A sharp whistle rang through the kitchen. Ben Sterling jerked his head toward the wall with the heat tunnel. The kitchen door banged open, and Cecil Rhodes stepped through, sharp nostrils flaring above his tiny mustache.
Nolan hopped off his stool. “Leave the food. Stand straight. Don’t run. Stay behind me.”
Cyrus and Antigone followed Nolan as he wove slowly through the traffic of cooks. Rhodes was tracking Sterling in the opposite direction, occasionally glancing around him.
Nolan reached the wall, lifted the grate, and turned around.
Antigone ducked in.
Cyrus ducked in.
Nolan and the grate followed. He pushed past them. “Keep up. We have to be quick.”
“Why?” Antigone asked.
“Because as long as Cecil Rhodes is in the kitchen, he can’t catch you anywhere else. Acolytes aren’t allowed in the hospital. Now you see Horace.”
The tunnel, long and straight at first, had become busy with noise. Fingers of golden light spread around the iron flowers on a dozen decorative grates. The dining hall was rowdy with silverware and laughter and conversation.
Cyrus squinted through the first grate. The hall was partitioned into sections with huge tapestried walls on wheels. He could see tuxedos and waiters. He could see a man in a jumpsuit dotted with oil stains. He saw Diana Boone throwing a roll at a boy at another table. Probably a cousin.
“Up,” Nolan’s voice echoed. “Let’s go, Cyrus. Climb.”
Straightening, Cyrus looked around for Nolan and his sister. He was alone in the tunnel, but a silent blizzard of dust was descending through the golden grate-sliced light.
Iron rungs stuck out of the wall. He couldn’t see anything above him, but he could hear breathing, and the occasional squeal and groan of metal.
He began to climb.
Ten feet up, he sneezed for the first time. Twenty feet up, he ducked his head and held his breath. Thirty feet up, he rammed his head into the back of Antigone’s legs and clutched the ladder while he fought a sneezing fit.
“Quiet, Rus-Rus,” she whispered. “Down, boy. Nolan said to wait here. He’s checking something.”
Cyrus sneezed again and one foot slipped free.
“Cyrus,” Antigone said. “Just hang on, okay?”
He snorted out his nose and ground the runoff onto his shirt shoulder. His eyes were streaming. “You try hanging on down here. It’s like a dust volcano. A dust bath. No. You know what it’s like, Tigs? It’s like climbing straight up a long shaft with more dust than the moon while your sister climbs above you, kicking it in your face. That’s what it’s like.” He sniffed hard, cleared his throat loudly, and then leaned back off the ladder, spitting between his feet at the tiny light square beneath him.
“Did you just spit?” Antigone asked. “You’re hawking loogies inside?”
“My sinuses are solid snot clods,” Cyrus said. “And I think my lungs each have two inches of mud.”
“Okay, come on up,” Nolan whispered. “Cyrus, I could hear you two rooms away. And if I could hear you, so could anyone near any vent in this entire wing.”
“If you could hear me”—Cyrus sniffed—“then you know what I was doing.”
He followed Antigone up. At the top, Nolan grabbed his wrists and pulled him to his feet in another horizontal tunnel.
Wheezing, Cyrus grabbed his sister. “Can I borrow your shirt? I need to blow my nose.”
Antigone shrugged him off, and the two of them hurried after Nolan. He had stopped beneath a dark grate in the ceiling. Little constellations of pinprick light dotted his scalp. Stepping onto a rickety, old library stool, Nolan pushed up.
The grate rose on one side, and white light flooded in along with the lemony smell of cleaning fluid. Wedging it open, Nolan dropped back down.
“Go ahead,” he said to Antigone. “I’ll boost you.”
Antigone stepped up onto the stool, and then onto Nolan’s cupped hands. She hopped, he pushed, and she wormed through onto the floor above.
Cyrus jumped and managed to wriggle his way up. With a shove from behind, he hooked his waist on the lip. Antigone grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him forward out of the hole.
Cyrus rolled onto his back. “I could have done that by myself,” he said. “I would have been far more graceful.”
Antigone smirked. “That’s you, Cy. Mr. Graceful. Now stand up.”
From his back, Cyrus looked around. They were in a hall. The walls were white stone, the floor was covered with oddly interlacing glistening white tiles, and frosted skylights in the white ceiling were glowing orange with the evening light. White doors with white glass windows and black numbers lined both walls. Cyrus sat up. Voices trickled down the hallway around them.
“Nolan,” he whispered. “You coming up?”
Nolan’s face appeared in the hole. “No. I wait here.” He scraped the grate closed behind them. “Good luck.”
Antigone stood and grabbed Cyrus by the hand, pulling him to his feet.
“Where do we start?” Cyrus whispered.
His sister stepped to the closest door, cracked it open, and stuck her head inside. “Nobody. You do that side, and we’ll work our way down.”
Cyrus glanced back down the hall. “I’m not sure about this. We’re going to get in trouble.”
“Do you care?” Antigone asked.
Cyrus shrugged. “Not really. What can they do?” He opened his first door and peered in. The room was small and, not surprisingly, almost entirely white. A kid with a broken leg suspended from the ceiling was eating noodles and beef off a tray. He looked up.
“Sorry,” said Cyrus. “Enjoy your dinner.”
“Wait!” The boy bounced in place, nearly toppling his tray. “Hold on. Talk to me. I’ve been stuck in here for a week, and all sorts of things have been happening. Nothing ever happens around here, but now it is, and no one will talk to me. But you will, right? Tell me what’s going on.”
Cyrus pulled back, checking the hall. Antigone was apologizing to someone and shutting a door quickly. He stuck his head back into the room. “Tell you what?”
“I heard the nurses talking about Billy Bones. My mom used to tell me he wasn’t even real. Was he really murdered? Did Greeves really have his corpse in the Galleria? Did you see him?”
Cyrus nodded.
“Was his whole skeleton tattooed onto his body? Even his face?”
“Yeah,” Cyrus said. “But not his face.”
The boy nodded, processing this. “And his ’Lytes? Were they tattooed?”
“No.” Cyrus smiled. “Not that I know.”
“Oh.” The boy was disappointed, but not for long. “I can’t believe they came at all. Can you imagine? Not me. I’d stay away. And they’re Smiths, too. I heard that much, but I wish I knew more about them. Have they killed people? They have to be crazy. And with an ancestor in the Burials, too? It would freak me out. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.” Suddenly, his eyes widened. “Are they with the other Acolytes? Where do they sleep?”
“Down in the Polygon,” Cyrus said. “With the Whip Spiders. I really have to go. Good luck with the leg.”
“Wait! The Polygon? Is that real, too? I never know what to believe around here. Whip Spiders?”
Cyrus smiled again. Being notorious could work. He winked at the kid in the bed. “You’ll meet them soon enough.”
“Cyrus Lawrence Smith!” A cold hand clamped onto Cyrus’s ear, twisting his head around and forcing his skull against the doorjamb. Mrs. Eldridge’s face leaned in close to his, her breath more dill than pickles. He grabbed at her wrist, at the hand twisting his ear, but he couldn’t fight it. She bent him lower. “What do you think you’re doing here?” she asked quietly. “Where’s your sister?”