Waldemar and the Echoes of the Black Heart Chapter 5.2

More about Waldemar and the Echoes of the Black Heart Chapter 5.2

The Carriage That Collected Forgotten Promises Part 2
The Promise That Wore Another Face
The laughter behind the crimson windows stopped when Waldemar opened his Compendium. Its door creaked wider, and a voice called, “Come along, Waldemar. You know what you promised.” Finnick seized his friend's sleeve. “I hope you don't. That carriage has the manners of a tax collector.” Merris raised her silent keys. “Nobody answers,” she warned. “Not even if it sounds like someone you love.” Elian Voss stared at the black thread around his wrist. “It has found another way to collect.” “What has?” Waldemar asked. “The promise I failed to keep.” The thread tightened, pulling Elian toward the crimson carriage. Thimblewick hurried forward. “You cannot repossess a passenger while an investigation is in progress. There are procedures!” A paper struck his spectacles. “Oh dear. Apparently there are procedures.” Across the page, in red ink, stood a sentence: THE DEBT MAY BE PAID BY THE ONE WHO REMEMBERS. Waldemar felt the Compendium grow heavier. “That means me.” “It might mean me,” Finnick suggested. “I remember every biscuit I've eaten.” From the doorway emerged a figure wearing Waldemar's hat, travelling coat and familiar striped tail. Its raccoon face matched his own. Only the eyes were wrong: two golden doors, each opening inward. Finnick stared. “That is inconvenient.” The stranger bowed. “Good evening, Keeper.” Waldemar tightened his grip on the book. “I'm Waldemar.” “So am I,” said the stranger. “Or I was, before you forgot me.” Merris moved between them. “A Borrowed Self,” she whispered. “I thought the last one vanished when the Seventh Bell fell silent.” “We wait for our originals to forget their promises.” He turned to Elian. “You should know something about that.” Elian lowered his lantern. “I never meant to abandon the little light.” “Intentions,” said the double, “are not accepted as payment.” Waldemar looked from one face to the other. “What did Elian promise?” The double smiled. “Ask him about the seventh winter.” Elian's expression changed. “I returned,” he said. “I came back to the little light. But the road had divided, and someone stood where it had been.” “Who?” Merris asked. “A child carrying a lantern. She said the light had learned to walk.” Thimblewick scratched his ear. “She asked me to take her beyond the seventh gate,” Elian continued. “I promised I would. But when I reached the gate, I heard a voice behind me. It was the light, calling me back. I could not save them both.” Finnick's ears drooped. “And you chose?” “I chose to wait until I understood. By morning, the child was gone, and the light had turned black.” The double clapped slowly. “There. A lovely confession. Incomplete, of course.” Waldemar opened the Compendium to the map of seven islands. The silver road shifted, and a golden door appeared between the sixth and seventh. Beneath it, words formed: THE CHILD WAS NOT A PASSENGER. THE CHILD WAS THE PROMISE. Merris made a sound like a key turning in an empty lock. “The First Road could give a promise a shape, so it would never be lost.” “Then someone lost it anyway,” Finnick said. “Or perhaps,” Merris murmured, “someone made certain it could not be found. The oldest Keepers were taught to guard promises, not to understand them. We called that wisdom. I suspect it was fear.” Waldemar watched the silver road tremble across the page. He wondered what the Compendium had concealed. “No,” Waldemar replied, studying the page. “Someone hid it.” The double's smile faded. The crimson carriage shuddered. Thimblewick checked his watch. “We have seven minutes before the carriage remembers how to leave. After that, it will take whoever is named on the ticket.” “Then we need the ticket,” Merris said. Finnick looked at the double. “Hand it over. We won’t eat it.” “Promises are precisely the problem,” the double answered. He drew a crimson ticket from his sleeve and held it above the road. One side bore Waldemar’s name; the other, tomorrow’s date. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “I haven't broken a promise tomorrow.” “Not yet,” the double said. “But the carriage is punctual.” Merris reached for the ticket with her seventh key. The key rang once, though it had never made a sound before. The double stumbled, and the ticket slipped from his fingers. Finnick caught it between two paws. The paper burned cold against his fur. Its letters changed: WALDEMAR MUST RETURN WHAT HE HAS NOT YET TAKEN. Waldemar looked toward the seventh gate on the map. “What am I supposed to take?” The pages turned. Images flashed past: Sir Hiss’s castle, the Memory Orchard, the backward-toothed key and the wooden house. Then the book stopped on a picture of a child in a pale yellow cloak.