bedroom. “You can’t go home. Home is on the Living Side. There’s no way to cross back. Not really. Not for good.”
Henry climbed to his feet. Or rather, Henry’s ghost simply unfolded and was standing. Despite being new, he was getting the hang of things. Bundle took refuge in Po’s Essence; Po felt the sudden presence of the little animal inside of him.
“My dear boy,” Henry said, and then squinted again. “My dear girl—my dear—whatever you are—I may be dead, but home is wherever I built my life, and it is where I will go back in my death. Home is where my only child was born, and home is where my first wife, my love, was laid in the ground. She’s not here, after all—in this place you call the Other Side, because if she were, she would have found me already. She is not floating around in the darkness somewhere, and I will tell you why. She is not here, because she is home, and home is the pond with the willow tree standing next to it, and dead, alive, or in-between, I am going home. Do you understand me?”
The whole time he had been speaking, his voice had gotten louder and sterner, and as a result, Po felt small and rather ashamed. Distant—so distant now!—memories returned to Po, the tiniest, vaguest memories of the smell of chalk and paper and the feel of its knees pressed under a desk. And strangely, because Po had Bundle’s Essence inside of him, the ghost also felt other long-buried memories, of sharp voices and the shame of a puddle on the floor between its legs, a creeping, seeping puddle on a very nice carpet.
But when the ghost tried to focus on the memories, they evaporated.
“How do you intend to get there?” Po asked.
“My daughter will take me,” Henry said. “She knows the way.”
“She misses you,” Po said, remembering its promise. “She told me to tell you.”
“I miss her, too.” Henry sighed, and at once all the sternness was gone from his voice. He shook his head mournfully, and then said in a whisper, “It was the soup, you know. I should never have eaten the soup.”
“What?” Po was once again confused.
“Never mind.” Henry refolded himself so he was once again sitting by the silent, swiftly moving river. Suddenly he looked defeated, and Po could see the darkness eating at the edges of his shoulders now, and down around his arms—could tell that the Everything was already starting to pull hard on Henry’s soul. “Leave me now,” Henry said. “I’m very tired.”
“Okay,” Po said, and then, remembering the other thing Liesl had taught him, said, “I am sorry you are tired.”
“That’s okay,” Henry said. He did not look again at Po. He stared off at the stars, at the sky, at the universe bending and unfolding. “Once Liesl brings me home, I will rest.”
Chapter Eight
MEANWHILE, IN THE DARK, TWISTED ALLEYS OF the Living Side, Will was running for his life.
He ran without knowing where he was going. He ran blindly, impulsively, cutting left and right, down foul-smelling alleys and streets so close and shadowed he could hardly see.
Plan , he thought. I need a plan. But his heart was beating so loudly in his ears he couldn’t think.
He knew one thing for sure: He could not go back to the alchemist’s studio. He could never, ever go back to the alchemist’s studio for as long as he lived, because the alchemist would kill him, and that would be the End of that.
Will was used to the alchemist’s temper. He had seen the alchemist scream many times, and go purple from fury, like he did the time that Will confused arrowroot for gingerroot in an extremely complex protection powder, thus rendering it completely useless except for the thickening of soups.
But he had never, ever been so terrified of the alchemist as he had been tonight, when the Lady Premiere had swept into her private apartments and commanded her attendants to “Leave us,” seeming to bring to the room an arctic chill with those two words.
It had been clear just
Henry climbed to his feet. Or rather, Henry’s ghost simply unfolded and was standing. Despite being new, he was getting the hang of things. Bundle took refuge in Po’s Essence; Po felt the sudden presence of the little animal inside of him.
“My dear boy,” Henry said, and then squinted again. “My dear girl—my dear—whatever you are—I may be dead, but home is wherever I built my life, and it is where I will go back in my death. Home is where my only child was born, and home is where my first wife, my love, was laid in the ground. She’s not here, after all—in this place you call the Other Side, because if she were, she would have found me already. She is not floating around in the darkness somewhere, and I will tell you why. She is not here, because she is home, and home is the pond with the willow tree standing next to it, and dead, alive, or in-between, I am going home. Do you understand me?”
The whole time he had been speaking, his voice had gotten louder and sterner, and as a result, Po felt small and rather ashamed. Distant—so distant now!—memories returned to Po, the tiniest, vaguest memories of the smell of chalk and paper and the feel of its knees pressed under a desk. And strangely, because Po had Bundle’s Essence inside of him, the ghost also felt other long-buried memories, of sharp voices and the shame of a puddle on the floor between its legs, a creeping, seeping puddle on a very nice carpet.
But when the ghost tried to focus on the memories, they evaporated.
“How do you intend to get there?” Po asked.
“My daughter will take me,” Henry said. “She knows the way.”
“She misses you,” Po said, remembering its promise. “She told me to tell you.”
“I miss her, too.” Henry sighed, and at once all the sternness was gone from his voice. He shook his head mournfully, and then said in a whisper, “It was the soup, you know. I should never have eaten the soup.”
“What?” Po was once again confused.
“Never mind.” Henry refolded himself so he was once again sitting by the silent, swiftly moving river. Suddenly he looked defeated, and Po could see the darkness eating at the edges of his shoulders now, and down around his arms—could tell that the Everything was already starting to pull hard on Henry’s soul. “Leave me now,” Henry said. “I’m very tired.”
“Okay,” Po said, and then, remembering the other thing Liesl had taught him, said, “I am sorry you are tired.”
“That’s okay,” Henry said. He did not look again at Po. He stared off at the stars, at the sky, at the universe bending and unfolding. “Once Liesl brings me home, I will rest.”
Chapter Eight
MEANWHILE, IN THE DARK, TWISTED ALLEYS OF the Living Side, Will was running for his life.
He ran without knowing where he was going. He ran blindly, impulsively, cutting left and right, down foul-smelling alleys and streets so close and shadowed he could hardly see.
Plan , he thought. I need a plan. But his heart was beating so loudly in his ears he couldn’t think.
He knew one thing for sure: He could not go back to the alchemist’s studio. He could never, ever go back to the alchemist’s studio for as long as he lived, because the alchemist would kill him, and that would be the End of that.
Will was used to the alchemist’s temper. He had seen the alchemist scream many times, and go purple from fury, like he did the time that Will confused arrowroot for gingerroot in an extremely complex protection powder, thus rendering it completely useless except for the thickening of soups.
But he had never, ever been so terrified of the alchemist as he had been tonight, when the Lady Premiere had swept into her private apartments and commanded her attendants to “Leave us,” seeming to bring to the room an arctic chill with those two words.
It had been clear just
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