I . . . don’t remember anything after that,” she said. Connie had known Adelle long enough to sense there was more, a lot more. Adelle was leaving something out—to protect them, she wondered, or herself? Connie rubbed her knee soothingly; whatever the truth might be, Adelle had suffered a serious freaking ordeal. “The next thing I knew, I was on the wharf, and all of you were there shaking me.”
Kincaid nodded along, buying the story that Connie sensed was riddled with holes. “And how did you feel, Miss Casey? Afraid? Confused?”
“Sad, at first,” she said, sniffling loudly. At once, Kincaid produced a handkerchief and offered it. Adelle smiled and took it, wiping under her nose. “I thought I was going to die, and I panicked. But then I felt calm, because I wasn’t in any pain, and my mom, well, she helps people deal with death. That’s her . . .”
Adelle’s eyes flared just the tiniest bit in alarm, and Connie suppressed a grin. Victorians were morbid, she remembered that much from history class, but even they might balk at the concept of a death doula.
“She’s an undertaker,” Adelle blurted, glancing at Connie.
Close enough, she mouthed back.
“An unusual role for a woman, to be sure,” Kincaid replied. “But our strange times require us to stretch beyond the confinements of what society deems polite and proper. Go on.”
Connie had to hand it to him—he was nerdy enough to give her and Adelle a run for their money.
“So I just tried to stay calm,” Adelle picked up. “I told myself: If this is death, at least you’re not in pain. And Constance saw it happen, so she won’t wonder what happened. That will make it easier to . . .” She bit her lower lip, inhaling shakily. “To move on.”
Just a knee rub wouldn’t do. Connie reached for Adelle’s hand and held it tight, hoping she could feel all the relief and fear and tumult tearing her up inside. They had narrowly avoided catastrophe, and Connie told herself not to go back to those ten minutes when she thought Adelle was really gone forever. So many thoughts had attacked at once. How would she ever tell Adelle’s parents? How was any of it fair? How had she bungled that shot? How, how, how?
“She’s like a sister to me,” Adelle explained.
“Indeed, your bond is palpable to even a casual observer. You are fortunate to have found a friendship such as this.”
Connie smirked, Kincaid winning her over a bit more every minute. Where was this dorky, wholesome, too-pure-for-the-world boy in the book? Or maybe he had always been there, just tucked away or forgotten. It was hard to know anything for sure anymore, and now even the novel that had created him was not reliable.
