Ruined 2 - Dark Souls (6 page)

Garroted
— that meant strangled, Miranda remembered, though where she’d learned that word, she wasn’t sure. Probably one of her father’s gory stories about some medieval king’s evil hobbies. The dark stain at the young man’s throat: It had to be a bruise, the kind caused by a rope drawn tight around his neck. This was the ghost she’d seen tonight, the ghost who’d appeared to her in the attic window. He could be two hundred years old by now. Still sad, still haunting the street where he died. Still insanely beautiful — dark, handsome, angular.

Miranda lay the book down and wriggled low under the covers. If only
this
guy were living and breathing, and Nick were the ghost, she thought, feeling instantly guilty for thinking something that mean. Nick was just so odd — spiky and caustic. There was something beyond edgy about him. She was sure he was going to get her into trouble, somehow. Even though she wanted to meet up with him tomorrow at dusk, it was out of curiosity, not infatuation. This was nothing like the thing Rob clearly had for Sally, where he was all puppy-dog smitten with someone he barely knew. Nick could see ghosts, just like Miranda could; he seemed to know how to navigate that
world. She wanted to hear what he had to say, to see what he had to show her.

The guy in the attic window, on the other hand: He didn’t need to say anything.

When he looked at her, everything else seemed to disappear — all her self-consciousness, sadness, confusion. Nick had said that ghosts couldn’t hurt her, and Miranda was beginning to believe him. This ghost wouldn’t hurt anyone. Miranda could gaze into his eyes and let the chill sear through her body without feeling afraid. She didn’t want to look away. She wanted more.

M
iranda, listen to me. I never ask you for anything.” Rob was pouting, squeezing the cushion on his lap as though he were trying to subdue it.

“Whatever. You ask me for things all the time,” Miranda retorted.

It was Monday afternoon. Their father and Lord Poole had gone out somewhere. Their mother was meeting up with the orchestra at a rehearsal room. Miranda and Rob were sitting around in the flat: The TV was on with the sound turned down, and newspapers lay strewn across every flat surface. Outside, there was a strange greenish tinge to the dense gray sky, something Miranda always associated with snow moving in.

“The other day you ordered me to make you another English muffin.”

“I did not!”

“You gestured at me and, like, pointed to the toaster.”

“Did I say anything with my mouth?”

“What?”

“Answer the question. DID I SAY ANYTHING WITH MY MOUTH?”

Miranda sighed.

“Are you just going to sit around here bugging me
all
day?” she asked him.

“No.” Rob sprang to his feet, the cushion tumbling to the floor. He clapped his hands together like a camp counselor. So obnoxious. “We should do something. How about I take you to afternoon tea at Little Bettys?”

“You’re so original,” she drawled. Really, he couldn’t stay away from Sally for two minutes.

“You can have hot chocolate with real cream and chocolate flakes. Hmmm?”

“I’m not six years old, you know.”

“And there are these little pancake things called peeklets….”

“
Pike
lets,” Miranda corrected him. “I haven’t even eaten at Bettys and I know that. Maybe if you read books, you wouldn’t be so ignorant about the foodstuffs of other cultures. Why don’t you just go by yourself?”

“Guys just don’t go to tea shops by themselves. It’s not manly.”

“You’re not manly,” muttered Miranda, heaving herself out of the armchair. She was starting to get nervous about meeting up with Nick later on. Maybe he’d
forgotten all about it. Maybe it wasn’t a great idea. She didn’t know anything about Nick. He could be a lunatic. Her English teacher that fall had said that Lord Byron was once described as “mad, bad, and dangerous to know.” Was that a description of Nick as well?

“Come on.” Rob zipped up his hoodie, ready for action.

“But, you know, I can’t stay long,” she said quickly.

“What — you got somewhere else to go?” he scoffed. Miranda looked away, pretending to search for her woolen hat. Part of her really wanted to tell Rob about Nick. There were times, especially lately, when she did feel close to her brother; the accident was an unspoken bond between them, something that nobody else could understand. But talking about Nick would mean talking about ghosts. Maybe at Little Bettys — somewhere neutral, where he couldn’t shout at her or walk away — Miranda would find the courage.

Upstairs at Little Bettys, they skirted a cart laden with cakes and tarts, and were led through a rabbit warren of little rooms to the very back of the building. Miranda wriggled into a woven chair jammed in the corner. This was more a nook than a room. It was very cozy, she thought, with its exposed brick and dark beams, a shelf of teapots mounted above the black fireplace. She and Rob could barely squeeze around their table. He sat sideways, his legs sticking out like a scarecrow’s.

“You can’t have anything that costs over five pounds,” he muttered.

“But I really wanted to try the Yorkshire cream tea….”

“God, Miranda — everything’s not always about you! Can you see Sally?”

“She’s walking toward us,” said Miranda sulkily. Sally was far too pretty for Rob, she decided. Even in the old-fashioned waitress uniform, Sally looked attractive. She had lovely skin — creamy white, with pale pink cheeks. This must be what people meant when they talked about an English rose.

“Good afternoon,” she said, with a beaming smile. “What a nice surprise, seeing you here!”

“Miranda really wanted to come,” Rob lied, all nonchalant. “So I said I’d bring her along.”

“That’s so kind of you,” said Sally, lifting her order pad. “I was hoping you’d stop by. This is my very last shift here. I’ve had to resign. I’m needed at the White Boar in the afternoons as well, not just in the evenings.”

“That sucks.” Rob looked crestfallen. He was never going to have a chance to see Sally now, Miranda realized. She was going to be working at the inn day and night.

“Maybe,” Sally said, “if you’re not too busy later on, you could come by and give my dad a hand with the barrels? Only if you don’t mind, of course.”

“No problem at all.” Rob grinned.

“Thanks so much.” Sally grinned back. These two were starting to make Miranda feel sick. “So, sir and
madam, may I bring you something to drink while you read the menu? Or maybe you’d like to look at the cake trolley?”

“No need.” Rob slapped his menu onto the table. “We’d like two hot chocolates and a plate of those peek — I mean, pikelets. To share. Thanks.”

“Hey!” complained Miranda after Sally bounced away. “I hadn’t decided yet. Did you just order the cheapest thing on the menu?”

“Maybe,” said Rob, looking over his shoulder, “we should swap seats so I can see her when she walks by.”

“Whatever,” Miranda grumbled, getting up anyway and stepping over Rob’s long legs.

“Thanks, Dormouse.” He slithered around into her chair, still grinning like a fool. Miranda hadn’t seen him smile like that for a long time. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me at least ten,” she told him. She pulled
Tales of Old York
out of her coat pocket, and the book fell open to the page she’d been reading last night, the chapter on the shambles and the ghost of the apprentice garroted by his cruel master.

“Rob …” she started.

“What?” He was distracted, peering around her — at Sally, probably.

“Nothing.”

“I hate it when people say ‘nothing’ when they obviously were about to say something. It’s really annoying.”

“I was just wondering if … if you’ve ever thought about things like ghosts.” Miranda’s throat was dry, and
her stomach was twisting itself into knots. She just wanted Rob to hear her out.

“Things
like
ghosts?” he asked, still not looking at her. “Like werewolves and vampires? I don’t mind zombies, but you know I can’t get into all that other girly stuff about a love that never dies and who’s on Team English-Wussy-Guy versus Team American-Big-Jaw —”

“I’m not talking about that,” interrupted Miranda. She toyed with the table’s small vase of flowers. Maybe trying to discuss her secret with Rob was a mistake. The problem was, she had nobody to talk to anymore. The other girls at school were no replacement for Jenna, and her parents didn’t count, because they were busy and worried too much and would probably send her off to see yet another doctor type who wanted to talk about stuff like coping mechanisms and “working through your grief.”

Finally, Miranda made herself say it. “I mean — what would you say if I told you that I — I think I can see ghosts?”

“What?” Rob wasn’t really interested, she could tell. He was just filling in time until Sally came back. “Like that movie, you mean? You know — ‘I see dead people.’ That kid was dead, you know. Or was it Bruce Willis who was dead? It was confusing.”

“Forget I said anything,” said Miranda, irritated now. This was a waste of time. She might have known that Rob wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t even try to understand. She picked up her book and held it up in front of her face.

“Hey,” he said, flicking her book and leaning closer. “Tell me.”

Miranda put the book down. It was now or never, she thought.

“The night Jenna — the night of the … accident,” she began, stumbling over her words.

Rob stared at her, his eyes muddy with pain, and Miranda wished she’d kept quiet. They never talked about the accident. Rob had been driving that night, and he blamed himself — that’s what Peggy had told her. He thought he should have reacted more quickly, sped up or braked — something, anything. He thought he should have saved Jenna.

“What about it,” he said softly. Miranda swallowed, trying to summon the courage to continue.

“I saw her … her ghost,” she said at last. “I think it was her ghost. Yeah, it was. I saw her … I don’t know how to explain it. I saw her leave her body behind and walk away.”

Rob stared down at the table, tracing one finger along a pale swirl of marble.

“You’re saying you saw Jenna get out of the car and walk away?”

“Not exactly.” Miranda felt confused. What
had
she seen? Jenna walking into the field, even though her crushed body was still trapped in the car. “I mean, I saw her and
felt
her walk by me.”

“You were in shock.”

“I know, and I thought that maybe I imagined it.
That’s why I never said anything to anyone. But then — the thing is, I keep seeing them. In Iowa. Here. On the street. At Clifford’s Tower. In the …”

Miranda was about to say “in the attic across the street” but changed her mind. She didn’t want Rob staked out at her window — or, even worse, insisting on swapping rooms.

Rob raised his eyes to meet hers. He looked so sad, she thought, so wounded. She shouldn’t have brought the accident up again.

“It’s just your overactive imagination,” he said. His eyes were hardening; his voice was cold. “It’s just one of the ways some people react to all this … stuff. That’s what one of those doctors told me. Some people are in denial about losing someone close to them, and they start imagining they can see them, or talk to them, or contact them in the spirit world or something.”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Miranda raised her voice without meaning to. “I don’t think I can talk to Jenna. I only saw her that one time. But I can see other ghosts. On Saturday afternoon, one of them spoke to me — this little girl.”

“What the —” Rob shook his head.

“Here we go!” Sally appeared, sliding big white cups of hot chocolate onto the table. “I’ll bring a selection of jams for your pikelets. They’ll be out in just a moment.”

“Thanks,” said Rob, flashing her a weak smile. He looked grateful for the interruption. When Sally had gone, he picked up a teaspoon and started slowly stirring
the chocolate flakes into the frothy cream, not looking at Miranda.

“You have to believe me,” she pleaded. “I’m not making this up. I don’t know why I can see ghosts right now, but I just can. Someone said to me that maybe Jenna wanted to say good-bye.”

“Who’ve you been talking to about this?” Rob hissed, banging the teaspoon on the side of the cup.

“Nobody you know.” Miranda felt miserable. She couldn’t say a word to Rob about Nick, that was obvious. If he didn’t want to hear about ghosts, he wouldn’t want to hear about someone who possibly planned to take her on some kind of private ghost tour.

“Just don’t say any of this crazy stuff to Mom and Dad, okay?” Rob looked annoyed now. Accusing. “They’re trying to have a nice time this week, and the last thing they need is you whining about seeing dead people. They’ll get all worried and it’ll ruin everything. This family trip thing is a big deal for them. They’re trying to forget about … what happened. Just for a week, they’re trying to forget, okay?
I’m
trying to forget. You should, too.”

Miranda’s eyes prickled with tears.

“This isn’t about what happened,” she hissed. “Maybe I’ve been able to see ghosts for years but I never realized it.”

“Everything
is about what happened,” Rob said. He sucked his spoon clean and clanged it onto the table. “But this week I’m pretending that I’m not a psycho who can’t get into cars without freaking out, and you’re
pretending you’re not a psycho who can’t climb a staircase without freaking out, and we’re all pretending that we’re a normal family. Okay?”

Miranda said nothing. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself by crying in public, especially now that Sally was leaning over them again, arranging white china jam pots in the center of the table.

“Tales of Old York?
” Sally said, glancing at Miranda’s book. She set out plates, lining up shining cutlery and small triangles of pristine white napkin. “That sounds interesting. You should have a proper tour of the White Boar, you know. Part of the building dates back to the thirteenth century, and an archaeologist told us once that some of the stones in the cellar may have been part of the old Roman road. You can come over with Rob later on, if you like.”

“I have to be somewhere,” Miranda blurted. Did Rob look suspicious, or was that just her imagination?

“Another time, then,” Sally said, smiling, and Miranda did her best to smile back.

“Where are you going, anyway?” Rob gave her a sour look. Miranda didn’t reply. She wasn’t going to tell him about meeting Nick by the green door on Petergate. She wasn’t going to tell him anything ever again if he was going to act in such a belligerent way. She thought he’d be the one person who wouldn’t dismiss all this as fantasy, but she was wrong.

Both Rob and Sally were looking at her expectantly, so she had to say something.

“City walls,” she mumbled. “Just for a walk.”

Sally glanced at her thin silver wristwatch.

“You better hurry,” she said. “They start closing the walls at dusk, and in the wintertime that’s … well, it’s now.”

“I should go, then,” Miranda said, cramming
Tales of Old York
back into her bag. She was out of her chair before Rob could say a word. He looked startled and grumpy, but Miranda didn’t care. Nick may have seemed a little weird, but he didn’t mock and berate her. He believed her.

Sally was right. Dusk sounded like a mysterious and romantic time of day, but the sign on the city walls told Miranda otherwise. As far as the City of York was concerned, dusk in December began at half past three in the afternoon.

Miranda found Bootham Bar, one of the city’s old fortified entrances, without a problem; they’d passed it on the taxi ride from the train station — just days ago, though it already felt like weeks. But she couldn’t see a green door anywhere. Miranda paced back and forth, confused. Maybe there was no green door. Maybe Nick never intended to meet her this afternoon, and the meeting place he’d told her didn’t exist. Maybe he
was
going to meet her, and then take her somewhere quiet and murder her. She really didn’t know what was making her heart
beat so fast — anticipation at seeing Nick, anxiety that he wouldn’t show up, or fear.