“I won’t be long,” I say. As I tug my ring off and pocket it, my senses adjust to the hall, to the keyhole now visible in the wallpaper crease, and to the closeness of Wesley’s body, humming with life.
He frowns, tugging off his own ring. “I’m going with you.”
“What about Jill?”
He waves a hand. “It’s Jill. She’s got her nose in some book. She couldn’t care less if I’m there to watch her turn the pages.”
“You don’t have to come,” I say, sliding my key over my head and slotting it in the wall.
“But I am,” he says matter-of-factly as the Narrows door spreads, stainlike, over the wallpaper beside us. “Listen. I get that you need to do this, but it’s been a bad few days, and I don’t want you going in there by yourself, okay? Besides, I told your mom I’d keep you out of trouble, and this has trouble written all over it. So if you’re determined to go stomping around the Narrows, then I’m going with you.” His crooked smile flickers back to life. “And if you try to stop me—well then, I’ll scream.”
“You wouldn’t,” I gasp.
“I would. And you’d be surprised how far my voice carries.”
“Fine. You can come.” I sigh and turn the key in the Narrows door. “But don’t get in my way.”
Wes starts forward and then stops, remembering something. “What about your summons?” he asks. “Don’t you need to report?”
I hesitate. “I already did,” I say slowly. “I spoke to Agatha last night.”
“And? Did you tell her about the voids? Your theory?”
I nod, half expecting Wes to tell me I should have kept my mouth shut, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know Agatha, not the way I do. To him, she is the assessor. The authority. The Archive. It probably wouldn’t occur to him to keep it a secret.
“She wasn’t very happy,” I add.
“I bet,” says Wes. “What did she say?”
I will tear your life apart, moment by moment, to uncover your guilt. Because you have proven one thing tonight, Miss Bishop: you are guilty of something. Maybe it’s the voids, or maybe it’s madness, but whatever it is, I will find out.
“She said she’d take care of it.”
“Well…” Wes rubs his neck. “I guess that’s a relief? I mean, this is Agatha. She’ll get to the bottom of it, one way or another.”
“Yeah,” I say, opening the door. I have a sickening feeling he’s right.
On good days, the stale, twisting corridors of the Narrows put me on edge. Today, they make my skin crawl. Every little sound twists itself into a set of footsteps. A door knock. A distant voice. My pulse inches up before the door to the Outer is even closed, before the little light that snuck through the boundary between worlds is snuffed, plunging us into the key-lit dark.
My wounded arm hangs at my side, aching dully. I force myself to focus on the task at hand instead of the way the pain creeps through my senses, threatening to drag me into a darker place. I can almost feel Owen pinning me against him, his hands over my hands over the knife.…
“Mac?” asks Wes under his breath. I shake myself free of the thoughts. I cannot afford to lose myself here, not with names on my list and Wesley at my back. I can feel him behind me, so close I can almost feel his life radiating off of him like heat. He’s keeping his body tensed as if he thinks I’ll fall, as if he’ll need to catch me.
Two names. Two Histories. That’s all. It ought to be routine. Anger prickles through me. If I can’t do this, I don’t deserve to be called a Keeper.
“I’m okay,” I say, pressing my hand to the nearest wall to hide the fact it’s shaking. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily. Taking hold of the thread of time, I turn it back, and the Narrows flickers up again in my mind. I roll it backward until a boy flashes into sight. He’s there and then gone just as quickly, but I know where to go next. That’s all I need. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. I pull away and follow his path around the corner, weaving deeper into the Narrows. Soon I find my stride and forget about the pain in my arm and the whisper in my head that says broken broken broken in Owen’s voice.
“See?” I say, pulling away from another wall. “I told you I’d be—”
I’m halfway through the word fine when I round the corner and nearly collide with a body. Instinct kicks in, and I slam the form back against the Narrows wall before I’ve even registered how small it is, or the fact that it’s not fighting back. The girl’s shoes dangle off the ground, and she looks at me with wide, terrified eyes, her pupils wavering.
Abigail Perry. 8.
The look in her eyes is like cold water. The spell of the Narrows breaks, the nightmarish echoes retreat, and I remember my job. Not to frighten or fight, but to return. To set right.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she whispers.
I lower the girl’s shoes to the ground, loosening my grip without letting go.
“I’m sorry,” I say as gently as possible. “I didn’t mean to grab you. It’s just, you scared me.”
Her eyes widen a little more, the pupils settling. “I’m scared, too,” she says.
Her gaze drifts to Wesley behind me. “Are you?” she asks him, and Wes, who’s always been more of a return-first-talk-later kind of Keeper, kneels in front of Abigail and says, “I am, but Mac here, she’s going to show us the way out.”
She looks up at me expectantly, and I nod. “That’s right,” I say, still shaky. “Let’s get out of here.”
I find the nearest Returns door and send her through. And in that instant before I close the door—when the hall fills with white light—I think of the day I got trapped in that blinding room and my life played all over the walls before folding in square by square, taking my breath and heartbeat with it. I wonder for an instant if that’s what it’s like to be erased.
But I have no desire to find out.
Two halls away, we run into Bentley Cooper. 12. He throws his fists up when he sees us. The kid is all skin and bones and fear, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of short life he had to leave him so defensive. The question softens something in me. I know I shouldn’t wonder; Da used to scold me for my curiosity, but I’m starting to think he was wrong. Caring is what keeps me human. I know caring is also the reason Owen haunts my dreams—if I didn’t let things in, they couldn’t hurt me—but maybe Dad was right. It’s not life unless you care about it.
I put my hands up, like I’m surrendering, and the boy’s come down, and within minutes he’s been led into the light. By the time Wes and I step back into the yellow-papered hallway of the third floor, my list and my head are both clearer. The relief I feel at making it through such a small task is sickening—I hope Wes doesn’t see it. I slide my ring on and sink back against the wall, feeling more like myself than I have in weeks.
“Well, that was fun,” he says casually as he returns his own ring to his finger. “Truth be told, I kind of miss the days when your territory was full of burly knife-wielding convicts. And remember that boy?” he adds nostalgically. “The one who took a jog through the Coronado?”