“You didn’t need to. Was it after Knowles’ End or before?”
Jericho kept silent, but the muscle at his jaw tightened.
“I suppose it doesn’t really matter,” Mabel said, pushing the rest of her sandwich aside. Black spots danced before her eyes as she fought back stinging tears. “Why did you kiss me, then, if you prefer her?”
“It isn’t as simple as that,” Jericho said.
Lightning flashed at the windows. Harsh light streaked across Mabel’s fists. She could see every freckle on her skin. He’d chosen Evie. It didn’t matter that Evie was liable to break his heart, that she could never care for Jericho the way Mabel did, or that Mabel had volunteered her time to help with the exhibit. It didn’t matter that Evie could have any boy she wanted, and would. He’d chosen her. The realization sucked the air from Mabel’s lungs. Every day, Mabel Rose worked to make the world a little fairer. But the hard truth was that there was some unfairness you couldn’t do anything about. You couldn’t make a boy like you just because you liked him so very much. And tonight, as she’d watched Jericho with Evie, she knew the truth: Jericho was in love with Evie. Did Evie know? Had she known all along, even as she had encouraged Mabel and given her advice?
God, she was such an idiot.
And she hated this dress. Evie had been wrong—it didn’t suit her disposition at all. That was just the way Evie wanted to see her. The way everyone wanted to see her: Good old Mabel. Reliable, predictable Mabel. Chipper Mabel.
When she got home, she was going to burn this dress.
Jericho indulged in his odd habit of making a fist and releasing it. Mabel had found it eccentric but charming before. Now it grated on her.
“Would you like some coffee?” Jericho asked.
It was a peace offering, Mabel knew, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She shook her head.
Jericho crossed the room and poured himself a cup of coffee he didn’t want or need. The truth was that Jericho wanted Evie but wasn’t sure that he could have her. He could have Mabel but wasn’t sure that he wanted her. Neither scenario made him feel very good about himself. More than ever, he wished he had someone to explain his emotions and girls to him, to help him figure out how you knew when it was right.
“I kissed you because I wanted to,” Jericho answered after a while.
“Are you just being kind?”
“No. That’s the truth.”
“If you want to kiss me again, you can,” Mabel said. “But only if you really want to. I’m not Evie. I never will be.”
Jericho reached over and took her hand, and her stomach knotted. What did that mean? Was it brotherly affection, or some deeper passion? It was not a kiss; that much was clear. It’s over, her mind whispered. There’s still hope, her heart insisted. What was it Jericho had called it—the opiate futility of hope? Well, right now, Mabel wanted to be drunk on it.
On the couch, Ling sucked in a thin thread of air. Her fingers stiffened, then softened again.
“Is she all right?” Mabel asked mechanically.
“I think so. We should probably keep close watch,” Jericho said, breaking away.
“Of course,” Mabel said, hating that he was right, hating that she was all wrong.
In the ruin of Beach’s pneumatic train station, the growling whine was everywhere. The strange, bright things uncoiled and dropped to the dusty tracks. The way they moved—twitching and lurching, followed by lightning-quick bursts of adrenaline—was like watching wounded animals determined to survive.
“Dreamdreamhungryhungrydream…” they chorused.
They seeped out of the cracks in the walls like cockroaches. Memphis counted five, ten, a dozen at least. It was ten feet to the gate. Memphis held tightly to Wai-Mae’s bones. With the other hand, he laced his fingers through Theta’s.
“Run,” he said, and the four of them bolted across the dusty platform and burst through the gate. Behind them, the wraiths growled their displeasure.
“Which way back to the station?” Theta screamed.
“This way.” Memphis swung his light to the left and stopped short. He thrust his arm out to hold back the others, then carefully shone the beam forward again. A ghostly woman in a blue dress was caught in the hazy light. Her head whipped in their direction. She sniffed. Her upper lip curled, revealing jagged teeth.
“Don’t move,” Memphis whispered. “Be… perfectly… still.”
The girl in the blue dress took one stumbling step forward, sniffing again. She swayed unsteadily. And then her mouth opened with a shriek. Other shrieks answered, the roar of an unholy army.
