Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City (25 page)

Her eyes widened.

He took a deep breath. “They’ve finished work at the construction site. Taddle Creek has been completely buried.”

She stared at him.

“Something tells me we can’t go home anymore.”

She patted his hand. “I know.”

“You do?”

She took a deep breath. “When Faith and I were trapped in the sewers, we found another portal downstream. It took us back to the present. I got to call my mom.”

Peter jerked back. “You what?”

“It was November. We’d been missing three months,” she continued. “The portal through Theo’s floor closed almost the minute after we fell through it. They spent weeks looking for us. I think the portal’s been flowing downstream with the river. And when that weird thing happened with the water coming into the port? It felt like a door being closed.”

Peter gaped at her. “Rosemary, you made it back home? You
talked
to your mother?”

She nodded.

“What on Earth possessed you to come back here?”

She looked at him. A corner of her mouth quirked up.

Peter smiled. “Oh.”

They sat a long moment, staring at the floor, the ceiling, the bedspread. Then Peter looked up and caught Rosemary’s attention with a squeeze of her hands. “Rosemary ... Will ... Will you ... Will you marry me?”

Rosemary stared silently for a long time. Then she said, “Yeah. Okay.”

They embraced, and were quite late coming down for breakfast.

CHRISTMAS EVE

Rosemary noted, not for the first time, that without the privacy screens around the tub, their apartment looked much bigger. Snow drifted on the windowsill and the wood stove glowed.

Peter stepped in behind her, holding a stack of four glasses. Faith followed with a glass pitcher of eggnog. Edmund slouched in behind. “Why are we having eggnog in your apartment?”

“To thank you for acting as witnesses,” said Rosemary.

“’Tis nothing,” said Edmund.

“’Tis hardly nothing!” Faith slapped her brother’s arm. “It was an honour, and it was a beautiful ceremony.”

Edmund rolled his eyes. “We could hardly have allowed them to continue to live in sin.”

Faith poured out glasses, which Peter passed to Edmund, then to Rosemary. “It was still an honour. And
as they explained, Edmund ...,” she looked hard at her brother, “they were
not
living in sin.”

“Much,” muttered Rosemary. She raised her glass. “We honour our hosts. To Faith and Edmund, great Samaritans both.”

“To Mr. and Mrs. Watson-McAllister,” said Faith. “Good friends.”

“To all of us,” said Peter. Glasses clinked.

Then Rosemary picked up an envelope from the bed and held it out to Edmund. “And we’re here to give you your Christmas present. It’s a little early, but here you go.”

Edmund stared at the envelope. His eyes narrowed at Faith and Peter’s grins. “What is it?”

“Open it, foolish brother, and see!” Faith snatched the envelope and pressed it into his hand.

Setting his glass of eggnog aside, he ripped open the envelope, pulling out a thick sheaf of papers. He stared at the covering letter. “My invention! I’ve secured a patent! But how?”

“That day you tossed your papers in the garbage?” said Rosemary. Edmund flushed. “I fished them out and finished them off for you. I thought, since you were no longer interested, I’d give them a try. I hope you don’t mind that I forged your signature.”

Edmund stared at her over the patent papers.

“I’ve done some legwork for you.” Rosemary tapped the back of the sheaf. “Seems Mr. Ballard knows
someone by the name of Mr. Bell. He’s spoken enthusiastically about your find and he expects Mr. Bell will be writing soon, asking for a demonstration. He may ask to buy your patent. He’ll drive a hard bargain, but hold your ground. Trust me, he can afford to pay you handsomely.”

Edmund’s mouth moved but no words came out. Finally he managed, “Rosemary — I don’t know what to say. What does this all mean?”

“It means,” said Peter, “that if you play your cards right, you won’t have to be a pawnshop owner.”

“‘Thank you’ should suffice,” Faith added.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Edmund gabbled. He threw his arms around Rosemary, then let go, red-faced.

Rosemary held on. “You’re welcome!”

He pulled back, still blinking. “I must get things ready. A demonstration? It must be flawless!” Mumbling to himself, he darted from the room.

“Merry Christmas!” Rosemary called after him.

“He’ll be up all night,” said Faith. “He’ll be exhausted in the morning. Happy, but exhausted. I shall have to take care of him.”

“Don’t forget your studies,” said Rosemary. “A new term begins in a couple of weeks.”

“I won’t,” said Faith. “I had best turn in. Merry Christmas, both.” She gave each of them warm kisses on their cheeks. “And,” she added with a sly smile, “congratulations.” She slipped out the door.

Peter and Rosemary faced each other. Rosemary took a sip of her eggnog and watched Peter over the rim of the glass. He reddened and looked at the floor.

“This is good eggnog.” She took another sip. “Faith’s recipe?”

“Mostly. I added some rum when she wasn’t looking.”

“Peter! If Faith finds out, she’ll kill you!”

He grinned. “I don’t see how she could complain. It’s traditional.”

She smiled sadly. “Yes, it is.”

“Missing your family?”

She nodded. “But I have family here, at least.” She looked up at him.

Peter took a deep breath and raised his glass. “Well, to us, whatever happens.”

“To us.” Their glasses clinked. Each took a sip. Then they kissed each other warmly. They had barely pulled back when they leaned in again. And again.

They stopped, breathing heavily. Peter’s throat was dry. “So ... What do we do now?”

Smiling, Rosemary set aside her drink. She took Peter’s drink and set it next to hers. Then she clasped his hands and stepped back, tugging playfully.

Peter grinned, and followed her.

Rosemary dreamed she lay submerged in water, gazing up as the last hole of light was bricked over. She reached for it, full of longing and regret, but she couldn’t see her hands anymore. She clasped them to her chest and drifted off, as though to sleep.

She felt the current tugging at her feet, herself slipping through the dark tunnels. Then light began to glow, rising from her ankles. She tried to look toward it, but she was sluggish and lethargic. The light rose above her, and she felt herself surrounded in welcoming warmth, just as she faded from existence.

She slipped awake. The faint early morning light was just bringing shadows out of darkness. She blinked once, and took a deep breath. “Of course.”

She slipped out of bed and wrapped herself in one of the quilts. She shook Peter awake.

He snorted. “What? What are you —,” he yelped as she yanked the covers away. “Hey, it’s cold!”

She let the quilt drop and started pulling clothes from the chest of drawers. “Get dressed and pack.”

“What?”

Rosemary tossed over some trousers and began wrapping a couple of small keepsakes in a blouse. “Take a change of clothes with you. I know where the last portal is.”

Peter rolled out of bed and got dressed.

Minutes later they sidled into the hallway, each dressed and carrying a bundle of clothing. Rosemary passed hers to Peter. “Go down to the kitchen and wait there.”

“Rosemary, what —”

“I’ll catch you up.” She waited as Peter clopped carefully down the stairs, then she eased herself to Faith’s door and turned the knob.

Faith was in bed, covers pulled around her, arms draped across the bedspread. She breathed deeply, and didn’t quite snore.

Rosemary tiptoed to her side and set an envelope on the bedside table. She paused and smiled down at Faith in her sleep.

“Good luck in your studies, Dr. Watson,” she said, and she leaned over and kissed Faith’s cheek.

Faith murmured, and rolled onto her side.

Holding candles, Rosemary and Peter clopped down the basement steps. The place was clear of crates and full of scuffed footprints. Faith had thrown up her hands and left it undisturbed.

“Are you sure this isn’t a wild goose chase?” asked Peter.

“If it is, then I’m sorry,” said Rosemary. “But we have to try. I had a dream.”

“That’s inspiring.”

The trap door had been locked with a simple wedge of wood and an admonition from a police officer not to touch it until the construction crew came to seal it up. Rosemary pried out the wedge and lifted the door. She shone the candle down the steps. “There’s a boat down there. The police must have left it after they cleared the basement.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Peter.

Rosemary took his hand. “Come on.”

They climbed down the stairs to the boat, lit the lanterns, and untied the boat from the jetty. Peter took up the pole while Rosemary guided the rudder. They floated forward in silence.

“The portals have all closed,” said Peter. “You said so. So where are we going?”

Rosemary shrugged. “I said the portals were flowing downstream as the river died. We forgot: there’s one last place for a portal to exist. And after all the weird things that have happened to us, I’m giving this a shot.”

They slipped further downstream. The tunnel widened. All the passing branches were dark.

Peter dipped his pole into the water. “You know, if we make it back, we’ll have been gone four whole months.”

“I know.”

“We’ll have missed a term of school, not to mention our scholarships.”

“We’ll just have to reapply.”

“And explain our four-month absence?”

“I know,” said Rosemary. “We’ll have a lot of catching up to do.” She chuckled. “It’s almost easier just to stay here.”

They drifted on silently in the dark.

“Well,” said Peter. “There is hot, running water to look forward to.”

Rosemary grinned. “And central heating.”

“And television.”

“And the Internet.”

“And your science degree,” said Peter. “And your career.”

“And our friends,” said Rosemary. “And our family.”

He frowned down at her. “What are we going to tell everyone?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are we going to tell your parents?”

“The truth.”

“The whole truth?”

“Yes.”

They floated further in silence. After a long while, they rounded a curve and came out into Aldous Birge’s ruined port. They passed the broken jetties, the gouged walls where the gaslights used to be, and the scorched and blackened bricks. The door to the warehouse was bricked over.

Rosemary tugged at Peter’s sleeve. She pointed.

At the mouth of the underground river, where the tunnel gave way to open sky, a boat passed across the horizon. Its rigging was lit up like a Christmas tree. It let out a belt of its horn. The image faded and flickered before resuming, strong as before.

“The last portal,” said Rosemary. “At the mouth of the river.”

Peter drew a shaky breath as he pushed toward the portal. Rosemary looked up at him. “You scared?”