“Possibly some kind of a machine. C’mon, let’s go check it out.”
So, we went.
We really didn’t have much of a choice here—we were supposed to be looking forproof,whatever that was, and we weren’t going to find it unless we searched every inch of this place. Even though part of me was almostcomfortablebetween these walls, a much bigger part couldn’t wait to be done with this and leave. Go back to the Timekeepers so we could finally—finallyunderstand what it was that the world didn’t want us to remember.
I’d genuinely do anything for my memories.
The sound grew louder with every step. The lower we went, the colder the air, damper, and the walls were rough, no longer polished or decorated with silver and gold like on the upper floors.
Finally, the narrow stairway ended in a corridor, which turned left. That’s where the sound was coming from.
The darkness was only illuminated by the faded lights of the lanterns. My heart seemed to have fallen in rhythm with that thudding, and I could hardly force enough air into my lungs.Anythingcould be around that corner—anything at all.
But then the closer we inched toward it, the better we heard.
Not just the thudding, but the…breathing.The heavy, ragged breathing, punctuated by the thud of impact. Like an animal was back there—an animal hitting something at a perfect interval.
My mind went blank, the panic and the fear taking a step back. We all rushed those last couple steps, then peeked around the corner to see…
Holy Hour, I was tempted to call my eyes liars.
Because Cook was wrong, and I was wrong, and everything was justwrong-wrong-wrong.
A man was making those sounds. Not a machine, and not an animal—a man.
He was slamming himself against a bloody wall over and over again, andthat’swhere the thudding was coming from.
Ginger hair matted dark with blood. Hands raw and split open. His forehead was gashed, the blood dried in streaks down his face and neck. His clothes were old, dirty, loose on his thin frame.
A Timekeeper with wide brown eyes focused on that wall like he hadn’t even heard us approaching, before he went and slammed his shoulder against it again.
And again.
And again…
We all spilled into the room from around the corner, looking at one another, at the open door far to the right which revealed another dark room full of compartments and devices and gears—and paper. There was paper everywhere on the floor, with strange drawings on them—numbers and face shapes and clocks. So many clocks.
Then the next thud came late—a split second late, and I recognized the change in rhythm instantly. I turned in time to find the man who’d been slamming against it fall to his knees, then forward on the tiles, face-first.
I couldn’t even begin to make sense of anything right now, only that the Timekeeper was on the floor, breathing but clearly unconscious, as my mind whispered to me,curiouser and curiouser.
Nobody moved for a good five seconds. We just stoodthere, the nine of us, staring at the man on the floor like we were waiting for someone to tell us what to do.
Nobody did, so I went closer.
“Ora…” said March from behind me, a warning, but I was already on my knees beside the Timekeeper, my hand hovering over his shoulder, shaking, but I didn’t dare touch him yet.
Time’s Teeth, he looked even worse up close. His clothes hung on him like they belonged to someone twice his size. His skin was pale beneath the blood and the grime, and the bones of his wrists jutted out sharply. He hadn’t been eating. Probably hadn’t been sleeping, either, not properly, judging by the bruises under his eyes that were so dark they looked painted on.
“He’s alive, right?” Mimi asked, coming closer, too.
“He’s breathing.” That much we could all see. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven intervals, and every exhale rattled like something was loose inside him. “Barely.”
“What was he doing? Why was he slamming himself against that wall like that?” Cook crouched beside me, studying the Timekeeper’s hands—raw, the knuckles split open in so many places I couldn’t tell where one wound ended and another began. Some of the blood was fresh. Most of it wasn’t.
“He’s been at this for a while,” said March, and he wasn’t looking at the man. He was looking at the wall.
I followed his gaze. The stone where the Timekeeper had been hitting was smeared with blood—layers of it, some brown and old, some red and new. Streaks and handprints and the round marks of a shoulder—or even a head—driven against the rock again and again…
