And from somewhere, in his head or out of it, he thought he heard the rat-girl say, “Richard. Hold on.” He did not know if there was anyone helping him at that moment. He suspected that he was, truly, talking to himself. That this was the real him speaking, and he was, finally, listening.
He nodded and put the bead back into his pocket. And he stood on the platform and waited for the train to come in. It arrived at the platform, slowed, came to a full stop.
The train doors hissed open. The carriage was filled with every manner and kind of people, all of whom were, unmistakably, quite dead. There were fresh corpses, with ragged cuts in their throats or bullet holes in their temples. There were old, desiccated bodies. There were strap-hanging cadavers, covered with cobwebs, and cancerous things lolling in their seats. Each corpse seemed, as much as one could tell, to have died by its own hand. Some were male, and some were female. Richard thought he had seen some of those faces, pinned to a long wall; but he could no longer remember where he had seen them, could not remember when. The carriage smelled like a morgue might at the end of a long, hot summer during the course of which the refrigeration equipment had failed for good.
Richard had no idea who he was, anymore; no idea what was or what was not true; nor whether he was brave or cowardly, mad or sane, but he knew the next thing he had to do. He stepped onto the train, and all the lights went out.
The bolts were drawn back. Two loud bangs echoed through the room. The door to the tiny shrine was pushed open, letting in lamplight from the hall outside.
It was a small room with a high arched ceiling. A silver key hung from a thread, attached to the highest point of the ceiling. The wind caused by the opening of the door made the key swing back and forth, and then spin slowly, first one way, and then the other. The abbot held Brother Fuliginous’s arm, and the two men walked into the shrine, side by side. Then the abbot let go of the brother’s arm, and said, “Take the body, Brother Fuliginous.”
“But. But Father . . . “
“What is it?”
Brother Fuliginous went down on one knee. The abbot could hear fingers against cloth and skin. “He’s not dead.”
The abbot sighed. It was an evil thing to think, he knew, but he honestly felt it was so much kinder if they died outright. This was so much worse. “One of those, eh?” he said. “Ah well, we will look after the poor creature until it passes on to its ultimate reward. Lead it to the infirmary.”
And a weak voice said, quietly, but firmly, “I am not a poor creature.” The abbot heard someone stand up; heard Brother Fuliginous’s sharp intake of breath. “I . . . I think I got through it,” said Richard Mayhew’s voice, suddenly uncertain. “Unless this is more of the ordeal.”
“No, my son,” said the abbot. There was something in his voice that might have been awe, and might have been regret.
There was silence. “I . . . I think I will have that cup of tea now, if you don’t mind,” said Richard.
“Of course,” said the abbot. “This way.” Richard stared at the old man. The glaucous eyes gazed out at nothing at all. He seemed pleased that Richard was alive, but . . .
“Excuse me?” said Brother Fuliginous, respectfully, to Richard, breaking his train of thought. “Don’t forget your key.”
“Oh. Yes. Thanks.” He had forgotten about the key. He reached out and closed his hand upon the cold silver key, rotating slowly on its thread. He tugged, and the thread snapped easily.
Richard opened his hand, and the key stared up at him from his palm. “By my crooked teeth,” asked Richard, remembering, “who am I?”
He put it into his pocket, next to the small quartz bead, and together they left that place.
The fog had begun to thin. Hunter was pleased. She was confident now that, should it become necessary, she could get the Lady Door away from the friars entirely unharmed and get herself away with only minor flesh wounds.
There was a flurry of movement on the far side of the bridge. “Something’s happening,” said Hunter to Door, under her breath. “Get ready to make a run for it.”
The friars drew back. Richard Mayhew, the Upworlder, came toward them through the fog, walking beside the abbot. Richard looked different, somehow . . . Hunter scrutinized him, trying to work out what had changed. His center of balance had moved lower, become more centered. No . . . it was more than that. He looked less boyish. He looked as if he had begun to grow up.
“Still alive then?” said Hunter. He nodded; put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a silver key. He tossed it to Door, who caught it, then flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him, squeezing him as tightly as she could.