Snakeroot (33 page)
Authors: Andrea Cremer
Charlotte shushed the boy before he could ask what the bell meant. Now that she was out of the forest, away from the Gatherers and a short ride from home, she was tired and more than a little anxious about what awaited her on the upper platform. Not so much what as who, she had to admit.
As the clicking of gears and the steady winding of the chain filled the basket, they began to move up. The swiftness of the lift’s ascent never failed to surprise Charlotte slightly, but it caught the boy completely off guard. He lurched to the side, and the basket swung out over the lake.
“Stop that!” Charlotte grabbed him, holding him still at the center of the swaying basket. “If you don’t move, the lift won’t swing out.”
“S-sorry.” The boy’s teeth chattered with nerves.
Peering at him, Charlotte felt a creeping fear tickle her spine. She’d assumed his awful colorless skin had been a result of his fear, but looking at him closely, she thought it might be the natural state of his flesh. And it struck Charlotte as quite odd. Flesh so pale it had an ashen cast. She forced herself to hang on to him so he wouldn’t unbalance the lift again, but she now worried his wan quality was a harbinger of illness. And that it might be catching.
Her nagging thoughts were interrupted when they passed the lip of the upper platform and the gears slowly ground to a halt.
The first sight that greeted her was three pairs of boots. The first was black, thick-soled, and scarred with burn marks. The second pair was also black, but polished and trimmer of cut and heel, showing only their shiny tips rather than stretching to the knee like the first pair. The third pair made her groan. Faded brown and featuring an array of loops and buckles that held knives in place, this pair was soon joined by a grinning face as their owner crouched to peer into the basket.
Jack, clad in his regular garb of leather breeches and two low-slung, gun-heavy belts, threaded his fingers through the brass weaving of the basket, rising with it until he was standing. “Well, well. What a fine catch we have today, mateys.”
“Cap it, Jack,” Charlotte said.
He pushed stray locks of his bronze hair beneath his tweed cap and continued to smile as he opened the platform gate. “A mermaid and a . . . what?”
Jack’s mirthful expression vanished as he stared at the blindfolded boy.
Charlotte swallowed the hardness that had formed in her throat. Jack turned to look at the wearer of the polished boots. Charlotte was looking that way too.
The boots were mostly covered by black military pants, close fitting with brass buttons from knee to ankle and looser to the waist where they met with a band-collared white shirt and burgundy vest with matching cravat. The owner of the boots carried an ebony cane tipped with a brass globe.
Ashley wasn’t wearing his usual black overcoat, but its absence did nothing to impede his air of authority.
“Pip called in that two were arriving instead of just one,” he told Charlotte.
She glanced over to the wheelhouse where a slight girl wearing goggles was mostly hidden by pulls, levers, and cranks. Pip gave Charlotte a quick, apologetic wave and then ducked out of sight.
Throwing her shoulders back, Charlotte exited the basket, dragging the boy with her.
“The Rotpots were after him,” she said, meeting her brother’s stern gaze. “I had to help him.”
“Of course
you
had to.” Ash tapped a shiny boot on the stone platform.
She didn’t offer further explanation but refused to look away. Charlotte didn’t want to quail before her brother because rumors of her unexpected guest seemed to have spread throughout the Catacombs. From the mouth of the caverns that led to their living quarters, half a dozen little faces with wide eyes peeked out, watching Charlotte and Ashley’s exchange. The children should have been at their lessons or chores, but Charlotte knew well enough that when something this unusual took place in their mostly cloistered lives, it was irresistible. When she’d been younger, Charlotte had snuck away from her responsibilities many a time for events much less exciting than the arrival of a stranger. Ash had always chided her for her impetuous behavior. Her brother had been born a leader, all sobriety and steadfastness. He was never tempted away from duty the way Charlotte so often had been.
Ash frowned and walked up to the blindfolded boy.
“And what do you have to say for yourself?” Ash asked him. “Who has my sister brought us?”
“I . . . I can’t . . .” The boy strained toward the sound of Ash’s voice.
Ash put the brass tip of his cane beneath the boy’s chin. “I know you can’t see, boy. If you’ll tell me how you came to be in the forest, perhaps we can show you a bit more hospitality.”
Charlotte stepped forward, hitting the length of the cane so it thwacked away from the stranger. She jerked the kerchief down so the boy blinked into the sudden light.
“Leave him be. You weren’t the one being chased by an iron beast with a cage for a belly.”
Ash stared at her, his dark brown eyes full of incredulity and budding fury. He didn’t speak to Charlotte, though, instead turning his hard gaze on the faces peering out from the cavern opening. Ashley didn’t have to say anything. The children bolted away, the pitter-patter of their speedy steps echoing in the cavern like sudden rainfall.
“Do you know if he’s hurt, Charlotte?” The boy wearing the burn-scarred black boots scampered forward, peering at the new arrival.
Jack, who’d taken a few steps back as if to survey the unfolding scene from a safe distance, answered as he threaded his thumbs into his wide belt loops. “He looks fine to me. Are you sure he was really running from them?”
Charlotte ignored Jack, instead smiling at Birch, who trotted over to the boy’s side.
“Let’s have a look.” The boots weren’t the only pockmarked part of Birch’s wardrobe. From his thick apron to his elbow-length gloves, the tinker’s brown leather clothing boasted enough black marks to rival a leopard’s spots.
The boy was shivering, but he nodded and didn’t object when Birch inspected him.
“No injuries I can see. He’s not feverish. If anything, I’d say he’s a little clammy.” Birch scratched his thatch of wheat-colored hair.
A tiny head capped by large round ears peeked around one side of Birch’s neck. Its wide black eyes stared at the strange boy. The boy stared back as the bat climbed from Birch’s neck onto his shoulder. Its minuscule claws fastened to one of the straps of the tinker’s leather apron, never losing its grip as Birch moved.
“There’s, there’s something on you,” the boy said, his tone wary, but also curious.
“What?” Birch glanced at the shoulder the boy pointed to. “Oh. That’s just Moses. He’s usually crawling somewhere on my apron. Doesn’t like to roost anymore, understandably. Fell when he was just a baby and broke both wings. I found him floating in the river one day when I was collecting guano to make gunpowder. Had to rebuild his wings myself.”
Birch coaxed Moses onto his hand and then gently stretched out one of the bat’s wings, which produced a soft clicking sound as the appendage unfurled. The underside of Moses’s wing glinted with silver.
“The key was creating a new bone structure using hollow tubes,” Birch explained. “Light enough so he could fly.”
“What proof do you have that he was trying to escape?” Ash was still watching Charlotte instead of looking at the boy.
Charlotte’s charge seemed content conversing with Birch, so she gave Ash her full attention.
“Only that he was alone in the forest and running from Rotpots.” Charlotte thrust her chin out. “That was good enough for me.”
“How reassuring,” Ash said. “And you failed to notice that he’s dressed in clothes from the Hive?”
Charlotte’s eyes went wide. She turned to look at her companion, feeling blood leach from her face. Her brother was right. While the trio waiting to meet them wore a mishmash of clothes cobbled together into outfits favored by each, the boy wore gray tweed pants and a matching fitted jacket with button and chain closures. His wardrobe marked him as belonging to the Hive: the artisan caste of the New York metropolis.
Ash released her from his glare, but before he said anything more, the strange boy jerked hard to the right. The sudden movement pulled his hand free of Charlotte’s grasp.
Until that moment, the boy had been leaning close to Birch’s shoulder, examining Moses’s mechanical wing. Now he stood straight as an iron rod, gazing at Birch.
“Maker. Maker. Maker,” the boy said. His limbs began to shake violently.
“What the—” Jack leapt forward, drawing a knife from his boot and holding it low, putting himself between Charlotte and the now flailing boy.
“Maker! Maker! Maker!” the boy cried. His shouts bounced off the cavern ceiling and walls, filling the air with a haunting chorus of echoes:
Maker! Maker! Maker!
“Rustbuckets. He’s having a fit.” Ash raised his cane. “Easy, Jack.”
“Grab him, or he’ll go right over the edge,” Birch warned, but Ash was already moving. While the boy’s arms lashed, Ash slipped his cane through the stranger’s belt and hauled him away from the precipice. With another deft movement, Ash freed his cane just before the boy flopped to the ground, lolling about with no control of his body’s violent movements..
With a horrible shudder, he gave a slow, whining cry and went still.
“Oh, Athene, he’s not dead, is he?” Charlotte’s hands went to her mouth.
Birch knelt beside the boy and laid his head on the prostrate figure’s chest. With a sigh, he said, “I don’t hear a heartbeat, but . . .”
The boy moaned. Birch frowned and sat up quickly.
Charlotte gulped air in relief. “What happened? Did Moses do something to scare him?”
“Why would anyone be frightened by Moses?” Birch asked. Hearing his name, the bat peered toward Charlotte, as if daring her to answer.
Charlotte ignored the question, knowing that pointing out to Birch that most people considered bats frightening little creatures would only provoke an endless debate with the tinker about fear and rationality.
Jack returned the knife to his boot.
“You’ve brought home a strange pet. I definitely prefer the bat,” he said to Charlotte, earning an elbow in the ribs. “Ouch!” Jack rubbed at his side. “Now you have to kiss me so my feelings aren’t hurt.”
“I meant to hurt your feelings,” Charlotte said.
“I guess that means I’ll have to kiss you myself so I feel better.”
Charlotte jumped out of his reach. “Don’t you dare.”
“Jack, get over here,” Ash said. He was leaning over the boy, who despite making a sound, still appeared to be unconscious. “Help Birch take him inside. Then get Meg. Between the two of them, maybe we can sort this one out.”
Birch grabbed the boy around his shoulders, while Jack grabbed his legs. His body swung limply between them as they carried him off the platform. Charlotte began to inch away from the basket.
“And you’re going where?” Ash blocked her path with his cane.
“With them,” she declared, hoping her confident tone would get her out of any punishment Ash had in mind.
“Not until we’ve had a chance to discuss your heroic exploits of the afternoon,” Ash said. “Come with me.”
Charlotte stood up tall until her brother turned away. Then her shoulders slumped and she reluctantly followed him into the Catacombs.
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