The Young City: The Unwritten Books Page 9

  “Careful!”

  He shone the light above her. It bounced against the hole in the ceiling. It was just an indentation. Rosemary brushed her hand over the unbroken rock inside the hole. “It’s solid.” She looked at Peter, her eyes wide and her cheeks pale. “It’s not here.”

  He turned, shining the lantern across the cavern ceiling. “This is the only ....” He stopped himself. His face grew pale as well.

  “We’re stuck here!” She gasped.

  “Rosemary, no, listen to me!” He grabbed her. “You don’t know that. We’ve only just started looking!”

  “Where else can we look? Peter, what are we going to do?”

  He put his hand to her mouth, but it was the sudden tension in his shoulders that silenced her. He was looking at the stream, listening. He snatched the lantern and blew it out.

  “What are you do—.” Then she saw it: where the buried river left the cavern, the tunnel glowed with orange light. Voices echoed, coming closer. A boat pulled into view, pushed upstream by a man hoisting a pole like a gondolier. Two other men sat in the boat, the one in front casting lantern light over the cavern walls.

  “The boat’s scraping bottom,” said the gondolier. “If His Nibs wants to take this route, he’s going to have to put wheels on the boat.”

  “Keep quiet and keep mapping,” said the man holding the lantern.

  “Why should I?” said the third man in the boat, holding a lap desk on his knees. “I know where we are! I’ve been through this cavern twice. The last time, I could have walked it and not gotten my shoes wet.”

  “You’re going to walk it if you don’t shut it,” said the man with the lantern. “Unless you want to put up gaslight, I’ll want to trust your maps. Where is this new pipe?”

  “Two hundred feet forward north, on your right,” said the cartographer.

  “North?” scoffed the man with the lantern. “What does the compass say?”

  “North,” said the cartographer.

  “Check the compass!”

  The gondolier pulled something from his pocket. “North,” he said at last.

  The lantern man grumbled.

  Peter and Rosemary stared as the boat pushed upstream. A few minutes later, they heard a voice cry out, “Found it! On your right!”

  “Just where I said it would be!”

  “Good. Let’s go back.”

  “Wait,” said the cartographer. “His Nibs wanted the tunnel explored.”

  “His Nibs wanted the tunnel found,” said the lantern man. “We found it. That’s all we’re going to do. The pipe is dry. Do you want to drag the boat along it?”

  There was more grumbling, then silence. A moment later, the boat floated downstream into the tunnel. The glow from the departing lantern flickered, faded, vanished.

  It was a long, silent trek back. When Peter and Rosemary struggled out of their muddy boots and snuck back in to Faith and Edmund’s kitchen, the moon had set. Back in their room, Rosemary slumped into a chair and stared out the window.

  Peter draped his dirty trousers by the washtub, then stared at Rosemary’s drooping shoulders. He came up beside her and touched her cheek. “Hey.”

  She looked at him, a shadow behind her gaze. He knelt to face her. “Look, we’re not beaten yet. That portal has to be there somewhere. We’ll find it. We won’t be here long, okay?”

  Her smile was hollow. “Okay.”

  He sighed and turned to bed. Slipping beneath the covers, he fluffed his pillow and stared at the ceiling. After a minute, he looked back at the window. Rosemary hadn’t moved.

  “Rosemary, it’s late. Come to bed.”

  “I will,” she muttered. But she didn’t move. She stared out at the city until the sun rose and the buildings came back to life.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  Rosemary woke gasping. She blinked at the ceiling, then heard Peter snoring in her ear. She relaxed. She wasn’t drowning.

  “Stupid dream.” She pushed him aside and slipped out of bed.

  After breakfast, Rosemary stood before her mirror, brushing out her hair. The brush crackled as she passed it through the strands.

  Her hair was not the only thing that had grown; Peter’s commute was one hundred yards longer, as work had progressed up the creek. He’d complained about it at breakfast.

  The breeze from the open window rippled the night-clothes she’d draped over the privacy screens. Leaves scattered up the laneway. Rosemary sighed, set the brush aside, and twisted her hair back with the ease of long practice. She frowned at the way loose strands dangled down the back of her neck.

  “Too long,” she muttered. Then, with a sudden inspiration, she darted out of the apartment and knocked on Faith’s door. “Faith, could you help me?”

  Faith muttered something. Rosemary took that as an invitation and opened the door. She started to see Faith look up in shock and shove a bundle behind her back.

  “I thought you said ‘come in’!”

  “I’m sorry; ’tis nothing. You only startled me. How may I help you?”

  Rosemary turned around and pointed at her unmanageable bun. “Could you help me put my hair up, like the way you do it?”

  Faith got up and loosened Rosemary’s hair, running her fingers through the long strands. She clucked appreciatively and twisted plaits through her fingers. “Long enough at last. Don’t you know how to wear it up?”

  “I know it sounds strange, Faith, but my hair has never been as long as it is now.”

  Faith grunted. “You have strangeness about your very being. I’ve grown used to it.”

  Rosemary chuckled, and Faith began coiling her hair and pinning it into place. After several long minutes of work, she turned Rosemary around. “Is all well, Rosemary?”

  Rosemary blinked. “What?”

  “You seem troubled. Come, now; you have lived under this roof for two months. Did you not think I would notice?”

  Rosemary turned away. She stared out Faith’s window at the bustling crowds on the street below. At last she said, “Back home, this time of year, my family would get together for a thanksgiving feast. My grandparents would visit, the days would be just starting to cool, and the leaves would be turning. You could smell it in the air. I can smell it now, but my family isn’t here.”

  Faith turned Rosemary around again and hugged her. Rosemary cradled her chin on Faith’s shoulder.

  “Shall we have a feast this Sunday?” asked Faith.

  Rosemary laughed and let go. “You don’t have to do that on my account, Faith.”

  “’Tis no account,” said Faith. Then she stopped. “The truth of the matter is, Rosemary, that I’ve grown used to having you and Peter here. Our talks, your strengthening words — you’re like a sister to me.”

  Rosemary smiled hesitantly. “I’ve never had an older sister before.”

  “Well, I have never had a sister.”

  “But a feast? How can we afford that?”

  “I assume we will use the same funds with which Edmund purchased the material for my spoiled surprise.”

  “Huh?”

  “What you caught me at when you came in here.” Faith picked up a bolt of fabric — sturdy, red, and silky. Compared to Faith’s used clothes, it shone. “He surprised me with it today. There is enough for two dresses, so I resolved to make you one.”

  Rosemary stood agape before finally saying, “Thank you!”

  “I had hoped to surprise you, but since you have found out, I may as well measure you properly.” Faith pulled a fabric tape measure from her sewing box. “Arms wide!”

  Rosemary grinned as she stood like a clothier’s dummy and Faith took her measurements. But one thing nagged at her. “Edmund gave you this fabric?”

  “Such extravagance is unlike him,” said Faith. “But our clothes were getting a little worn. I shall make the most of it, though. My sewing skills may not be much, but I promise you that you shall have a dress that will last you for years.”<
br />
  Faith was so engrossed with her measuring that she didn’t see the colour drain from Rosemary’s cheeks.

  In the kitchen, Rosemary knelt over the washboard, scrubbing clothes vigorously. Tears trickled down her cheeks and her breath came out in sobs. She’d stopped to wipe her nose on her sleeve when Peter burst in through the back door. “Funny how you appreciate working half days on Saturday,” he said. “What’s for lunch?”

  Rosemary turned away. “Hello, Peter,” she gasped. “There’s bread and a little cheese in the pantry.”

  Peter frowned at her hunched shoulders. She sniffed, and he drew back in disbelief. “Rosemary ... are you ... crying?”

  She sniffed. “No!”

  “What happened?”

  “Faith’s making me a dress!”

  There was a pause. Peter blinked. “I thought Faith was an excellent seamstress.”

  Rosemary burst into tears.

  Peter backed away in shock. Then he pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Whatever it was I said, I’m sorry. Don’t cry!”

  Rosemary dried her eyes. “It’s not you, Peter. It’s just — I ... I’m being stupid.”

  He held her out at arm’s length. “What happened?”

  She cleared her nose. “I went to Faith to help me with my hair and I caught her hiding a bolt of fabric. I asked her about it and she told me it was a gift. She was making me a dress.”

  Peter nodded. “And you’re upset with her because ...”

  “I was so happy,” said Rosemary. “But then Faith said that the dress would last me for years. Years! The moment before, I was missing my family so much, and the next moment I was so happy to be here, in this house. Happy for new clothes. I’d forgotten my parents in Clarksbury! I don’t want to be here for years! We’ve got to go back now!”

  He sucked his lips. “Okay. We can try.”

  “Try? The last time we tried was a month ago! Let’s do it tonight!”

  “It’s a cold night. It might not be the best time.”

  “It’s only going to get colder!”

  “Rosemary, I —”

  She pulled away from him. “What are you trying to say?”

  He took a deep breath and avoided her eyes. “Rosemary, we’ve gone back to the sewers three times, and each time we found nothing.”

  She turned away. Her knuckles tightened on the table.

  Peter went on. “I looked all over that cavern. The only sign of a cave-in was that hole we keep banging our heads on! We can keep trying if you’d like — maybe Faith won’t notice our clothes getting filthy every other week — but ...,” he took another deep breath, “what if we can’t go back?”

  Rosemary said nothing.

  “You know, things could have been worse.”

  “How?” Rosemary whirled around. “How could things have been worse?”

  Peter swallowed. “We have a roof over our heads and three meals a day. We’ve got jobs. Better this than dying on the streets, or living in a poorhouse.”

  “Oh, I suppose that makes up for the culture shock. Or non-culture shock!”

  He stared at her. “Why are you being like this? I’m just saying things aren’t so bad —”

  “Aren’t so bad?” Rosemary gasped. “You’re asking me to live in a world where I can’t vote, can’t get a decent job, where Faith gets harassed for going to medical school. You’re asking me to live in a world of tuberculosis and cholera. You expect me to be happy here?”

  “Well, if we don’t have a choice, yes!” Peter snapped. “Instead of moping about, you could go to school —”

  “How? This household can’t support two women attending university!”

  “Maybe if you wait for Faith to finish, you could —”

  “Study what?” She clapped her hands. “Oh, I know! I’ll take up physics and discover radium! Eat your heart out, Madame Curie! Everything I dreamt of being is gone! I’ve no family, no career, nothing to look forward to —”

  “We have each other!” Peter bellowed.

  Silence fell as Peter and Rosemary stared at each other, both breathing heavily. After a moment, Peter continued quietly. “We have each other. I know you miss your family. I miss them too, and my uncle, and all our friends. But if we can’t go back, at least I can say that there’s one thing I’d miss most of all, and it’s standing here in front of me. You are the only home I need, Rosemary.”

  She looked away, and bit her lip. Then she looked Peter in the eye. “It’s not the only home I need.”

  Her eyes went wide the moment the words left her lips. Peter stared at her. Silence stretched again. Then he turned toward the back door.

  “Peter, I —”

  He shot up a hand. “Don’t!” He stormed out, leaving Rosemary staring. She covered her face with her hands.

  Peter barged through the crowded streets, hands in his pockets, scowling at the boards of the sidewalk. He followed the sun as his mind whirled over Rosemary’s words, her anger, and the pain it had left behind.

  Yes, they were far from home, with no friends or family to turn to, but at least they were together. They could get through this together.

  Only, she didn’t think so. He wasn’t good enough for her.

  The sun passed behind houses. The shadows lengthened. But Peter didn’t slow down. It was only when he heard the stride and stop of the lamplighter as he went from lamp to lamp, igniting the small streams of gas, that he noticed that the crowds had gone. In the quiet, Peter began to really think.

  You know, it’s harder for her to live here than you, he thought. If I work hard enough, I can be anything I want — even a journalist, if I put my mind to it. What can she do? She can’t vote for another forty years, and it’s hard enough studying biochemistry without having to do it when the field hasn’t been invented yet, not to mention the fact that Rosemary going to science school would be blazing a path as bold as Faith’s. She can basically be somebody’s housekeeper or somebody’s wife. She didn’t sign up for that.

  He looked back the way he’d come, and Rosemary’s glare filled his mind’s eye. Her rebuke filled his ears. He dug his hands in his pockets and stormed off across the dirt street. Sure, she hadn’t signed up for this, but neither had he, and yet here they were. If they couldn’t go back, they’d have to make do. Why couldn’t they make do together?

  He walked until his stomach growled. Then he stopped and looked at his surroundings for the first time. The sky was navy blue. He could barely make out the street signs in the shadows of the row houses.

  “Herrick and Muter?” he muttered. “Where’s that?”

  He frowned. You’re a Torontonian, Peter. You used to walk these neighbourhoods. You knew these streets.

  But that was a hundred years from now. It might as well be another city. He thought about turning back, but decided to hold off. Maybe he’d get something to eat first. Row houses still surrounded him. There was still a lot of city left to go, surely. There must be a place nearby where he could grab a meal. He set off toward the setting sun.

  Two blocks later, he reached the end of town. He stared across a farmer’s field, shielding his eyes against the sun. The wind blew across the stubble of threshed wheat. His stomach grumbled again. He didn’t have a jacket.

  “Okay,” he said. “I guess I go back.”

  He turned around. The last of the sunlight disappeared. Lights in the surrounding windows guttered and were blown out. Curtains were drawn. The wind flung the first flecks of rain in his face. He blew on his hands. The street signs told him nothing.

  “What did they do, rename everything? Where the heck is Hope Street?”

  The houses didn’t look at all familiar. Even the lamplighters were gone. He was utterly alone.

  The wind gusted. The flecks of rain turned to flecks of snow. He shivered. Then, turning a corner, he found himself in pitch darkness. The lamps had blown out. He peered about, straining to see the sidewalk in front of him. He lau
ghed tersely.

  “Way to win an argument, Peter,” he muttered. “Storm out and die of hypothermia.”

  He drew a shaky breath. It wasn’t as bad as that. It really wasn’t. He was just lost and alone.

  He stopped. Lost and alone. So that was how Rosemary felt.

  He leaned against a lamppost. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Rosemary.”

  He looked up and around. The houses were dark shapes and nothing more. He wasn’t just lost, he was completely lost. The sky had clouded over; he couldn’t even see stars. He decided to look for lamplight, but couldn’t see any of that, either. All the lamps on the street had blown out.

  “I could really use some help right now,” he muttered.

  Then a glimpse of light caught his eye. He peered into the distance, down the street. The silhouettes of houses and street lanterns were more distinct there, backed by a faint phosphor glow, like marsh light. Frowning, he stepped forward, tripping on the uneven sidewalk, but making for the faint light.

  He walked for two blocks before the first lit gas lamps came into sight. Then, as he approached, they went out. Peter stopped and stared. The faint, marshy glow was still before him, indistinct as a cloud. His frown deepened. Then he shrugged, and pushed forward again. As he approached the next lamp, it too extinguished.

  Peter felt a coldness in his chest. “What’s going on here?”

  The phosphor glow waited for him, beckoning. He struck off after it, letting it lead him. It was at least taking him deeper into the city. He walked ten blocks. The wind did not let up. Peter’s shoulders began to shake.

  Then the glow came to a stop. Peter approached. It clung to the last gas lamp like St. Elmo’s fire.

  “Okay.” Peter clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. “Where have you taken me?”

  “Peter?”

  All at once, the gas lamps flared back to life. He looked away, blinded. When he looked back, the street was lit by its normal flickering glow. He stood beside a patch of grass, beside the hoarding around the construction site. Tom Proctor stood at the gate, waving his lantern. “Peter? Is that you?”