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making excuses.”
“A breakthrough on what?” Birch turned away, his eyes
bright with interest.
“I don’t know,” Pip said, rolling her eyes. “You know
how Scoff is. All secretive about whatever he’s working on.
I keep telling him he’d be better off watching you work, but
does he listen to me? No.”
“Excuse me.” They all turned around at the sound of
the unfamiliar voice.
Grave was standing at the edge of the workshop, looking just as odd and ashen as he had when Charlotte had
found him. He’d emerged from the side tunnel that led to
the infirmary, which had purposefully been placed adjacent to the workshop, since that was where most of the
injuries happened. Usually to Birch.
Grave’s eyes found Meg. “I tried to sleep, like you
asked. But I couldn’t.”
Meg nodded, her voice took on the tone she used with
the small children who lived in the Catacombs. “That’s
understandable. You’ve had a difficult time. I made you a
sleep draught.”
She offered him the cup, but he stepped back into the
shadows of the tunnel.
“It’s meant to help you,” she coaxed. “We want you to
get well.”
“You think I’m sick?” he said from the darkness.
Meg threw a questioning glance at Birch, who pulled
off his work gloves.
“We’re not sure, Grave,” he told the boy. “But it’s a bad
sign that you have no memory, and your coloring—”
“What did you call me?” Grave asked.
“Oh . . . ummm. . . . yes, the name . . .” Birch tugged at
his shirt collar. “You kept talking about a ‘grave time,’ and
so I started calling you Grave.”
Charlotte chimed in. “He didn’t mean any harm.”
Grave shook his head. “I suppose I don’t mind. It’s nice
to be called something.”
Pip scooted forward, peering at Grave. “It’s not a very
nice name, though. I could pick a name for you. I’m very
creative.”
“Why is your hair green?” Grave asked.
“Scoff,” Pip answered, without bothering to take into
consideration that Grave had no idea who Scoff was. “Shall
I name you, then? Something dashing?”
“No,” Grave said quickly. “Grave is fine. That’s all I
remember, after all.”
“Please sit.” Meg beckoned Grave from the shadows,
inviting him to sit on the stool.
“Thank you.” He smiled at her, but his eyes quickly
fixed on Charlotte. “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk
to you.”
“About what?” Charlotte asked. “Ash said you were
trying to leave.”
“Who’s Ash?”
“The boss of us.” Pip answered as she hopped up on the
workbench, letting her legs dangle off the edge.
“He’s my brother,” Charlotte cut in. “And Pip is right.
Ash is in charge.”
“I told him that you didn’t want to stay in the workshop,” Birch explained. “That’s why Charlotte came.”
Grave ducked his head, throwing an abashed look
at Birch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. The
children kept sneaking into the room to look at me. They
whispered and giggled, but ran away if I tried to talk with
them.”
“They shouldn’t have done that,” Charlotte said. “But
they didn’t mean any harm. They’re only curious about
you.”
“Neither did I,” Grave told her.
“No trouble, chap,” Birch said. “But you can’t go wandering off in the Catacombs until you get to know the
place. You’ll end up walking till you reach the Worldclock
at the center of the Earth.”
“Very likely.” Meg nodded. “We weren’t trying to make
a prisoner of you. Just to keep you safe.”
“I understand,” Grave said, turning his eyes on Charlotte. His tawny irises were the only feature he had that
bore color and light. Their hue reminded her of amber
reflecting sunlight—a striking contrast to his silver-white
hair and ashen skin.
“I don’t want to give offense,” he said to Meg, though
he was still looking at Charlotte. “But I wanted to talk to
her because she saved me from that thing.”
“And?” Charlotte