The House Above the Sea

26.

Kit is upstairs, perched precariously on a rusting ladder with his paint brush lifted towards the ceiling, when he hears the front door squeak open.

He goes still, statue-like, eyes drifting towards the hall. He's not foolish enough to assume it's Elsie or Neo, not after the first run-in with those businessmen. Kit's body is a drawn weapon, bow string taut and arrow settled neatly in its notch, waiting, every breath a dilemma: do I move, or do I stay?

He decides, firstly, that a rusty ladder is not a very good place to make that decision.

There are voices in the foyer now, a jumble of them. Below the babble, the squeak and groan of the old rungs of the ladder as Kit descends them is undetectable. He creeps out of view of the hall and presses himself against the wall by the door, instead. Decades old sawdust and fresh paint stir together in his nostrils, a bizarre synthesis of olfactory time. He breathes in and out, wary of the noise as he does. He leans his ear against the wall, and listens.

This is not Neo's voice, not Elsie's voice, not Joey's voice. He would recognize them, after all—he, perhaps more than anyone on the planet, knows quite well the novelty that is the sound of someone's speech. But, no. These are strangers.

"If you can't tell from looking at it already," says one voice, raspy, as if the inside of their throat is scraped raw, "the place is already crumbling. The foundation's probably not all that steady. That makes it easier for us."

"When are the demo guys coming?" asks another person.

"August 18th, if I remember correctly."

"Okay. Well, we'll need to do some routine inspections before then, but let's take a look at the blueprint first, guys."

Kit's breath catches in his throat. Routine inspections? How many times would they be coming back here? At this rate, it wouldn't matter if Maeve really knew how to break the curse. They'd never have the time to do it.

Everything is happening too fast. He has to slow them down, somehow.

Kit lifts his ear from the wall, raking a nervous hand back through his hair. It doesn't hang in his face anymore, but he's too used to it doing so to change the habit now. Think, he orders himself. Think. What would Neo do?

His eyes lock on the paint can, a vat of perfect, shiny white, sitting at the ladder's base.

A smile forms on his face.

It takes him a moment to drag the paint can out onto the catwalk, both because it's not the lightest object in existence, and because Kit can't risk making too much noise. He scoffs a little to himself. Haven't had that problem in a while.

He glimpses the crew of contractors from between the iron bars of the banister. They're crouched in the center of the foyer, a large blue sheet of paper spread between them, a woman in a dark hat pointing at specific points with the tip of a stubby pencil. Kit is surprised and a little afraid of the wave of disgust that rises in his stomach as he hefts the paint can onto his shoulders. After he lost his voice, after he lost his home, he was disappointed. Frustrated.

But now, for once, even if it's a tiny match that consumes itself seconds after it's lit: he is angry.

And it feels damn good.

He tips the can forward, a tidal wave of wet paint splashing across the blueprint and the unsuspecting people gathered around it. For a second Kit is as gleeful as a child, and he almost laughs, until one of the contractors lifts his head and, through a face coated as if with spilt milk, looks right at Kit.