White Space

“Are … you.” That spidery scuttle had worked its way onto her tongue, and now it clambered, a leg at a time, over the fence of her teeth to move her mouth, form words with this new strange voice: “Wh-who … are …” Stop, stop! Choking, she clapped a hand over her mouth. Don’t let it win. Be quiet, be quiet! Oh, but the urge to speak, let this thing squatting in the center of her mind have its say, was ferocious, like a burn. I am me, she thought back to whatever this was, fiercely grinding this alien presence under the boot of her will, killing it, killing it. I am Emma, and I don’t hear you, I don’t know who you—

“Are you in pain, Elizabeth?” Kramer oozed forward. “Maybe a tonic …”

“No!” She whipped the knife down, and Kramer stopped dead in his tracks. But she was grateful for the distraction—for anything that might muffle that spidery little voice. “Just back off and let me think. Don’t push me, don’t crowd me!”

“Of course.” Without turning, Kramer put up a hand, and Weber, who’d been sidling closer, stopped as well. “Let’s not get excited.”

Oh, easy for you to say. This was a different London, but Jasper—whether he was a Dickens creation or not—might still be her guardian. Did he have a house with a cellar? If so, there might be a door, a way into the Dark Passages. She could push through, go somewhere else, get back to her own life where there must be versions of Rima and Bode and Tony. But not Eric, and there won’t be a Casey. God, could she bring them back somehow? Might they really exist as something more than words on a page?

Worry about that when I can. Nothing will happen if I don’t get out.

“I want to go home,” she croaked. “I want to see my guardian. I want Jasper.”

“Guardian?” Despite the knife, Kramer sidled just a touch closer. “Elizabeth, we’ve spoken about this at great length. You have no guardian and no home to which you may return.”

“No …?” She felt that sudden flower of hope wilt. “Listen to me, please. I’m fine. All I need is to get out of here. I only want to go … to go …” She pulled in a short, hard breath at a sudden pop of memory.

“Go where?” Kramer said. “Where would you go, Elizabeth?”

Lizzie. She would find Lizzie and her mother, Meredith. In one of her Lizzie-blinks, there had been talk of London and something bad happening that they couldn’t reverse. Was this it? Had to be. She and Lizzie were tangled, so the chances were good the McDermotts were here, in this London. Wait, hadn’t Lizzie and her mother left for several months? To go where? But if I can find them, find McDermott, I’ve got a chance …

“Elizabeth?” Kramer prodded. “Tell us which home you mean.”

“My … house, of course.” If he asked where, she was screwed, but if she had a life in this Now, she must live somewhere. She hurried on. “Where I live.”

“And where is that?” When she didn’t reply, Kramer said, “Or don’t you remember that there is no longer a home to which you may return?”

Something about the way he said that made a cold knot form where her stomach ought to have been. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then let me refresh your memory. Do you remember going down … what did you call it … such a curious phrase …” Battle pulled his brows together in a frown. “Down cellar?”

Oh Jesus. Okay, be calm; you can talk your way out of this, if you just stay calm. “Yes, of course I remember,” she said, carefully. “I went down cellar to look for a book.”

“So you say.” Battle’s icy gaze stroked a shiver. “But do you recall what you found instead? You discovered a … what did you call it? Ah, yes, a gateway, correct? A secret passage to other realms filled with beings that exist between worlds?”

Oh crap. She must have talked about the door, the click, the cold that ate the flame, and something living in the dark. How nutty would all that sound to these people? “I might … I might have made a mistake about that,” she said.

“Yes? And what mistake might that be?” When she was silent, Battle said, “Or mightn’t there have been something else you discovered below stairs, secreted down a hidden passage off the servants’ quarters? Something so horrible that your mind completely unhinged? That this is a hysterical fantasy of dual identities you’ve manufactured because it is preferable to the truth?”

“No,” she said, with a sudden, sickening dismay. “I … I know what I saw.” But did she? The doctors were always so pissed that she wouldn’t take her meds, and she blinked away so often.