“Gaston,” I say, “you’re being rude.”
He looks at me, confused. Then his eyes widen with understanding.
“Oh, no, I’m looking at the scepter.” He grins up at Spingate. “But don’t get me wrong, you’ve got really nice boobs.”
I can’t believe he said that. Spingate is flustered and doesn’t know what to do.
Gaston holds out his hand toward her. “Can I see the scepter? I feel like it…we need light, and it should”—he struggles to find the right words—“you know what I’m saying?”
She shakes her head, still flustered at his comment, then her eyes narrow. She looks at the scepter anew. Her lips move for a few seconds, and she nods.
“Yes, I think I know what you mean,” she says. “It should…”
Her voice trails off. She keeps her grip on the scepter’s bottom end, but tilts the top toward Gaston, letting him hold the prongs. They lean in together, hovering over it, examining it.
From inside the dark room, Bishop calls to me.
“Em, it’s safe to come in.”
I’m excited and bothered all at once. Excited because it feels like Bishop is looking out for me, checking for danger to keep me safe. Bothered because I’m in charge and he went in without asking or being told to do so. That’s not how things are supposed to work. So did he do it because he wants to protect me, or because he doesn’t respect me as the leader?
No, I’m being ridiculous. If Bishop was trying to protect anyone, it’s probably Spingate. I see the way the boys look at her. And this isn’t about my leadership, either—if I’d had time to think about it, I would have asked Bishop to go first anyway: he’s bigger, faster and stronger than everyone else. I know it, he knows it. He did what I would have asked him to do…only I didn’t ask.
Bishop leans out of the dark room. “Em, come on. And watch your footing, it’s slick.”
I step through the opening. O’Malley comes in with me.
My eyes adjust quickly to what little light there is. This place is bigger than our coffin room. It’s quite a bit wider, and so long the end of it is lost in thick shadows. There’s nothing much here other than the bits of metal scattered across the floor.
I take another step and my foot slides, almost making me fall.
“Told you to be careful,” Bishop says.
I kneel and put my fingers to the floor. It’s all greasy.
“What is this stuff?”
O’Malley points to the jammed door. “Gotta be from that.”
The top of the stone door cracked through the archway, bending the metal and ruining the wall. The door must weigh a lot. It looks like it might tear through at any second, fall flat and smash whatever happens to be beneath it.
“Stay away from the door,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s dangerous.”
I feel the cold grease soaking through my socks.
“The stuff is all over the place,” Bishop says. “The entire floor is covered in it. I think it helps the door open. It must have leaked out, which is maybe why the door jammed.”
I wonder how long it has been since someone came down here to fix the things that need fixing. Maybe this room isn’t important to whoever runs this place. Why fix something if no one is using it?
Everywhere I step, greasy dirt crunches and slides under my tired feet. I examine the walls: stone, with a line of carvings running along them. It’s too dark to see details, but my fingertips recognize rough outlines: suns, jaguars, stepped pyramids, faces with big, flat noses.
It stinks so bad in here. I know this smell…if only my brain could make the connection.
A glance back out the door shows the others grouped together, staring into the room, hoping we find something to eat or drink. The white shirts of Bello and Aramovsky merge with the white shirts of Latu, Ingolfsson, Beckett and the others. There is no difference between my people and Bishop’s—we are all in this together.
Except for the circle-stars, I remind myself. They are different.
The room’s darkness seems to come alive. It swirls around me, envelops me. Circle-star…Yong…his face so close to mine, his eyes wide. He knew he was going to die, he knew it and there wasn’t anything he could do but wait for death to come, wait in agony, crying out for his mother.
The hand on my shoulder makes me scream.
Bishop steps back, surprised, holds up both hands, palms out.
“Sorry, Em,” he says. “I called your name but you didn’t hear me. Are you okay?”
I nod quickly. I see El-Saffani looking at me. Maybe scowling is a better word. Do they think I’m weak?
“I’m okay,” I say. “What did you want?”
He points up, to the banners.
“Did you see what’s on those?”
I look at them. At first, they are subtle variations of darkness and shadow, as gray as ash, but after a few seconds patterns form. The banners…no, flags…hang from poles mounted in the wall above the archway. Maybe a dozen flags, all white or perhaps light gray, and they all have the same symbol: an empty circle.