The Young City: The Unwritten Books Read online

  “Yeah.” Peter cleared his throat again. “I know what you mean.”

  “You okay?”

  He coughed. “Just a frog in my throat.”

  “Don’t get a cold on me. I’m not trusting the medicines of 1884.”

  She rinsed off the soap and scooped the warm water over herself. Satisfied, she stood up, stretched, and looked for a towel.

  There was a thump beside the bed.

  She frowned. “Peter?”

  “Dropped my book.”

  She huffed. “Peter, I forgot to bring the towel. Bring it over?”

  Peering over the change screen, she saw Peter surface, towel outstretched, his eyes averted and his cheeks reddened. She smirked. He slipped the towel over the change screen and darted back to bed.

  “It won’t be so bad,” she said as she dried herself off. “Two hours isn’t too far. We’ll be able to see each other on weekends and there’s always the telephone and the Internet.” She rubbed the towel over her hair.

  “Yeah,” said Peter. “But it’s not the ...,” he stopped short, then continued huskily, “the same.”

  “We need to be sensible. We’ve had fun playing house —”

  Peter drew in his breath. “We’re not just playing house.”

  “I know.” She stepped out of the tub and dried her ankles. “But that doesn’t mean we’re ready to live together permanently.”

  Peter stayed silent.

  She listened to the silence. “Peter?”

  “Yeah,” he said at last. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  She tossed the towel away and pulled on her nightdress. Emerging from behind the screen, she grabbed a comb and started working it through her wet hair. “You going to have a bath?”

  “No.” Peter kept his nose in his book. “I sponged myself down by the washstand.”

  “Shame to waste the water.”

  “Too tired. Just want to go to sleep.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She turned from the mirror and froze, her comb caught halfway through her hair.

  The change screen blocked the tub and the window from sight. The moon shining through the window, however, set the canvas screen aglow. Against this the tub — and anything in it — stood as a clear silhouette.

  She looked at Peter.

  He rolled onto his side and pretended to be asleep.

  She finished combing her hair and slipped into bed beside him. Silence stretched. Then, without warning, she slugged him in the shoulder.

  “Ow!” said Peter. “Sorry.”

  Despite herself, Rosemary chuckled.

  The next day, walking along College Street, Rosemary blinked to see Faith sitting on a patch of grass, finishing the last of her lunch. Faith got up, brushed the crumbs from her skirts, and turned toward a stone building with tall, Gothic windows.

  Suddenly she stopped, brought up short by a young man in her path. Faith made to step around, but the man blocked her. Rosemary ran toward them.

  As she closed in, she heard the man sneer. “A woman has no place in medical school. She has no place as a doctor!”

  “Let me pass.” Faith’s voice was curt, tight. She tried to sidestep him again.

  “A woman’s place is in the home, cooking and cleaning for —”

  His voice cut off with a cry as Rosemary sailed into him, knocking him into the muddy street.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry,” said Rosemary. “It’s the glasses! I’m so nearsighted and just a foolish little woman! Here, let me help you up!” She offered her hand, and stepped on his chest.

  “Rosemary!” gasped Faith.

  “Oh! Did I do that?” Rosemary exclaimed. “Let me help you up again.”

  The man crabbed away in a spray of mud. “Get away from me, you vixen!”

  There was an authoritative clearing of the throat. They looked up to see a constable sauntering toward them. “What seems to be the problem here? Is this man bothering you?”

  Faith and Rosemary glanced at each other. In unison, they shook their heads.

  The constable blinked. “Are you bothering this man?”

  Faith flushed. Rosemary scuffed a pebble with the toe of her shoe.

  The constable began to chuckle. He turned to the sodden man. “Be off with you, lest these ladies teach you a lesson you’ll not soon forget!” His chuckle exploded into laughter.

  The man scrambled up, red-faced, and walked away as quickly as dignity would allow.

  The constable tipped his hat to Faith and Rosemary. “Ladies.” He strolled away.

  “Well, that’s one advantage to being a defenceless female.” Rosemary rolled her eyes. “They don’t arrest you when you defend yourself. Are you all right, Faith?”

  “Rosemary, how could you?” Faith looked at her in shock.

  Rosemary stared back. “Faith, he was harassing you!”

  “And you responded with simple violence!”

  “I wasn’t violent! Much. What, you were just going to let him badger you?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t need you to fight my battles.” Her expression softened. “Thank you. It was ... trying, facing that man.”

  Rosemary clasped Faith’s hand. “You’re welcome. So, how are classes?”

  Faith’s eyes went wide. “Oh my word! I’m late!” She ran for the front doors, pausing only to turn and wave before rushing inside.

  Rosemary looked up at the building and sighed wistfully. Then she turned back toward College Street.

  Later, walking with her basket laden with groceries and a coil of rope wrapped in paper, Rosemary blinked to see a well-dressed man emerge from Edmund’s shop, putting on a top hat. Edmund darted after him, protesting, but the other man stared coldly, shook off Edmund’s restraining hand, and strode away through the crowd.

  Edmund’s shoulders slumped. Then he turned and almost walked into Aldous Birge. They stared at each other. Aldous extended his hand. Edmund sagged again, and clasped it. Aldous grinned, clapped Edmund on the shoulder, and followed him into the shop.

  Rosemary stared. Then she walked past the shop, around the corner, and through the alley, entering the house by the back door. Setting her basket aside, she crept into the hallway and strained her ears, but Aldous was already gone.

  Rosemary dropped the receipts on Edmund’s desk. “Not bad. Five sales. The most we’ve had all week.”

  Edmund said nothing. He slumped over his desk.

  Rosemary frowned. “Edmund?”

  He looked up. “Thank you, Rosemary.” He stashed the receipts in a folder and turned away.

  She touched his shoulder. He tensed, and she pulled her hand away. She took a deep breath. “Edmund ... how’s business?”

  He looked away from her. “Business ... is fine.”

  “Are you sure about that? I may not see the ledgers, but I can add in my head. Those five sales we had made for a good day. Can we last very long on the bad days we’ve had?”

  Edmund sat silent. Rosemary decided she didn’t care how forward it was, and reached for him again. “Edmund —”

  “Rosemary, leave me be!” He knocked his chair back. “Do not forget that you and Peter are guests under my roof! I’ll not have you prying into my personal affairs.”

  She caught herself on a desk. She glared. “I know I’m a guest, Edmund, but after these past couple of weeks, I thought we were friends. Friends worry about each other, and I’m worried about you. Faith’s worried, too. If you don’t want our friendship ...”

  Edmund stared at the floor. “Forgive me, Rosemary. I ... You are a good friend. I’m sorry I spoke so harshly.”

  “I forgive you,” she said. “Now answer the question: Is business all right?”

  He rubbed his forehead. “Rosemary, please —”

  “If you don’t want me to worry, show me I don’t need to worry!”

  He chuckled tersely. “So it’s proof you want. Well, here!” He pulled two documents from a drawer and thrust them at her. “Look!”

  She p
eered at the type, the signatures, the stamped seal of the City of Toronto. “A business licence and tax receipt ...”

  “Paid in full.” Edmund’s voice rose in triumph. “Could I have afforded that if I was destitute?”

  She peered at him over the top of the documents. “No.”

  “No.” He laughed again, sourly. “There is plenty of profit in the misery of others.”

  She smiled tightly. “You don’t buy peoples’ wedding rings.”

  “No, but there are plenty of things I do buy. Heir-looms, fine furniture, sentimental artifacts bought to keep the creditors at bay. ’Tis a thankless job. I’m a vulture.”

  “Then why don’t you quit?”

  “And do what?”

  “Work on your inventions.” She nodded at the geared Morse reader behind him. The barbecue lighter was nowhere to be seen.

  He sat down heavily. “You mock me, Rosemary.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He snatched up a pile of papers lying by the machine. “To think I even wrote a patent application! I was a fool. Faith can aspire to better herself, not me. She can be a brilliant doctor! I shall always be a lowly pawnshop owner.” He tossed the papers into the wastebasket.

  He flinched at Rosemary’s look of horror. “I ... I’m sorry, Rosemary. I am tired, that is all.” He faced his desk. “I’ll deal with the ledgers tomorrow. Go to bed now, lass.”

  The set of his shoulder told Rosemary to go. She walked to the door and stood there, looking back.

  Then, in one quick movement, she knelt and snatched the patent papers from his wastebasket, slipping them under her arm.

  “Good night, Edmund,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

  Edmund did not reply.

  A kiss woke Rosemary from watery dreams. Her eyes fluttered open. She saw Peter leaning over her, a sheepish shadow.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Kissing me in my sleep now?”

  “I had to wake you up,” he said. “It was the gentlest way I could think of.”

  She kept her narrow-eyed stare on him.

  He drew into himself. “And ... I couldn’t resist. Sorry. It’s midnight. The others are asleep. You ready to go?”

  She leaned back with a sigh and studied the ceiling. She felt strangely sad. In two weeks, she’d made two good friends, and had shared a bed with Peter. Faith and Edmund would be long dead by the time they got back to the present. Then she and Peter would head off to different universities in different cities. She wouldn’t be able to sleep next to Peter unless they made special arrangements.

  Then she thought of her friends and family. Hot running water. And she and Peter could make special arrangements ...

  She sat up and swung out of bed. “I’m ready.”

  They stepped out of the alleyway onto College Street, carrying a lantern each. Peter carried the grappling hook while Rosemary had the rope coiled over her shoulder. The breeze caught at her skirts. They walked, lanterns creaking as they swung, their hard-soled shoes clicking on the wooden sidewalk. As they approached the construction site, they slowed.

  Work had progressed up the creek and the hoarding had moved with it. Checking to see that the coast was clear, they darted across the sodden open ground and ducked into the shadow of the temporary wooden fence. They followed it to the north end of the construction site. This had also moved, but the creek still crossed the hoarding through a wide hole. Peter started forward.

  “Wait up,” said Rosemary. She passed her lantern over to him, then grabbed the back of her skirts and kilted them up between her legs, tucking the hem into her waist. She looked up and caught Peter staring. “What? You try keeping a dress clean in all this muck.”

  Peter’s lips pursed. “Last time you just stripped down to your underwear.”

  “Well, that was different.”

  “How?”

  “Well ....” She blinked. “It just doesn’t feel right this time.” She stopped. Then she slapped her forehead. “I’m worried about showing too much leg. I’ve been in the Victorian era too long. Let’s get out of here!” She grabbed back her lantern, pushed past him, and climbed down into the creek.

  “When I get back,” she muttered as she sloshed through the pools of water, “I’m going to a beach somewhere. And spending all day wearing a skimpy bathing suit. Or maybe a bikini.”

  “Can I come?”

  Without looking back, she swatted at him and hit him in the stomach.

  He chuckled. “Imagine the look on Theo’s face when he sees us. You’re sure we couldn’t get our old clothes back?”

  “I think Faith burned them.”

  “Too bad.”

  As they approached the round mouth of the tunnel, Peter tapped her on the shoulder. “Quiet here,” he whispered. “Tom Proctor’s cabin is near here and I’m betting he’s a light sleeper.”

  Rosemary felt a shadow fall across them and she started. She thought she saw a silhouette in front of the setting moon, but when she looked up, the sky was clear. She looked back at the tunnel, its mouth open wide. She swallowed.

  Peter leaned close. “You okay?”

  Rosemary took a deep breath. Her knuckles whitened on the handle of the lantern. “Let’s go.” She stepped past the veil of moonlight into the dark.

  The brick tunnel enclosed them. There was not even the phosphor glow to light their way. The soft flow of the creek became a persistent gurgle and they heard the slosh of their steps echo back at them with a tinny edge. Rosemary breathed through her mouth to avoid the smell. Her heart thumped. The water seeped over their laced shoes and soaked their feet. She reached back for Peter’s hand and found it in the dark. He gave her hand a squeeze.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he whispered. The walls caught his voice and whispered it back to them.

  “Just. Keep. Going.”

  “We can light the lanterns if you want.”

  “Later.” She sucked in a breath. “We have to be further in. So nobody sees us.”

  She stumbled on the uneven ground and pitched into the wall. The brick pipe curved. Slimy stone brushed her cheek. Rosemary squeaked. She shoved away from the wall and almost fell. Peter caught her and held her close.

  “I hate being like this,” she mumbled into his shirt.

  “Maybe we should light the lanterns now?”

  She swallowed. “Yeah. Sure. Let’s do it.”

  Peter handed her his lantern and fumbled around for matches. He struck one. The air screeched and flared up. She blinked in the sudden brightness.

  He took the lantern and pulled open a panel. He touched the match to the wick. The light guttered low, then brightened and steadied. The air glowed around them. The brick pipe glistened red and black.

  Peter waved out the match and lit another from the lantern. He lit the other lantern while Rosemary held it. The light brightened until Rosemary was nearly dazzled.

  He smiled at her. “Better?”

  She felt the tightness ease from her shoulders. A little. She looked ahead. The tunnel stretched in either direction, ending in disks of darkness. “How much further?”

  “Not far.” Peter hefted his lantern. “I hear the big stream.”

  They started forward. The trickling sound beneath their feet was overlaid by a steady, rising rumble ahead of them. A breeze brushed their cheeks, cool as a cave.

  Then the ceiling of the brick pipe ended and they were in a cavern.

  They stood in a half-pipe, the rough rock walls vaulting above them. The cave glittered grey. Stalactites dripped from the ceiling. Peter and Rosemary stared, mouths agape.

  “This is under the city?” Rosemary breathed.

  “I’m surprised no one’s selling tickets.”

  The half-pipe stretched along the cavern floor, ending abruptly at a brick trench. Grey water rushed past.

  Peter handed his lantern to Rosemary, then he hauled himself over the pipe wall, staggering on the sandy ground. Turning, he grasped first the lanterns, then the gear, and then Rose
mary to join him. They found, untouched, the footsteps they’d left in the sand when they arrived. They followed these tracks back, shining lantern light over the walls and the ceiling, looking for signs of a cave-in. Several minutes passed before Peter stopped and pointed. “There!”

  Rosemary looked. Across the gurgling trench, they saw scattered stones running down to the river. The scree led up to a dark hole in the ceiling. It wasn’t far for someone to fall. “We’ve got to cross that river.”

  “Good thing we’ve got the grappling hook.” He tied it to one end of the rope and began swinging it over his head. He cast it across the trench and dragged it back. It snagged on the brick edge of the trench and held tight. Peter passed the rope to Rosemary. “After you!”

  She looked at the stream — slower and shallower than when they’d first arrived, but still knee deep. “I’m going to get this dress wet.”

  “You could wash it at Theo’s place.”

  “Like I’m going to keep this dress!”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  She stared at him. Then she broke into a grin. She turned back to the stream. Holding the rope, she jumped in and used it to pull herself against the current. A few minutes later, both she and Peter had arrived on the other side of the stream. They stumbled to the cavern wall.

  It was definitely a cave-in. Rosemary’s breathing quickened. “Theo!” she cried.

  Peter covered his ears. “He still can’t hear you! Different time speeds on either side, remember?”

  “Come on!” She scrambled up the scree. The wall sloped up and there were plenty of footholds. Adrenaline pushed Rosemary forward, even as Peter held back, bracing himself to catch her if she should fall.

  She poked her head into the hole and stopped short with a cry. Her lantern slipped from her fingers, fell past Peter, and exploded on the river’s brick lip. The flames licked the surface before dying out.

  “What is it?” Peter scrambled the rest of the way and caught her as she slumped. “Rosemary!”

  She clutched her forehead. “I hit my head!” She looked up and snatched at Peter’s lantern. “Give me light! Hurry!”