The Keeper of Night (The Keeper of Night #1)(9)

“Ivy again?”

I said nothing, turning to the mirror on the inside door of my dresser and trying to tie my hair back so I wouldn’t have to see it.

“Ren, what did you do?” Neven said from behind me.

I glanced at his reflection in my mirror, his eyes spinning cool purple and infinite patience. I shut the door.

“I have to leave,” I said again, shedding my silver cloak and replacing it with a long black coat that had a hood to hide my hair. “Ivy knows what I can do, and they’re going to come for me. I can’t stay in England anymore, Neven, I’m sorry.” The words came out stilted and mean, like I was arguing. But my eyes watered and I couldn’t explain more, or I’d never finish packing. It was so much easier to be angry than to be cracked open.

For the last century, I’d dreamed of leaving England, but never like this. It was supposed to happen in broad daylight, when Ivy was asleep. I was supposed to have my bags packed and my forged papers ready. I was supposed to be so prepared that there was almost no chance of failure. But the chance for that perfect escape had come and gone. I could leave now or not at all.

At least I’d already mapped out the first steps. The hardest part was escaping England, where Reapers had eyes everywhere and all of them knew my face. The fastest way out was the ferry to France that ran three times a day. The French Reapers, still bitter about Napoleon’s wars at the turn of the century, wouldn’t take kindly to large numbers of British Reapers tearing France apart to find me. I would have time to regroup and the Reapers would lose my trail. From there, I could safely make my way to Japan.

I’d seen every photograph and painting of Japan the library had to offer—sepia snapshots of palaces with sloped roofs, kimonos of a thousand patterns, painted parasols and paper fans. Having never known anywhere but London, Japan seemed more like a vivid dream than a place I’d come from.

And it was the only place in the world where there was someone who might help me. Maybe my mother had given me to my father, Ambrose, because she hadn’t wanted me. Maybe he’d stolen me. Maybe she was dead. But if she was still alive, she owed me answers, if not help. Even coldhearted Ambrose had given me food and a place to stay. Surely my mother, who had given me nothing but my name, could offer me that much.

I’d never tried to escape, because whenever I sat down to write out my plans, Neven would appear, smiling and pulling me up to his loft to show me a telephone that he’d deconstructed, or a new pair of glasses he’d made himself, or a baby squirrel he’d rescued. And for those small moments, I would forget about Ivy and her friends, about Ambrose and my stepmother, Corliss, and everyone else but Neven. He’d talk to me about his latest gadget or rescued pet and I’d think about how Reapers weren’t supposed to feel love, but whatever this feeling was, it made it so hard to leave Neven.

Now I had no choice.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, because the silence had stretched on for too long and I couldn’t look at Neven, couldn’t bear to see his face.

“Okay,” Neven said quietly. “Okay, I just need to pack a few things.”

My hands froze over the gray dress I was folding. “Neven,” I said, “you don’t have to come with me. I came to say goodbye.”

But Neven was already climbing back up to the loft. He looked over his shoulder and frowned like I’d gravely insulted him, then grabbed a bag and started jamming socks into it.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. He hurried back down the ladder and inspected the gears on the table, then swept everything into his bag.

“Neven,” I said, pulling his bag away as he tried to stuff another handful of cogs into a pocket.

“Hey! Let me—”

“Neven,” I said, setting my hands on his shoulders, “if you leave with me, you can never come back.”

The determination behind his eyes dimmed. Unlike me, Neven had parents to think about. He lived in a world where he could be something, especially if I left.

“I know,” he said.

“You can’t say goodbye to Father or Corliss.”

“I know,” he said again, closing his eyes. He took a ragged breath, then opened his eyes and laid his hand on top of mine with a small smile. “I won’t let you go alone, Ren.”

He gently moved my hands off his shoulders and went back to packing while I stood there, speechless and unworthy of everything he was giving up for me. I should have tried harder to make him stay in London, where he was safe. But I desperately didn’t want to go alone, and even the sight of him packing made the burning in my eyes recede. Selfish, my brain said.

I hoped that this would be at least a little good for Neven, too. Neven was never meant to be a Reaper. He still spent nights crying after taking souls, showing guilt that Reapers weren’t supposed to feel.

“He doesn’t have enough Death in him,” our father always said. He’d tried to make Neven practice extracting the souls of squirrels and rabbits as a child, but Neven had always cried and screamed until Ambrose relented. Corliss had tried reading him ghastly bedtime stories about royal beheadings and medieval torture—tales that most Reaper children found exciting—but he would just sob and hide under his blankets.

“This is why Ankou warns us that High Reapers are meant to have only one child,” Corliss had whispered to Ambrose. “One of them comes out weak.”