Spingate doesn’t know what she’s doing, but she’s trying things—pressing, then listening, turning, then listening some more. Her lips move a little, making no sound. She points at the jewels, her finger bouncing in the air—she’s counting.
She lifts the weapon, touches a pattern of jewels on its shaft, then presses a similar pattern on the jewels surrounding the name K. O’Malley. A hidden panel on the side of the coffin slides up fast, revealing the negative space of two small circles.
Spingate laughs, delighted at her success. She stands, then slides the rod’s prongs into the circles—they fit perfectly. I hear a click. She lifts the end of the rod.
A deep thrum comes from inside the coffin. The lid halves shudder. Dust powders down from them as they slide neatly to the sides.
Inside, lying motionless, eyes closed, is…a boy. A sleeping boy, dressed like Brewer but as big as we are. Bigger, even—his shoulders press against the coffin’s white fabric, the toes of his black-socked feet touch the end. He has thick, brown hair. His skin is darker than Spingate’s, but not as dark as mine.
He is beautiful.
The symbol on his forehead is a circle, like mine, but the right half is solid black. His clean white shirt is far too small for his smooth chest. Some of the buttons are missing. There is no dust on him, none at all. No blood, either. The bars holding his waist, wrists and ankles seem far too tight.
I stare at him. I can’t help it. I feel strange. My insides shiver.
“He’s breathing,” Spingate says, her words a hushed breath.
I need this boy to wake up…I need him to see me.
“Give me the weapon—I mean the tool. I’ll break his bars.”
“Just a moment,” she says. “We might not have to break anything.”
The tool is still firmly locked in the coffin’s side, sticking up at an angle. She looks at it, then at O’Malley, then at the tool again. She presses a pair of jewels on the handle: nothing happens. She thinks, presses a different pair, then the bars across O’Malley’s wrists, ankles and waist split in the middle and snap down, vanishing inside the coffin’s padded lining.
Other than the gentle rise and fall of his chest, he doesn’t move. I feel a rush of panic that Spingate will wake him—I need to be the one who does it.
“Go open the other coffins,” I tell her.
She looks at me. She seems confused. She looks at O’Malley again.
“Spingate, hurry up about it,” I say. “We don’t know how much time we have.”
She sighs. She likes looking at him, too, and it’s hard for her to look away. She does, though. She pulls the tool free and walks to the next coffin.
I stare down at O’Malley. His hair looks so soft. His mouth is slightly open, his full lips moving with each breath. When Spingate smiled for the first time, I thought she was the most beautiful thing that could ever be.
I was wrong.
I hear Spingate brush dust away from a metal plate.
“This one is…oh, I’m not sure,” she says. “I think it’s…Air-ah-mov-sky?”
Something about that grabs my attention.
“What are the last few letters?”
“It ends with an S, a K and a Y,” she says.
My breath catches, because I remember something. A name. A name of a…oh, what is it, it’s right there, tickling my thoughts…of a musician. Yes! A musician, with a name that ended in an S, a K and a Y.
Tchaikovsky.
“It’s not sky,” I say. “It’s skee.”
I go back to staring at O’Malley.
“Aramovskee,” Spingate says. “Can I open it?”
Why does she keep asking for my permission?
“Sure, go ahead.”
I hear her working at something. I reach out a finger, gently touch O’Malley’s ribs. He’s warm. The contact sends a prickling sensation across my skin. I don’t feel cold anymore.
He doesn’t respond.
What should I do? What if he doesn’t wake up at all?
I hear that thrum again, hear Spingate laugh as Aramovsky’s coffin opens.
SIX
Spingate opens the rest of the coffins. Five of them contain emaciated little corpses. Three hold living people, sleeping just like O’Malley.
I don’t remember my mother’s name or face, but somehow I remember going to the store with her. Before she put a carton of eggs in our cart, she would open it, check to see if any were cracked. This room is a carton with a dozen eggs—six broken and ruined forever, six still whole.
B. Aramovsky is a boy with dark skin, a shade almost as deep as the black hair that clings to his head in tight curls. The symbol on his forehead is a circle, same as mine, but with a smaller circle inside. He is tall, even more so than O’Malley; Aramovsky’s feet are flat against the bottom of his coffin, while his head presses against the top. His white shirt is tight against his muscles, although he’s skinnier than O’Malley and the buttons haven’t ripped away.