Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) (6 page)

He’s asking my permission for something? Unbelievable.

“Father would want him to read it,” I say. Father knows I wouldn’t really understand, and he made no secret that he hates Elliott.

Kent takes it reverently. “I’ll read every word. And we’ll discuss when we are reunited. Elliott, find Dr. Worth and make sure he is safe. He is the key to everything.”

Elliott’s slightly singed eyebrows draw together. He doesn’t like my father any more than my father likes him.

“We’ll find him, and keep him alive, but it won’t be easy. Not with these circulating.” He hands Kent the pamphlet I’d picked up during our escape and tucked into the journal. “Is this Will’s work?”

The wind picks up and I wish the paper would blow away, but of course Kent keeps a firm grip on it.

“No,” I say, without meaning to. More than anything, I do not want that pamphlet to have anything to do with Will. He must have printed it after our friendship had begun. Another betrayal.

“Will is the only one in the city who is this good,” Kent says reluctantly. His eyes shift over to me. “But, Araby, even if he printed this, it was still about survival. He ran the printing press for money to support himself and the children.”

“Perhaps,” Elliott says. “Or maybe he came under the sway of a certain Reverend Malcontent. Maybe our Will had a little religious conversion?”

Below us are apple orchards, rows upon rows of beautiful trees. I try to focus on the beauty of the scene, not the reality that Will spent his spare time printing pamphlets calling for my father’s death.

Will once said that science had failed.
Could
he have been working for Malcontent? If that was the case, was letting the prisoner go a mistake at all? Now it seems even more sinister.

“Will never worked for Malcontent,” Kent says, with confidence that is clearly bolstered by their long friendship. But he’s never had a reason to doubt Will. He gestures to some point in the distance, neatly changing the subject. “I’ll set you down by that turn in the stream. You’ll want to travel light.”

I turn back to the cabin to grab a few things.

“I’ve never trusted Will,” Elliott mutters as he follows me into the main cabin. “Especially not now.”

In the cabin, Henry is still asleep, but Elise is awake, sitting close to April, who has carefully braided her hair.

Elliott opens a chest sitting in the corner and scoops out an assortment of coins, pouring them into several small leather pouches. “In case we get separated.”

April looks back and forth between us. “Are we going back into the city tonight?” she asks. I hate to leave her, but the way her sores are spreading, people will see that she’s diseased. She wouldn’t be safe on the streets. And she’s not strong enough to fight back.

“We are. Not you,” Elliott says. Then, to me, “It’s going to be cold tonight. Grab some blankets.”

While April sulks and I collect blankets, Elliott puts on a rather bulky coat, and knives disappear into random hidden pockets. Then he grabs a valise and sorts what appears to be a chemistry set. He adds several needles and vials, but then, catching my eye, he pockets a silver syringe.

I flush, remembering all the times I let him use that syringe to help me find oblivion. He sees the blush on my cheeks and smiles to himself.

“I’m going with you.”

Elliott and I both turn. Will is in the doorway.

“No,” Elliott says. He lifts his hand toward the bruise above his eye, and then drops it. “You are not.”

“Are you sure that you can protect Araby?” Will steps closer to Elliott, and though he’s not as muscular, not trained the way Elliot has been, he’s tall and confident. The two of them together would make a potential attacker think twice about approaching us.

April has settled back against the wall, watching the conversation with great interest.

“Who will care for the children?” Elliott asks. “You’d abandon them?”

“Kent. He’s done it before.” Will’s voice is steely.

“This is not your fight,” Elliott says.

“Isn’t the fate of the entire city in our hands?” Will asks. “I couldn’t possibly stand by and do nothing.”

Elliott considers Will with a half sneer on his face. “How do we know you won’t turn us over to your diseased friends?” Elliott asks.

“I’ll take orders from you,” Will says quietly. “You don’t know what you’ll find there. It may be worse than any of us have imagined. Take me with you. I’ll swear my allegiance to your cause. Whatever it takes.”

His words are humble, but his tone and demeanor are not.

I open my mouth to intervene, but I don’t know what to say. I wish, quite desperately, that April was going with us. I look to her. She’s laughing to herself, but she understands my silent plea and bites her lip.

“Take him with you,” she says. “Kent and I will care for the children. You’ll need help, and I’ve heard Will is resourceful.”

Elliott slings his bag over his shoulder. “Fine,” he snaps, and leaves the room.

I’m surprised that he’s agreed, but relieved. The city is dangerous. We need Will.

Will pushes Henry’s hair back and pulls the blanket up to the sleeping child’s chin.

“I’ll take care of Henry.” Elise puts on a brave face, but I can tell she’s about to cry. She clings to me. I wish I could think of a way to tell her that even if Will and I aren’t on the best of terms, I still care about her.

April and Elise follow us out onto the deck. Elise wraps her skinny arms around Will’s neck, holding him so tightly that I don’t think she’ll let him go. He tugs her hands away from his coat, but she presses her cheek against him.

“I have to go with Araby,” Will tells her. “She needs my help.” But still his sister clutches him.

Until Kent comes to the rescue. “Elise, will you help me steer the ship?” Elise sets her jaw and finally lets go.

April takes my arm. The wind blows her blond hair back, and when she tosses her head, you could almost forget she is sick. Except for the sores, oozing and deadly. Before Elliott took me into Prospero’s castle, he asked if I would risk my safety to save her. My answer hasn’t changed; I’ll do whatever I must to help her survive. She won’t die, not like Finn. Later we’ll laugh about how afraid we were, about the weeks when she had the contagion, and how she beat it.

She gives me a quick hug. “Take care of Elliott,” she says. And then, because she’s April and can’t seem to help herself, she adds with a wink, “And Will.”

“The ladder is down,” Kent says. He has one hand on Elise’s shoulder and the other on the wooden wheel, which she is holding steady.

“Keep them safe,” I say to him. “And April, too.”

Elliott is already climbing down the rope ladder, carefully balancing his bag and a musket. His sword and his walking stick—which conceals a second sword—are strung across his back. I sling my bag over my good shoulder.

“Sorry I couldn’t bring the ship down. We’re too close to the city,” Kent says to Will, whose face is a chalky white. He’s terrified of heights. When he took me up in the hot-air balloon, he could barely open his eyes.

I hesitate, wondering if I should let him go first, but he gestures for me to descend.

Kent has the ship just above tree level, and the wind whips the ladder from side to side. It’s all I can do to hold on, but by the time I’m halfway down I realize that I’m enjoying the wind through my hair. The air is cool and smells of pine needles.

I feel for the next rung, and then the one beneath it. When I am close enough, Elliott grabs me and swings me down.

“We’ll camp here,” he says. “And enter the city in the morning.”

Enter the city. It’s what I fought for, but still the prospect leaves me cold with dread. I stand beside Elliott and try to watch Will descend, without drawing Elliott’s attention. Elise froze when she was climbing to the airship as we escaped the city. And her terror masked Will’s fear then.

The ship veers to the right, and Will drops from dangerously high but lands on his feet. He gives a little laugh, but his bravado can’t disguise how pale he is.

The three of us quickly gather firewood, and Elliott hovers near me, as if he’s protecting me. From whatever is out there in the dark, or from Will?

Elliott wears his sword and carries a musket. The sword looks completely natural at his side, but the gun is unwieldy.

Will starts a fire, and Elliott sets about boiling water to brew some sort of bitter tea. “I don’t trust the water out here,” he explains. “Of course, I don’t trust the water in the city either.” I imagine the bloated dead bodies that might be lying upstream.

Elliott has taken charge, which leaves me and Will with nothing to do, but somehow it’s comforting that he’s his old irritatingly confident self. It helps me believe that he may be able to take control of the city as well.

The forest is so different from the swamp. For one thing, the ground beneath us is reassuringly solid. The crackle of the fire can’t mask the sound of the stream, or the wind whispering through the leaves. The scent of pine needles is sharp but fresh.

It was humid in the swamp, but now that the sun is going down, the chill is setting in. Tonight seems likely to be unseasonably cold, and I start to shiver and can’t seem to stop.

Elliott sets a cup of tea near Will’s feet, then settles down and pulls me into his arms. I should move away, but he’s so warm. So I give in and rest against his chest. His legs stretch on either side of me, and after I appropriate a blanket from the stack, my shivering stops. After a few moments, when he does nothing improper, I relax as much as I can in the wilderness at night.

Our fire casts only a small circle of light, and the moon overhead doesn’t penetrate the shadows beyond it. I’ve never slept outside. It’s more frightening than sleeping alone with Finn, in the basement. Elliott senses my nervousness and pulls me closer.

“We need to keep watches through the night,” he tells Will. “I’ll take the first.” He tosses Will a blanket.

As I turn my head slightly to watch the flight of the blanket, Elliott’s lips graze my cheek. So much for propriety.

“Wake me when it’s my turn.” Will wraps himself in his blanket, lying with his back to us.

Elliott and I sit in silence for what seems like a very long time.

Finally he says, “You should get some sleep.” His voice is intimate and low, but not a whisper. A whisper would be bereft of the actual timbre of his voice, and in the darkness, with my back pressing against him, the sound of it thrills me, despite myself.

“I’ve had plenty of rest, thanks to your drugs,” I say, more sharply than I meant to. I’m trembling again, even though I’m no longer cold.

“You’re scared,” he says. “Of returning to the city? It is what you wanted.”

Just because you know something is right doesn’t mean it isn’t terrifying. But I don’t say anything. After a moment, I nod. Though it’s dark, surely he can feel the movement.

“Is it your father?” he asks, but I’m not ready for that discussion.

“Can we not talk?” My voice is also low, and somehow much more intimate than I meant it to be.

“I’m not complaining,” he says. “It’s nice, sitting here with you. Much warmer.” I shift to see if his expression is as sincere as his voice sounds, and our faces are so close. I should turn away, but I don’t.

I kiss him.

An owl hoots somewhere in the trees above us. Elliott twists so that we’re lying on the ground. For a brief moment, all I can think is that it’s different than it’s been with him before. He raises my chin with his hand, and he’s frustratingly gentle, as if he wants this moment to go on and on. And it does. It’s a very long time before I pull back to take a ragged breath.

“We have to find a way to get some privacy,” he whispers. “Soon.”

I rest my face against his chest, to keep myself from inviting more. Is privacy with Elliott what I want? How can I even think about this when my father is missing and his sister is dying? I told Kent that I wasn’t interested in romance. Elliott isn’t the only liar in our midst.

“Go to sleep, Araby. Tomorrow will be here before you know it.”

He sits up, and I remember that he is supposed to be on first watch, protecting us from . . . whatever is out there in the night. Not kissing me.

“I can take a turn,” I offer, since I’m certain I’ll never fall asleep.

“It seems fairly quiet out here, and no one will be expecting our return,” Elliott says, looking out into the darkness. “I’m not tired. I’m not sure I’ll even need to wake Will.”

“I’m awake,” Will says.

CHAPTER SIX

I
N THE FRIGID DARKNESS, MY FACE HEATS UP, MY
entire body flushes. Will is awake. Lying there with his back to us, but awake. The whole time.

“Well then, you can take the watch for a few hours,” Elliott says. He prods the fire once, then lies down close to me. I stay very still, trying to make myself small, unnoticed.

After what seems like forever, Elliott’s breathing evens out.

Will doesn’t say anything. He just sits and stares into the fire. I listen to the sounds of the forest, wishing he would speak. He must know that I’m awake. The night is interminable. At dawn, Will puts more wood on the fire and begins making fresh tea.

I sit up and pull a twig from my hair, and then another.

Will holds out a cup without looking at me. “Would you like some of this . . . ?”

I take it, frowning at the contents. “Elliott has some audacity, calling this stuff tea.”

“Elliott isn’t lacking in audacity,” Will replies.

Elliott’s lips quirk just a bit. I prod him lightly with my foot. “You can open your eyes, I know you’re listening.”

“Of course I’m listening,” he says, stretching. “It’s what audacious people do.” He pours himself a cup of steaming tea. “You two will have to hope we reach the city quickly. This is all the breakfast we have.”

Will takes the water pail and heads for the stream. I glance at Elliott, but then I follow. I don’t know what to say to Will, but after his long silence last night, I need to say something. To apologize.

He scoops a pail of water from the deepest part of the stream. “Now that we know the Red Death can spread through water, too, I wish it was flowing toward the city, rather than from it,” he says. He doesn’t have to mention the dead bodies that must line the streets by now.

“Because it’s any better when it comes from the swamp?”

Will sighs. “We don’t have any great choices here, do we?”

I could ask him if we’re still talking about water sources, but I don’t really want to know. And I don’t have to anyway.

He sets down the pail and looks at me. “Be careful, Araby.”

I raise my eyebrows and wait for him to continue.

“With Elliott.”

Elliott isn’t the only one with audacity. I won’t have this conversation. Turning back to our campsite, I slip on a wet stone. I don’t fall, but keeping my balance pulls my wounded shoulder, and I gasp.

“I should check that later,” he says.

I stiffen, willing the pain to dull, but I’m glad for the change of subject.

“Thank you for stitching me up,” I say.

“I seem to have a talent for it.”

The comment takes me back to the warmth of his apartment. My skinned knee. The children watching from the doorway as he painstakingly removed the splinter from my hand. Perhaps he should train to be a doctor. Except that profession isn’t safe—in a time of plague, doctors die faster than anyone.

“Why did you let the prisoner go?” I ask.

“I didn’t,” he says. “Thom did.”

Now I do lose my footing, and would fall, if he didn’t lunge forward to steady me. He grabs my elbow and loops an arm around my waist, but he’s behind me so I can’t see his expression. “Thom? Then why didn’t you—”

“Because Elliott would have killed him. Elliott isn’t exactly a friend to those with the disease. He was going to kill the prisoner, and he wanted a reason to kill the boy.”

I’m afraid that he’s right. “But you made yourself look like a traitor.” I almost add “again.”

“I made myself look like a fool. But the boy is alive.”

He did make himself look like a fool. I glance back to the campsite. Surely Elliott is getting suspicious, wondering why it’s taking us so long to get water.

“Thom’s with April and the children. Is it safe? Did he know that the prisoner was the Hunter, that he was a murderer?”

“No. I don’t think so. Thom wouldn’t hurt April or the children. I’m sure of that.”

You can never be sure. He taught me that.

“When I spoke to the Hunter, he seemed tragic, desperate,” Will continues.

“Everyone in the city is desperate,” I say. I’m stepping away from him.

“Have you ever seen Elliott kill someone?” He spins me around, forces me to look at him. “I have. He murdered an unarmed man with one sword stroke, wiped the blade with his handkerchief, and called for servants to get rid of the body. He smiled as he did it.”

“Good thing he didn’t borrow your handkerchief,” I snap. “The one you keep clean in case a pretty girl needs to cry on your shoulder.”

We live in a society where people die every day. I will not allow Will to pull me in with these confidences, not with the fact that he’d risk himself to save a boy’s life. Not with his warnings about Elliott.

I start back to the campfire, giving Will a last glare. He shakes his head slightly but doesn’t seem surprised that I’m walking away.

Elliott has put out the campfire and repacked our supplies. I wait for him to say something, but he’s staring toward the city, lost in his own thoughts. I sling my pack over my shoulder, and the three of us begin to walk.

The woods thin as we near the city.

“So, we’re going to the Debauchery Club?” I ask.

“Yes, but since we have four days, we’re going to search the city for your father first. And for that magical pumping station that could save us from the swamp, and maybe from the Red Death.”

“You think it’s real?”

“Your father seemed to believe so. Do you?”

“I don’t know.” My father never mentioned it, and the references in his journal are unclear.

“Where do you suppose we should start our search for the venerable Dr. Worth?” Elliott asks.

“The last time we saw him was behind the science building at the university,” I say. “He’s comfortable in that area.”

“Then that’s the first place we’ll look,” Elliott says.

Will has been silent all morning, but now he speaks up, peering to the side of the road. “Is that a steam carriage?” Up ahead, a closed-in steam carriage appears to have crashed in the woods.

“Yes.” Elliott pushes ahead of us. “A rather nice one,” he observes. “I might be able to get it working—”

Will and I stop beside him. I’m the first to see the arm, peeking out from under the ornate scrollwork, draped by a lacy shawl.

“Party finery,” I say. “They must’ve been going—”

“To my uncle’s ball.” Elliott readjusts his mask. “But how did they die? The contagion or the Red Death?”

“Red Death,” Will says. “If they were invited to the party, they had masks.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I put my hand on his arm. “Either way, they are contagious. We can’t risk it, Elliott. Standing over an infected body is still dangerous. We need to get out of here.”

Elliott looks at the carriage wistfully. “What a shame. It’s lovely.”

“Beautiful sentiment,” Will scoffs. “I’m sure the owners were very proud of their carriage. Care to step away from it? I’d rather not catch the Red Death.”

As we continue, my bag feels heavier and heavier. Elliott keeps one hand on his sword, as if he can fight off the disease.

The road turns, and the river blocks our path. We have to cross a low bridge to enter the city from this direction. It’s built of white stone; cool to the touch, I learn when I reach out for the railing. The water is about a foot lower than usual. It ripples over knees and elbows and faces with the same cheerful sound it makes when flowing over the smooth stones that line the bank.

I break our prolonged silence to ask, “Do either of you . . . smell something?”

“It’s death,” Elliott says. “Or, more precisely, the city.”

I look away, to the buildings that line the shore: a simple white church that is, astoundingly, unscathed by vandalism; some apartment buildings; a house with a corpse hanging from a balcony. He has a sign pinned to his shirt, and I strain to make out the writing. Did he hang himself, or was he a victim of violence? Did he pin the sign to his shirt before tying the noose and jumping from the balcony, or was it attached to him later?

“Araby?” Elliott breaks my trance. “Come on. We need to find an inn. I’m starving.”

I am too. Despite the death and decay around us, despite the stench of corpses decomposing in the city streets, I am ravenous.

We pass to the other side of the bridge, like so many others who have come and gone in this dying city, and there’s no one to notice. The streets are mostly deserted, but I see faces watching us from behind sheer curtains. Men lounge in doorways.

A man in uniform, a courier perhaps, hurries toward the market. He has a gun but moves nervously.

Red scythes have been painted on the sides of many buildings. One on a warehouse has a staff that is nearly two stories tall. Elliott frowns. A few blocks away, near an inn, is a heap of something white. Bones?

“Masks,” Elliott says when we get closer, prodding them with his foot. A nearly intact one falls over the toe of his boot.

From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a man with a dark robe. Could Malcontent’s men have found us already? He slides something from his pocket, coming straight toward us. I open my mouth to scream, but Elliott shoves me through the door of an inn. I turn back, but Will puts his hand on my shoulder. Elliott is blocking the door, sword in hand.

I push Will away, but before I get any farther, Elliott turns, sheathing his blade. “Coward,” Elliott mutters. “He ran when he saw I was armed.”

I release the breath that I was holding, relieved that we haven’t come to violence in our first few moments back. But Elliott slams his fist down on a wooden table, as angry as I’ve ever seen him.

“Malcontent’s men don’t have to come close enough to fight. They can sidle up to unarmed people and infect them.” His face is red. “I know how to fight a tyrant. I don’t know how to fight a disease.”

I struggle for the right words. My father’s life was spent fighting a disease, but of course, he knew more about it than anyone suspected. Except Prospero.

The inn is crowded, but conversation is muffled. The patrons look tattered, dirty. Will threads his way through and claims a table. We stow our packs underneath.

When the innkeeper comes over, he’s surprised that we want food. “Most people just want to drink,” he says. “To forget.” He gives us the menu for the day, finishing with a dark “It will cost you.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Elliott drops a piece of gold onto the table. The innkeeper picks it up to examine it, and when he sees Elliott’s sign on the coin, his demeanor changes. He hurries to the kitchen and brings back a tray, then hovers over Elliott, answering questions about the availability of food. Supplies are low, but people with money are not starving. Most people do not have money.

“In many areas, the streets are impassable,” the innkeeper adds. “Bodies are everywhere.” I stop eating, but he continues. “No one is sure what happened to the corpse collectors. Some say that the prince stopped paying them.” He looks quickly to Elliott, as if he might have the answer, but Elliott shrugs. “Personally, I think they’re all dead themselves.” He shudders. “Doesn’t matter who they are—if someone can remove the dead from the streets, the city will be theirs.”

“And once the streets have been cleared of the dead, we’ll have a way to bring in food,” Elliott suggests.

“Exactly,” the innkeeper beams.

“Araby, you need to eat,” Will says softly from across the table. His expression reminds me of the way my mother used to watch me. I am free while Mother is a prisoner. I have plenty of food while other people are starving. The guilt makes me feel even less like eating.

“People are ready for some good news,” the innkeeper intones, looking around the common room. So many are drinking though it isn’t even midday yet, and the air is one of gloom, not the boisterous one of freely flowing wine.

“I hope that my return to the city is good news,” Elliott says. “I have plans.” He drops his voice, and Will chooses this moment to scold me once again.

“Araby,” he says in the voice he uses with Elise and Henry. “Eat some bread.” He slides the basket across the table at me. I take it angrily, and when I do, the sleeve of my dress tears loudly enough to draw Elliott’s attention.

“You need something new,” he says. The innkeeper takes the hint and hurries away.

It’s heartening that Elliott has found support here, at the first establishment we’ve visited. Perhaps people are still capable of hope. I hope that I will have the same success on my mission of finding Father.

Moments later, the innkeeper’s wife brings a dress to the table for my inspection. It’s overly large, demure, and has a busy flowered print. I start to say that no, I would never wear this, but then the innkeeper speaks from behind his wife.

“It belonged to my daughter. She’s been dead for two years now.”

“Will it do?” Elliott asks.

I take the dress. It’s even more shapeless than I expected, faded from multiple washings. It looks like a dress sewn for a twelve-year-old. A large twelve-year-old. The innkeeper’s wife has tears in her eyes.