“Take me to Justice. I need to make sure he’s all set to be in charge of the Lost City,” Pete says, bursting out the door. “We’re leaving now!”
Within minutes, we are traveling through a dirt passageway. The western tunnel is crudely constructed and not very well lit. Without the overhead gas lanterns to light the way, we depend on our guide’s single lamp. Dozer, a boy whose skin is as brown as his eyes from the layer of dirt coating his body, leads us through a recently dug passage. Wooden beams crisscross along the tunnel, supporting the low ceiling.
“Watch your step,” Dozer says through a yawn. “My crew and I haven’t completed this channel yet.”
“Thanks for helping us out. I know you have your rules about non-Diggers in the unfinished tunnels,” Pete says, stepping over a plank of timber.
“It’s your neck,” Dozer grumbles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “You blokes take five while I go make sure the support joists ahead are secure.”
“We’re going with you,” Pete insists.
Dozer holds up his miner’s pick and looks Pete in the eye. “You’ll do no such thing. These tunnels are incomplete and my responsibility. You’ll be staying here or you won’t be going anywhere at all.”
Pete looks at the boy, his face pinched. “You have five minutes. After that, if you’re not back, we’re going ahead.”
“Correction,” Dozer retorts. “You woke me from my nap. You’ll follow my rules. I’ll be back when I’m good and ready and when I’m sure the lot of you aren’t going to lose a few more brain cells when the ceiling caves in on you.”
Shuffling toward me, he mumbles, “Not that it would do much damage to those thick skulls. Fools must have a screw or two loose to go into Everland.” He pulls a candle from his pocket, lights it, and hands the lantern to me. “Hold this. I’ll be back.” He disappears into the tunnel, still murmuring to himself.
“He doesn’t seem particularly happy about us being here,” I whisper to Doc.
“Can’t say I blame him,” he says. “I wouldn’t be happy if a bunch of kids were tromping through the infirmary. Haven’t you had a space that was all your own? A place where everything had its special place and every place had its special thing?”
“I suppose it would be my room at home,” I say. Memories of the pale aqua room lined with posters of horses come back to me: my equestrian trophies stacked two deep on a simple shelf, a closet full of school uniforms, and a family photo on my writing desk. My mother resting her forehead against my father’s as they peer at each other in a romantic gaze. In front of them, I sit with my arms around Joanna and Mikey with the picturesque, lush fields of Scotland in the background. Sorrow and loss threaten to choke me, but Doc speaks again.
“How would you feel if those twits were strolling through your bedroom?” he says, gesturing toward the Lost Boys.
Jack chuckles as he places a hand on Mole’s head, keeping him at arm’s distance. Mole swings blindly, landing a few weak punches. Leaning up against the dirt wall, Pete, Pyro, and Pickpocket laugh at the boys’ antics. Mole grabs the staff strapped to his back. He swings it just above the ground, making contact with Jack’s calves, knocking him on his hindquarters with a heavy thud.
“Never underestimate a short, blind boy,” Pete says, laughing. “Mole might seem like an easy target, but he has keen spatial awareness and great aim.”
The corners of Mole’s mouth twitch into a smirk.
“He might have ‘keen spatial awareness’ and ‘great aim,’ ” Pickpocket says, gesturing quotes in the air, “but I’ll bet he can’t beat me at wrestling.”
“Is that a challenge?” Mole asks.
Pete whistles and cringes. “Buddy, you’re asking for trouble. My money is on Mole.”
“Bring it,” Pickpocket says, lacing his fingers together and popping his knuckles.
Pyro digs trinkets out of the silk lining of his derby hat. “I’ll get in on this wager.”
Pyro, Jack, and Pete pull small trinkets from their pockets.
“A stick of gum, a screwdriver, and handful of bolts says Pickpocket will win,” Jack challenges. “What do you got?”
Pyro throws down the contents of his hat. “A book of matches, a flint, and a firecracker on Pickpocket. How about you, Pete?”
“A chocolate, a thimble, and a broken watch,” Pete says, laying out his wager.
“You’re going down, Pan,” Jack says.
Pete’s brows lift. “Oh, this is serious, isn’t it? Resorting to surnames, are we, Mr. White?”
Pickpocket and Mole fling their arms around each other, grunting as Jack and Pete cheer.
“Blimey, you see what I’ve got to work with?” Doc says. “A court jester and his bumbling fools. It’s a miracle the Lost City was built with that boy in charge.” He nods toward Pete.
“Pete built the Lost City?” I ask, surprised.
“Who else would build it?”