Before I can dissect and analyze these foreign feelings, he pushes me away. Not in the way Joshua does, as if I might bite. Ky’s gesture is more . . . cautionary.
I repress another blush. Tug my shirt down.
“Let’s get moving.” He offers his hand, and I take it without hesitation.
We begin climbing the jagged mountainside, our boots slipping on slick stone. Ky assists me at the difficult points, but the higher I climb, the less help I need. I’m stronger than ever since crossing the Threshold. The initial ache following my overdue workout has worn off. My body has adapted to a life where everything isn’t a short walk or subway ride away.
A few summers ago, the Central Park Conservancy held a youth event at the North Meadow Rec Center. They had free food, relay races, and to top off the festivities, a climbing wall. Mom thought it might be fun to go, and after much protesting, I finally agreed. She was right for the most part. I mean, who says no to free funnel cakes? But my joy over fried batter crowned in a mountain of powdered sugar and whipped cream didn’t last when she insisted we scale the rock wall. It was awful. I kept losing my footing, and my hands developed blisters.
What a spoiled, sheltered life I had. Mom gave me everything. Did I ever thank her? Will I get another chance?
Ky reaches the summit first and lugs me up next to him.
I lean over. Laugh through deep breaths. I did it.
“Invigorating, isn’t it?” He holds his arms to his sides, closes his eyes, and inclines his head back. He’s more king of the world right now than Leo could ever be.
I straighten, brush my sweaty bangs off my forehead despite the glacial temperature. “I can’t believe I’ve lived my whole life without experiencing that.”
He lowers his arms and looks at me, laugh lines lifting his cheeks. “That’s nothing. One day I’ll take you to Pireem Mountain. Show you what a real climb feels like.” He points northeast, and I’m surprised I know the direction. Guess I’m more oriented with this new Reflection than I thought.
Though it’s dark, I can make out the faint outline of a distant summit. “I seem to recall you being afraid of heights.”
“Nah.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Okay, flying maybe. A little. But a climb is different. You’ll see. It’ll take your breath away.”
My smile fades. Ky’s does too. Unanswered questions fester. What if I leave? What if I stay? Does Ky feel the shift taking place between us? The prospect of something more? Then again, I was wrong about Joshua. Maybe Ky is just acting, doing whatever he has to in order to give me a sense of safety, protection, love.
No. I refuse to let Joshua’s actions dictate my emotions. At some point I have to learn to trust again. “Where to?”
He nods toward the forest. “Seems a good place to start.”
Coniferous trees stack before us like fence planks. We weave through their labyrinth, scooting sideways between the slots separating the ebony trunks. Bark and needles grab my clothes, my hair. It’s almost as if these trees were planted close together on purpose—a natural obstacle course discouraging hikers from breeching its border.
Sappy oxygen opens my airways. The forest isn’t deep, but it takes extra time to maneuver because of its thickness. When we emerge from the brief pine infestation, a lone three-story brick home rises amidst heaps of ash and rubble. I swallow air. Hiccups emerge. There it is. So similar to home, yet so very far away.
Packed snow crunches beneath our steps as we creep forward. Our boots leave muddy grooves, marking where we’ve been. The brownstone looms over us. Dead ivy climbs the front and sides, coiling around the boarded windows like anacondas. The front door hangs off its hinges, a black abyss looming beyond.
Does Nathaniel really live here?
Ky takes the lead, withdraws his flashlight from his pack. I mirror the action, and we click our lights on at the same time. We mount the stairs, avoiding the wide cracks and debris, and step inside.
Cobwebs dangle from every corner. The unswept floorboards creak. Overturned furniture creates a maze, the path obscured by shredded cushions and broken bottles. Crooked picture frames hang at odd angles, like arrows pointing this way or that.
“Place looks deserted to me.” Ky steps lightly, his boots crushing glass.
Never one for haunted houses, I stick close to his side. Creepy doesn’t even begin to describe the eeriness of this place. “Let’s search the house.” Why am I whispering? No one’s here. “Maybe we’ll find something.”
Ky snorts. “Yeah, like a dead body maybe?”
I slap his arm. “Not funny.”
The floor plan is nearly identical to our house in New York, with only a few minor adjustments. A table where the open kitchen bar should be. A wood-burning stove instead of a fireplace in the sunroom. The wall separating the sunroom from the stairs and foyer is at least three times as thick as the one back home. In the hall, wallpaper and wainscoting replace brick, and the stairs are spiral instead of a straight shot to the upper floors. We meander through the house, each room filthier and more disheveled than the next.
When we reach the attic, I pause on the final step.
Ky keeps moving, seemingly unaware of my momentary hesitation. But then he stops. Turns around. Shines the flashlight in my face. “Everything okay?”
I shield my eyes and he repositions the beam lower. “Back home, this floor houses my mom’s studio. It’s just a little weird, that’s all.” Two deep breaths, a cough follows. Man, this place is musty. I will my feet to move and join Ky in a room crowded with old knickknacks and random antiques. A shadeless lamp. Rolled rugs. Shelves with rows and rows of snow globes, which should really be renamed dust globes for all the dirt settled on them.
We split apart, exploring the space like a couple of Goonies on a treasure hunt. I clutch my pack tight against my shoulder, cover a couple more allergy-induced coughs. I can hear Ky somewhere at the other end of the room, moving furniture and riffling through what sound like pots and pans.
When I reach the corner where Mom’s art desk would be, I pause. A boarded window sits beyond the vacant space, an empty flowerpot resting on its sill. Beside the window is a tall object with an old sheet draped over it. I reach and the sheet floats to the floor, sending dust airborne in wafting clouds. I wave it away with my hand, blink a few times, and lift the collar of my jacket over my mouth and nose.
The object is a human-sized painting set in a gilded frame. Wait, no. Is that—?
My pulse is dead to me. I do a 360.
An elderly man wearing spectacles and a ratty bathrobe towers over me. His bulbous nose protrudes as if detached from his face, and his wiry alabaster hair sticks up at electrocuted angles.
I back away, nearly knocking over the mirror.
“Well, are you coming in or aren’t you?” The British-accented man pivots and shuffles away. He pauses before a cushionless armchair acting as a bookshelf. Bending over, he lifts the chair to reveal a square hole in the floor.
Without pretense he steps into the hole and disappears into darkness.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It Can’t Be
Let me just say, following strange old dudes through holes in the floor is not my thing. Kids, don’t try this at home.
Ky scrambles to my side, tripping over the corner of a half-rolled rug. “Was that him?”
I shine the flashlight into the opening. “Guess we’ll find out.”