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Authors: Sarah Pinborough
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together. His heart thumped in anticipation, an excitement he hadn’t felt in many long years. It was like a return to his youth, to before , when they had all been so bold.
He left the room, and there was a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before. He had phone calls to make. By the time he’d reached the ground floor of Senate House, the old man’s tears were forgotten.
For the first time in weeks she felt like music. She stared out of the grimy window of the small attic apartment at the world below. She still felt its energy and excitement, but her superior confidence had faded. Artie Mullins had done what she’d expected and taken Cass Jones from them, and at the time she’d been pleased: she could keep track of him without having to answer his questions – and the one thing she’d learned about them was that they always had questions – and then find him again when the time was right. That was before they’d started weakening.
Over the past fortnight or so, these strange days and nights all blurring into one, she’d found she lacked the energy to play. She hadn’t extended beyond herself. She’d stayed small . Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, while her old friend muttered in his fevered sleep, she felt as if this hectic, harsh world was consuming her. The possibility that they might not be able to get back hadn’t crossed their minds – not even just theirs; she was just the emissary, after all, and he was her companion – but his mind. Or perhaps it was just a risk he had been prepared to take. If they didn’treturn, perhaps that was information enough.
Frost covered the glass on the outside like a network of dead veins. There was so much hidden beauty here that sometimes it astounded her. She let out a long breath and watched the condensation form. She felt its damp heat on her face and ignored the sweet scent of rot it carried with it. She had become used to that now, as she had to the flecks of blood that appeared between her paling gums. But perhaps, she decided, as she turned away from the glass and headed over to the bed in the corner, all was not lost. Events were finally moving forward.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pushed a loose strand of her red hair from her face before leaning forward to kiss her companion’s cheek. His face burned. When his eyes opened there was still some humour there, even though he was no longer able to play his violin, not even on his very best days. She wasn’t sure which was drier, her lips or his cheek. She squeezed his hand.
‘Have you found the way home, Gabbi?’ he asked. He had been the one to try when he’d first sickened; he would go back and report and she would stay and wait to answer the so-faint call that had brought them all this way. He hadn’t gone, though. The Walkways were lost in the Chaos, and that had almost sucked him in. She had tried after that, with more urgency as his efforts added to his weakening state and she could see her old friend crumbling away, but there was no way out. They had found their way here, but there was no way back. Someone had locked the exit door. Perhaps that was about to change.
‘Not yet, but I think we will be home by Christmas.’ She smiled. He almost managed a laugh at that play on all the television shows that they had watched on the small machine that came with the flat.
‘He’s awake.’ She squeezed his hand again and felt sudden life flood his system with the excitement of her news. She’d felt it herself. ‘He called to me – it was so loud and clear it woke me. He knows we’re here; he’s been listening. He knows we’re sick.’
Her companion, still looking like the tramp he had so recently played, pulled himself up into a sitting position against his sweaty pillow.
‘He’s really awake?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I understand it all now – why the boy is so important.’
‘Do we go to him now?’ His eyes were wide, as if he’d never expected the news to
He left the room, and there was a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before. He had phone calls to make. By the time he’d reached the ground floor of Senate House, the old man’s tears were forgotten.
For the first time in weeks she felt like music. She stared out of the grimy window of the small attic apartment at the world below. She still felt its energy and excitement, but her superior confidence had faded. Artie Mullins had done what she’d expected and taken Cass Jones from them, and at the time she’d been pleased: she could keep track of him without having to answer his questions – and the one thing she’d learned about them was that they always had questions – and then find him again when the time was right. That was before they’d started weakening.
Over the past fortnight or so, these strange days and nights all blurring into one, she’d found she lacked the energy to play. She hadn’t extended beyond herself. She’d stayed small . Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, while her old friend muttered in his fevered sleep, she felt as if this hectic, harsh world was consuming her. The possibility that they might not be able to get back hadn’t crossed their minds – not even just theirs; she was just the emissary, after all, and he was her companion – but his mind. Or perhaps it was just a risk he had been prepared to take. If they didn’treturn, perhaps that was information enough.
Frost covered the glass on the outside like a network of dead veins. There was so much hidden beauty here that sometimes it astounded her. She let out a long breath and watched the condensation form. She felt its damp heat on her face and ignored the sweet scent of rot it carried with it. She had become used to that now, as she had to the flecks of blood that appeared between her paling gums. But perhaps, she decided, as she turned away from the glass and headed over to the bed in the corner, all was not lost. Events were finally moving forward.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pushed a loose strand of her red hair from her face before leaning forward to kiss her companion’s cheek. His face burned. When his eyes opened there was still some humour there, even though he was no longer able to play his violin, not even on his very best days. She wasn’t sure which was drier, her lips or his cheek. She squeezed his hand.
‘Have you found the way home, Gabbi?’ he asked. He had been the one to try when he’d first sickened; he would go back and report and she would stay and wait to answer the so-faint call that had brought them all this way. He hadn’t gone, though. The Walkways were lost in the Chaos, and that had almost sucked him in. She had tried after that, with more urgency as his efforts added to his weakening state and she could see her old friend crumbling away, but there was no way out. They had found their way here, but there was no way back. Someone had locked the exit door. Perhaps that was about to change.
‘Not yet, but I think we will be home by Christmas.’ She smiled. He almost managed a laugh at that play on all the television shows that they had watched on the small machine that came with the flat.
‘He’s awake.’ She squeezed his hand again and felt sudden life flood his system with the excitement of her news. She’d felt it herself. ‘He called to me – it was so loud and clear it woke me. He knows we’re here; he’s been listening. He knows we’re sick.’
Her companion, still looking like the tramp he had so recently played, pulled himself up into a sitting position against his sweaty pillow.
‘He’s really awake?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I understand it all now – why the boy is so important.’
‘Do we go to him now?’ His eyes were wide, as if he’d never expected the news to
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