Marcus Sedgwick - The Book of Dead Days

“I know that,” Willow said, “but who were they?”

Boy shrugged. He knew she was only interested, but really, he wished she’d shut up.

“Look, I don’t know. Since I can remember I just lived in the streets, freezing and starving in the winter, all right more or less in the summer. That’s all there’s ever been. Then he found me.”

“He treats you like rubbish,” she said.

“At least I have a room and food and something to do.”

“That’s not a room,” said Willow, remembering the boxlike space at the end of the tunnel where Boy had fetched the blankets.

“So who taught you to speak, then?” she asked.

Boy felt the clothes.

“They’re dry, more or less,” he said, and Willow gave up.

They turned their backs to each other and dressed quickly. The clothes were warm from the fire and Boy began to feel better than he had for what seemed like a very long time.

“I’m hungry,” said Willow. “Starving.”

“Let’s see if there’s some food here,” Boy said, but not very hopefully.

He was right to be pessimistic. He found some dried biscuits, and they ate them slowly.

“Boy,” said Willow suddenly, “what about me?”

“You’ll have to go back to the singer,” he said. “You’re not short of food there, at least.”

“But I can’t!” Willow cried. “I’m a wanted criminal! So are you, come to that.”

He stared at the fire. “I know,” he said, “I know. Look, I’ll try and talk to Valerian again and see if you can stay. Then maybe you’ll be safe from the Watch.”

“Would you?” asked Willow. “Would you really?”

Boy looked at the hope in her face and felt himself shiver. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea, for lots of reasons. And wasn’t it like admitting she was guilty if she didn’t return to Madame Beauchance? But something in him wanted her to stay.

“Look,” he said, “I’ll try. That’s all.”

“Why do you care?”

Boy hesitated. He didn’t know that he did.

He didn’t answer.

They sat and watched the fire for a while, warming themselves while it lasted. Boy felt exhausted, as much by Willow’s questions as anything. For the first time in years all sorts of thoughts crowded into his head. He pushed them away. He didn’t need to know who his parents were. It wasn’t important, no matter what Willow thought. Boy’s thoughts became hazier.

Before they knew it, they had fallen asleep on each other’s shoulders, and for a short time their weary bodies rested.

Darkness had fallen.

Boy and Willow woke up within moments of each other. They both got to their feet, avoiding each other’s eyes.

“Well,” said Boy, looking at the floor.

“Yes,” said Willow. “What do you think? Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” said Boy, looking up and into Willow’s eyes. “Let’s get it over with.”

They made their way up to the Tower room. After hours of hearing Valerian’s rage and curses earlier in the day, it was quiet. It seemed as good a time as any to dare to ask him for favors.

Boy knocked on the door. That in itself was strange. Normally he waited to be summoned.

“What is it?” came the voice from within.

“Valerian,” called Boy, “can we come in?”

There was a pause.

“We? Oh, very well.”

Inside Boy looked at Valerian, but not directly into his eyes. That was usually too much to take. Willow just stared openmouthed at what filled the room: the vials, the jars, the machines, the devices, the equipment, the drawings, the books, the glass things, the brass things, the wooden things. The camera obscura.

“Why is she still here?” Valerian asked.

“Please, Valerian, can she stay? The Watchmen will be after her.”

And me too, he thought.

Valerian said nothing.

“And she can’t go back to Madame, because the theater will be shut and-Oh!”

Boy stopped. The theater.

“Yes,” said Valerian, “I expect it will.”

“But that means we’ll be out of work and-”

“I could not, at this moment, possibly care less,” said Valerian. “And the girl cannot stay here. We have too much to do. That is an end to it.”

“But Korp is dead,” Willow protested. “You’ll have nowhere for your act!”

Valerian stood up, and Boy and Willow cowered where they stood. He seemed to tower above them, taller than ever.

“Listen to me. I do not care about the theater, or the act. The only thing that concerns me at the moment is time. Do you see?”

They both shook their heads. Boy shrank back against the wall as Valerian leaned close.

“Listen to me! I am in trouble. Bigger trouble than failing theaters or dead directors. I now have four days left to save my life, and the only way I can do it is hidden from me! Green”-he waved the music box-“was supposed to give me a name-a name that could just possibly save my wretched, cursed skin, and yet I have been tricked! All I have is this worthless gimmick! How can this fairground rubbish give me a name?”

He threw it to the floor.

Willow stepped forward and picked it up. She held it to the light of the single lamp in the room and smiled. She turned the little metal crank and tinny notes rang out across the room.

“I know it does that,” snapped Valerian.

Willow ignored him, and played the music again. And again.

The tune was very simple, with only eight notes. A haunting refrain, and if Valerian had listened he might have heard in it the tone of hope. Willow played it a few times, then a few more.

“Valerian,” she said, “this is a name. This tune is a name, and the name you have been searching for is Gad Beebe.”

After Willow had explained for the fourth time how she knew what the name was, Valerian began to believe it himself.

“Music!” he exclaimed. “Hidden in the music! Before my very ears!”

He laughed.

“Kepler knew what he was doing after all-he must have sent this thing for me. Green decided to play difficult and then…” He laughed again.

This worried Boy. He had never heard Valerian laugh before. It worried him a lot.

“And you learned this from Madame?” Valerian asked Willow.

She nodded. “Yes, she taught me musical notation.” And more than that, Madame had grudgingly told Willow that she had “perfect pitch.” Willow could identify any note in isolation of any other note that might be used as a reference point-an ability Madame herself did not possess.

“And these notes-each one is a letter?”

Willow nodded again. “G-A-D-B-E-E-B-E.”

“By chance the name uses only letters from the first seven of the alphabet,” said Valerian. “Whoever made this thing, or had it made, was not only musical, but had spotted this curious fact about Mr. Beebe. Beebe…,” wondered Valerian aloud. “I’m sure I know the name.”

“So,” ventured Willow, “about me staying… just for a while…”

“Hmm?” said Valerian, his mind elsewhere. “Hmm? Yes, that’s-you might even be useful, unlike Boy.”

He held the music box mechanism in his hand, turning the handle, listening to the vital tune over and over again.

The many clocks in the house began to strike midnight.

It was December 28.

As the last chime died away, Valerian’s mood grew somber again.

“Come,” he said, gruffly. “We have much to do and time is shortening.”

Boy smiled a little. He knew where he was with this Valerian.

The three figures stole through the unusually silent city streets. It had not snowed, as Willow had thought it might. It was cold, however, and Boy was glad he had all his clothes on. Yet again he was out traipsing after Valerian. The only difference was that Willow was with him this time.