Really, all I’d hoped to find was a toothbrush, some shampoo, and maybe something to wear other than the dress I’d slept in. Possibly because the Underworld was so uniformly grim, the Fates — or whoever it was that provided the food and other amenities — had decided it was better not to scrimp.
John had said at breakfast that anything he ever wanted or needed badly enough usually appeared. Was that why all the things I needed were right there, smelling heavenly and feeling so soft to the skin? I wanted them, and so they were provided? John certainly didn’t strike me as the type to moisturize. And he only ever smelled like the wood that was burning in the fireplace, not orange blossoms and lavender.
Or were those things there because John had wanted me, and so they came along with the package?
Was that the explanation for what I found in the large walk-in closet adjoining the bathroom? On one side were John’s clothes, all hung with an orderliness that bordered on the obsessive (unlike the haphazard arrangement of his books).
On the other were dozens of the long flowy white dresses that John liked seeing me in so much. Some were silk and some were cotton, some long-sleeved and some with no sleeves at all, but all of them were exactly my size.
“Great,” I said through gritted teeth to the bird. I had nothing against dresses. What I did mind a little was being limited to a choice of nothing but dresses. I supposed the wardrobe selection was symptomatic of the time during which John had lived, so it wasn’t entirely his fault, since rights between men and women hadn’t been so equal back then.
I chose what I thought was the most modern-looking of all the dresses hanging in the closet — there were shoes, too, of every kind. Each fit my foot as snugly as if I’d been measured for it — then found a full-length, gilt-framed mirror in the hallway just off the main room, where the bed and dining table stood. The bird was perched on the frame.
It was no use.
“I really do look like Snow White, don’t I?” I asked the bird when I saw my reflection.
Well, just because I was dressed like a princess didn’t mean I had to act like one … or at least, not one who slept all the time. I could act like a brave princess. Maybe even like the ones who escaped from the castles in which they were imprisoned, like Rapunzel or Princess Leia.
“Right?” I said to the bird.
The bird cooed contentedly from her perch. She was probably as aware as I was that John had nailed shut all the doors back to my world.
“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t even tell me. I already know. Every single one of those princesses ended up marrying either one of their rescuers or their captor, like Belle from Beauty and the Beast, and Persephone.”
Except unlike Belle, Persephone wasn’t fictional. I had her necklace to prove it.
If only she’d left behind some other useful tips on being the consort of the ruler of the Underworld.
Which wasn’t why I started going through John’s shelves. I was looking for a book on birds so I could figure out what to feed Hope. Which wasn’t her name.
His books — which numbered into the hundreds, maybe even thousands — were so poorly organized I figured I might as well start sorting them by category. I was taking his advice, and getting used to it. And him.
If, while organizing his things, I happened to discover something that might be useful for navigating life in the Underworld, or that revealed a little something about John’s past, so what?
“I’m new here,” I said to Hope. “I don’t know the rules.”
I did find quite a lot of stuff inside all the boxes John kept scattered around, some of it beautiful — bolts of silk fabric, strands of pearls, numerous brass instruments, a few of which I could identify as nautical equipment, including a compass, a folding telescope, and what appeared to be a ship’s bell. It was inscribed Liberty, 1845.
Mr. Smith had told me that the necklace John had given me had last been seen on the manifest of a ship that had disappeared in a hurricane in October of 1846 … the same hurricane that had caused the Isla Huesos Cemetery to flood, and every coffin in it to wash out to the sea, and in which, he’d hinted, John had died.
But John wasn’t dead. So I wasn’t sure how accurate Mr. Smith’s information was.
It wasn’t until I lifted the lid to a small crate behind which Hope had cowered the whole time John and I had been arguing that I saw anything I thought might be of value to me.
It was a book bag. My book bag.
Inside were all of the things I remembered stuffing casually into it the morning before my life changed so dramatically, before John hurled me into the realm of the dead in order to save my life. My wallet. My econ book. My jean jacket for when I got cold during school from the incredibly strong institutional air-conditioning. My notebooks, pens, house keys, makeup bag, pill case, hairbrush, sugarless gum.
I was so happy to see these familiar things, tears filled my eyes. Only … what possible use was I ever going to have for my debit card in a place where there was no ATM? My wallet, I realized, was useless here. So was my econ book. Even my cell phone, still in the special pocket where I stored it. It was beyond sweet that John had kept it all so safely tucked away, but …
“My cell phone,” I said breathlessly to Hope, who blinked back at me.
I don’t know what made me switch it on. It wasn’t as if I expected to see anything but the message I got: No service.
On the other hand, as I stood there holding it, thinking of my family and how upset they must be over my disappearance — all except my grandmother, of course, who was probably telling them horrible lies about where I’d gone and with whom — it occurred to me that just once, it might be nice if the Fates did something for me. It had been nice to find my book bag, but they hadn’t saved it. John had.