d-don’t. Wake up. It’s me, it’s …”
“Rima?”
Stupefied, he stared. Loosed from its braid, her hair was a tangled cloud around her head, and her eyes, so dark, were huge in her thin, pinched face. Through the gloom—
because it’s night; we’re above the retort; everyone’s asleep
—he saw the darker blush of a new bruise on her cheek. A second later, he felt the warm seep over his lips and down his chin and realized he was bleeding from his nose again, too.
“Oh God.” Shame swept his chest. Moaning, he sagged from her body, suddenly weaker than a kitten, his eyes springing hot. He cupped a hand to his streaming nose. The taste, brackish and dank, coated his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I
never
…”
“Shhh, shhh, Tony, it’s fine. I startled you. Of course you’d lash out. It’s my fault. Here, let’s stop that bleeding.” Pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, she pressed a rough cloth to his streaming nostrils. “Relax, Tony, the nightmare’s over.”
“Leave it.” His voice was nasal and stuffed. He brushed her hand aside. “I can do this.” He was getting worse. So were the dreams, each nightmare building on the other, growing more detailed and ever more horrifying. His eyes drifted right to a dull orange gleam of reflected light: a squared-off and wicked-sharp ten-inch steel blade set in a worn bone mount, dangling from its peg. He’d hung it that way on purpose, so there would always be that split second where he would
have
to sit up and reach for the blade—and thank God. If he hadn’t, he might have buried his chopper in her skull.
“Rima, I’m sorry.”
I’m a monster. Might have killed her
. Gulpingaround a stone of fear, he said, “I d-didn’t know …”
“Shhh, Tony, you’ll wake the others. It’s all right. Let’s just … hold on.” She ducked around a ramshackle barrier he’d constructed of the broken slates of a rotted crate. With no privacy other than what he could make, he’d used these as a screen between him and the hundred other children crammed, cheek by jowl, like pilchards in a tin. Rima slept alongside in her own nest of threadbare burlap. He heard a slight rasp of metal, followed by a muted gurgle. In another moment, she was back, a small, sloshing cast-iron Dutch pot scavenged from a dustheap hooked over one hand.
“Here.” Kneeling, she wrung out a cloth and began cleaning blood from his face and neck. “Let’s put you to rights.”
He forced even, methodical breaths, one after the other, through his mouth as she worked. The air was a mélange, heavy with the odor of soot, hot brick, musty burlap, clothes that hadn’t seen a proper wash in months—and another, more peculiar, almost sweet aroma that anyone, if he didn’t know better, might mistake for a roast pig on a spit, dripping molten fat. But he did know better.
“Try to relax.” Laying a gentle hand over the fist bunched at his chest, she swabbed at his bloodstained palm. Wringing out her cloth, she touched the back of the hand that still held pressure on his nose. “Let’s have this one now.”
He let her. “What happened?” he asked, still in a whisper. Although this room above the retort was warm enough for them all to shed coats and mittens for sleeping, he was shivering. His skin was clammy with fear-sweat. His heart boomed in his chest, muting the chuff of a persistent roar from the furnace below. The gasworks had several retorts—gargantuan iron vessels in whichcoal or other fuels were carbonized to release gas—although only two furnaces still operated this side of the Thames because there were no more shipments of coal. No trains either, for that matter, and what this part of the city had left had to last until … well, no one was exactly sure. So they were forced to use a very
different
species of fuel now. “Did I shout?”
“No. I heard you moaning. When I checked, you were burning up, so I got a wet cloth for your forehead
“Rima?”
Stupefied, he stared. Loosed from its braid, her hair was a tangled cloud around her head, and her eyes, so dark, were huge in her thin, pinched face. Through the gloom—
because it’s night; we’re above the retort; everyone’s asleep
—he saw the darker blush of a new bruise on her cheek. A second later, he felt the warm seep over his lips and down his chin and realized he was bleeding from his nose again, too.
“Oh God.” Shame swept his chest. Moaning, he sagged from her body, suddenly weaker than a kitten, his eyes springing hot. He cupped a hand to his streaming nose. The taste, brackish and dank, coated his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I
never
…”
“Shhh, shhh, Tony, it’s fine. I startled you. Of course you’d lash out. It’s my fault. Here, let’s stop that bleeding.” Pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, she pressed a rough cloth to his streaming nostrils. “Relax, Tony, the nightmare’s over.”
“Leave it.” His voice was nasal and stuffed. He brushed her hand aside. “I can do this.” He was getting worse. So were the dreams, each nightmare building on the other, growing more detailed and ever more horrifying. His eyes drifted right to a dull orange gleam of reflected light: a squared-off and wicked-sharp ten-inch steel blade set in a worn bone mount, dangling from its peg. He’d hung it that way on purpose, so there would always be that split second where he would
have
to sit up and reach for the blade—and thank God. If he hadn’t, he might have buried his chopper in her skull.
“Rima, I’m sorry.”
I’m a monster. Might have killed her
. Gulpingaround a stone of fear, he said, “I d-didn’t know …”
“Shhh, Tony, you’ll wake the others. It’s all right. Let’s just … hold on.” She ducked around a ramshackle barrier he’d constructed of the broken slates of a rotted crate. With no privacy other than what he could make, he’d used these as a screen between him and the hundred other children crammed, cheek by jowl, like pilchards in a tin. Rima slept alongside in her own nest of threadbare burlap. He heard a slight rasp of metal, followed by a muted gurgle. In another moment, she was back, a small, sloshing cast-iron Dutch pot scavenged from a dustheap hooked over one hand.
“Here.” Kneeling, she wrung out a cloth and began cleaning blood from his face and neck. “Let’s put you to rights.”
He forced even, methodical breaths, one after the other, through his mouth as she worked. The air was a mélange, heavy with the odor of soot, hot brick, musty burlap, clothes that hadn’t seen a proper wash in months—and another, more peculiar, almost sweet aroma that anyone, if he didn’t know better, might mistake for a roast pig on a spit, dripping molten fat. But he did know better.
“Try to relax.” Laying a gentle hand over the fist bunched at his chest, she swabbed at his bloodstained palm. Wringing out her cloth, she touched the back of the hand that still held pressure on his nose. “Let’s have this one now.”
He let her. “What happened?” he asked, still in a whisper. Although this room above the retort was warm enough for them all to shed coats and mittens for sleeping, he was shivering. His skin was clammy with fear-sweat. His heart boomed in his chest, muting the chuff of a persistent roar from the furnace below. The gasworks had several retorts—gargantuan iron vessels in whichcoal or other fuels were carbonized to release gas—although only two furnaces still operated this side of the Thames because there were no more shipments of coal. No trains either, for that matter, and what this part of the city had left had to last until … well, no one was exactly sure. So they were forced to use a very
different
species of fuel now. “Did I shout?”
“No. I heard you moaning. When I checked, you were burning up, so I got a wet cloth for your forehead
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