Ruined 2 - Dark Souls (8 page)

When the ground stopped pulsing, she and Nick sat in silence. Miranda didn’t want to open her eyes. Roman soldiers, ghosts for almost two thousand years, had walked the road beneath her, and she’d heard them. This wasn’t frightening, like the ash ghosts in Clifford’s Tower. This was exhilarating. She’d been so silly, wondering if Nick was going to harm her or drag her into
some criminal activity. She wished she could come here every night.

“There might be something about them in here,” she said, fumbling for
Tales of Old York
in her coat pocket. “It has tons of stuff about ghosts.”

“Where did you get —” Nick began. He frowned at her, stretching a pale hand toward the book.

“This? Someone gave it to me. Have you read it?”

“No.” He dropped his hand. “It’s just — my mother had a copy of it. I never read it, though. You don’t, when you grow up in a place. You find things out by seeing them for yourself. Especially when you can … see more than other people can. You know.”

“I … I guess,” stammered Miranda. She had never realized that she could see more than other people could. She’d had no idea that she was some kind of ghost whisperer. But when Nick talked about it, he made it seem almost normal.

“Just don’t believe everything you read or hear about ghosts.” He sounded stern. Miranda wanted to ask him about the ghosts she’d seen on the Shambles — Margaret Clitherow and the apprentice in the attic window — but there was something about Nick’s dismissive tone that made her keep quiet. Rain was falling now — cold rain, splotching onto her face.

“Come on — we should go.” He pushed himself up off the ground.

“How do we get out of here?” Miranda got up, stiff and unsteady, dusting off her jeans. The walls were closed
by now, she knew. The gates in Bootham Bar were much bigger and sturdier than the ones they’d vaulted to jump down into the garden. She didn’t want to be stuck in this creepy courtyard all night.

“Now that it’s dark, we can climb over the fence,” he said, gesturing to the spiked wrought-iron railings on the other side of the courtyard. They looked too high and too menacing to Miranda, but Nick showed her how to use the stone basin and a piece of brick jutting out of the adjoining wall to hoist herself up. She swung down onto the street on the other side, feeling pleased with herself, like an accomplished cat burglar. Nick came soaring down after her, a black-feathered bird of prey.

“Well, thanks. Good-bye.” Miranda awkwardly held up a hand, more like swearing an oath than waving.

“Tomorrow night at Monk Bar, okay?” Nick demanded rather than asked. “We can make it later — six o’clock. One of the Vikings’ victims. Nailed to a door, I should warn you.”

“Oh,” said Miranda, startled. He’d seemed almost anxious to be rid of her, but now he wanted to meet up again. The thought of seeing him again made her nervous, but in a good way. At least, she thought it was in a good way. “Sure. Okay. Monk Bar at six. I’ll see you there.”

Nick looked down at her. A half smile flitted across his face.

“I’ll see you first,” he said, and headed off into the night.

E
veryone seemed on edge at breakfast. Rob crunched his way through two bowls of cereal, staring glumly into space.

“Thanks for leaving, like, a drop of milk for everyone else,” Miranda complained, sitting down next to him. He ignored her.

“Rob, you look tired,” their mother said. She stood over the table, sorting through a sheaf of music, pursing her lips and frowning at the score. Today was the first rehearsal with the singers, Miranda knew, which was why her mother was so agitated. “I hope you’re not going to be working at the White Boar again tonight.”

“It’s not
working,”
Rob spluttered. “I’m just helping Sally’s parents out. All their staff took off. They’re really shorthanded.”

“Surely Sally’s father can find …” their father began, shaking the cereal box. “This is empty already?”

“They can’t find anyone,” snapped Rob. “It’s a really busy time, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Peggy gave him a look. “Don’t speak to your father like that, please.”

“Rob’s just, you know … carrying barrels for them and stuff,” Miranda said. “And clearing glasses and cups …”

“Stay out of this,” said her father and Rob simultaneously. Miranda couldn’t believe it: She was actually trying to back Rob up, and he was turning on her. She banged her spoon in the bowl.

“And there’s no need for that,” said her mother sharply.

“Could everyone just CHILLAX!” Jeff brought the cereal box down onto the table, but it didn’t make much of a noise. He looked disappointed with the lack of dramatic effect.

“Dad, nobody says ‘chillax’ anymore,” Miranda told him, picking up her spoon again.

“Nobody ever said it,” added Rob.

“Please, could you all stop talking.” Peggy shuffled all her pages together. “You two, if you’re going to drop in to the rehearsal today, come by around eleven and don’t make any noise. I’ll be home tonight by six at the latest. I thought we could have an early dinner at that Indian restaurant around the corner.”

“I’ll still be out then,” their father said, folding the newspaper so only the crossword was visible. “Drinks thing with the Richard III Museum people, remember?”

“I’ll be out then, too,” said Rob.

“So will I,” said Miranda quickly.

“Where are
you
going?” Rob muttered, pointing at her with his spoon. Milk dribbled from the side of his mouth. Miranda hoped he acted more civilized in front of Sally.

“None of your business,” she whispered.

“Could everyone please be home no later than six thirty,” said Peggy, sliding papers into her portfolio. It was a statement rather than a question.

“Seven,” said Miranda. It meant she wouldn’t have much time with Nick, but anything was better than nothing. She wanted to see the Viking ghost. She wanted to see Nick.

“Ten,” said Rob. He was pushing it, Miranda thought.

“I could possibly make it.” Jeff sounded uncertain, but then he seemed to notice Peggy’s look of exasperation and disbelief. “Of course, darling — six thirty. No problem. You two! Home by six thirty. You can run wild other nights. Your mother and I have the medievalists’ banquet tomorrow night, which, by the way, you’re very welcome to attend.”

“No, thanks,” said Miranda. She’d been tricked into one of these medievalist shindigs before, in some conference-center ballroom in Chicago. Dry chicken, boring conversation, old people dancing. It was hideous.

“Count me out,” said Rob. “Not that it doesn’t sound, you know — fun.”

He and Miranda started laughing, snickering into their cereal bowls.

“You are horrible, horrible children,” their mother declared, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. “I’m going.”

“See you at the rehearsal!” Miranda called as her mother pattered down the stairs.

Luckily, her parents were so preoccupied with their own activities, they’d forgotten to grill Miranda about what she was planning to do tonight until six thirty. The less they knew, the better. How could she begin to explain Nick — who he was, how they met, what they were doing together?

Their mother often told them that they needed to be better listeners. Miranda just thought it was something all mothers said, with the same pained expression and tortured tone. It was probably in some parenting book, one of a list of things you should say to annoy your teenaged children, along with “take that look off your face” and “what’s that long sigh for?” and “I don’t know what happened; when you were little you were so sweet.”

But, apparently, Peggy was right. Rob and Miranda had assumed that today’s rehearsal was at the Minster, but when they got there — dead on eleven, as agreed, racing up the side steps and through the revolving doors — they found out they were wrong.

“No rehearsals here today,” said the cheery woman at the ticket counter, after trying to get them to cough up some outrageous amount to come in and look around. “There’s a concert tonight — the Tallis Scholars. Is that what you’re here for?”

“Our mother is conducting
Dido and Aeneas,”
explained Miranda. Rob was useless, staring up at the huge stained-glass window behind their heads. Probably dreaming about his wedding to Sally, she thought.

“
Dido and Aeneas,”
said the ticket seller, tracing a finger down a printout on the counter. “A staged performance of Purcell’s opera by the Spenserian Consort — yes? Conducted by Peggy Tennant.”

“That’s our mother,” said Miranda. She didn’t want to have to buy a ticket just to get inside the Minster for a rehearsal.

“Performance at eight
P.M.
on Saturday evening. Let me check my other sheet — yes, I see. There
will
be a rehearsal here in the Minster on Wednesday. Today’s rehearsal is in Victory Hall. Do you know where that is?”

Back out on the wet, chilly street, Miranda clutched the map the ticket seller had given her. The route to Victory Hall — on the other side of town — was marked in squiggly blue pen. She and Rob set off at a good pace, loping through the crowded streets and squabbling, not very seriously, about the best route. Even though Miranda was the one with the map, Rob thought he had a better idea of how to get there.

“I’ve walked around much more than you have,” Miranda argued. “You’ve spent most of your time at the White Boar. I’m surprised you’re not there now, hanging around Sally like a lovesick moron.”

“Whatever,” said Rob, and something about the way he sounded — sheepish rather than brash — and the way he hung his head made Miranda suspicious.

“What’s up?” she asked. “Has Sally dumped you already?”

“No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

“Like what, then?”

Rob came to a stop outside a store, his gaze fixed on something in the window. Miranda took the opportunity to check on her own reflection. The hat she was wearing was cute, she decided, even if it did make her hair go all flat. She wondered what Nick would think of it — or if he would even notice whether she looked pretty or not, let alone care.

“Do you think Sally would like that?” Rob pointed at a mannequin dressed in a patched suede jacket. It was a charity shop, Miranda realized, its window display crammed with everything from ugly china animals to scuffed winter boots, paperback thrillers lined up against the glass. As well as the suede jacket, the mannequin was wearing a long taffeta skirt and a canary yellow wool beret. “She was saying yesterday that she’s saving all the money she earns for college, and not spending it on clothes and stuff.”

“It’s not bad,” said Miranda. Rob had surprisingly good taste. Then again, he might just be drawn to charity-shop gear because of the price. He was nothing if not cheap.

“Last night,” said Rob, looking at the coat in the window, not at Miranda. “Last night, Joe — that’s Sally’s dad — he took me down to the cellar to show me how to change a barrel. We weren’t down there long, but …”

“What?” Miranda’s mind started leaping to the worst possible conclusions. “Did he threaten you or something?”

“No!” Rob looked at her as though she were crazy. “Really, you need to just — chillax, as Dad would say.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“I got all — you know.” Rob stared at the window again. “It’s this really small old cellar. Ancient Roman or whatever. It’s a really tiny space. Low ceiling, steep stairs to get down there. Like some kind of cave.”

“So you freaked out.”

“I just couldn’t breathe. I thought my head was going to explode. I hid it pretty well, I think. Joe didn’t seem to notice anything. I just don’t want Sally to find out.”

“Find out about …”

“Everything. The claustrophobia. The … you know.”

“You haven’t told her about … you know.”

“I don’t want her to feel
sorry
for me. I’m tired of everyone feeling sorry for me. For us. I don’t want her to
look at me the way everyone looks at me at school, like I’m some kind of special-needs case.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

“Really?” Rob said, his voice accusing. “You know how they all talk about us.”

Miranda knew what he meant. Rob was the guy who was driving the car, the night that girl was killed. And what did they say about her? Was she the girl who did nothing, the girl who just sat on the side of the road without trying to help her dying friend? She’d heard the whispers. No wonder neither of them wanted to go out anymore.

“Sally just thinks I’m a normal guy,” Rob said.

“Well, she’s wrong about that,” Miranda joked, hoping to cheer him up. But it didn’t work. Rob just looked pensive. Miserable, even.

“I really like her,” he said quietly. “It’s true I’ve only known her for —”

“Five minutes.”

“Okay. Not very long. But she’s a cool girl, even if she does have a weird accent. And she likes me, you know? For me. Not because I’m some tragic figure. The guy who killed somebody.”

“You didn’t kill anyone,” Miranda told him, biting her lip. Her throat felt tight. “The other driver smashed into us. He killed Jenna.”

She would not cry in the street, she told herself. She would not embarrass herself by crying in the street.

“Yeah, well,” said Rob. He tapped the window with one finger, his breath steaming up the glass. “I think I’m going to buy Sally that jacket.”

Miranda sniffed back an insistent tear. She didn’t want Rob to see it.

“You do know it’s twenty pounds,” she said. “That’s like a million dollars or something in American money.”

“Yeah,” said Rob. “I know. You’re going to have to lend me some cash.”

The door of the shop swung open, its bell jingling. Someone was stepping out onto the pavement, clutching a big bundle of what looked like sheets and blankets. The bundle was so big, in fact, that the person could barely see where they were going.

Where
he
was going, realized Miranda, with a shivery jolt of recognition. The person leaving the charity shop, lowering his cargo of blankets so he could negotiate the step down, was Nick. And he did not look happy to see her. Not happy at all.

“Hey,” said Miranda, lifting her hand in a halfhearted wave. Nick glowered at her, clutching his lumpy bundle of secondhand bedding as though it were a child.

“Hey,” he muttered. He shot Rob a ferocious glance, and then hurried away down Walmgate, his black coat flapping.

“Why are you talking to random guys?” Rob wanted to know. “Just because we’re in a foreign country doesn’t
mean you have to curtsy to strangers. Who do you think he is, the Earl of Emo?”

“He’s this … this guy I know,” Miranda mumbled. She glanced down the street, watching Nick stride away. His back was poker straight, his hair spiky. He didn’t look around. “I’ve met him already, I mean.”

“What —
him?”
Rob was incredulous. He stood with his arms folded, facing her. “What are you talking about, you’ve ‘met’ him?”

“It’s a long story,” said Miranda, looking down. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. You meet people, I meet people. Whatever.”

“This isn’t the … oh no, please tell me this isn’t the reason you wanted to go out tonight. You’re not going out with
him
somewhere, are you?”

“No,” lied Miranda, but she could see Rob didn’t believe her.

“Miranda, trust me. That guy is a creep. Stay away from him.”

“What do you know?” she demanded. “You’ve never even talked to him. You’re just judging him because —”

“Because he was rude, and he looks totally weird, and he’s probably planning to sacrifice you at dawn or something. Not to mention he was carrying around his bedding like a homeless person.”

“He’s not homeless,” said Miranda, though she wasn’t sure if this was true or not. “Look, I’m not
eloping
with him. He’s just showing me around.”

“Yeah, well,” snorted Rob. “He’s not showing you anywhere, okay? I don’t like the looks of him.”

“Please!” Miranda couldn’t stand it when Rob decided to play the role of overprotective, all-knowing older brother. “I can take care of myself.”

“No, you can’t. You’re only sixteen.”

“Going on seventeen.”

“Miranda, this isn’t
The Sound of Music.
You don’t know anything about anything. Have you told Mom and Dad about this guy?”

“If you even think about telling them, I’ll tell Sally about your claustrophobia. I mean it.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“Don’t threaten me. You mind your business and I’ll mind mine. Okay?” Miranda glared at Rob. They stood in silence for a long moment, staring each other down.

“I just don’t like it,” he said at last.

“You don’t have to,” Miranda retorted. “Everything’s not always about
you,
Rob.”

She stood outside the store while he went in to buy the jacket for Sally. Her heart was beating fast. Miranda hated arguing like this with Rob, especially when he was a little bit — just a tiny little bit — right. Nick had acted very strangely just now, abrupt and surly. The whole blankets-and-sheets thing was weird. But maybe they were for some of his Goth friends, or for the flat with the green door — lots of people might be staying there, and maybe they didn’t have enough heating or bedding. Nick would probably explain everything when she saw him tonight.