out forever, makes a good story for the tourists even if it’s not true. Here — can you feel them?”
Miranda didn’t understand until Nick waved his hands at her and then pressed them firmly against the tarp. She pushed down with her own hands, feelingthe tarp give way a little as it was tamped into the soft earth. From deep within the ground she felt a vibration, something shuddering. The motion made her hands tremble.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Men. Horses. Dozens of them. They’re getting closer — can you tell?”
She nodded. It felt like thunder rumbling underground. The soil beneath her was pulsing, the way a car seemed to pulse with the bass when the driver had the stereo turned up way high. It was rhythmic like the bass, too. Footsteps and hooves clopping along the road. When Miranda closed her eyes, she could hear them as well as feel them. Heavy, trudging steps. A shout — guttural, echoing — and then a shrill blast of sound that made her jump.
“Trumpet,” said Nick. He must have heard it, too. “Announcing their arrival.”
The footsteps kept thudding, but they were growing more distant now. Miranda realized she was clawing her fingers into the tarp, eager to feel the last of the procession.
When the ground stopped pulsing, she and Nick sat in silence. Miranda didn’t want to open her eyes. Roman soldiers, ghosts for almost two thousand years, had walked the road beneath her, and she’d heard them. This wasn’t frightening, like the ash ghosts in Clifford’s Tower. This was exhilarating. She’d been so silly, wondering if Nick was going to harm her or drag her intosome criminal activity. She wished she could come here every night.
“There might be something about them in here,” she said, fumbling for
Tales of Old York
in her coat pocket. “It has tons of stuff about ghosts.”
“Where did you get —” Nick began. He frowned at her, stretching a pale hand toward the book.
“This? Someone gave it to me. Have you read it?”
“No.” He dropped his hand. “It’s just — my mother had a copy of it. I never read it, though. You don’t, when you grow up in a place. You find things out by seeing them for yourself. Especially when you can … see more than other people can. You know.”
“I … I guess,” stammered Miranda. She had never realized that she could see more than other people could. She’d had no idea that she was some kind of ghost whisperer. But when Nick talked about it, he made it seem almost normal.
“Just don’t believe everything you read or hear about ghosts.” He sounded stern. Miranda wanted to ask him about the ghosts she’d seen on the Shambles — Margaret Clitherow and the apprentice in the attic window — but there was something about Nick’s dismissive tone that made her keep quiet. Rain was falling now — cold rain, splotching onto her face.
“Come on — we should go.” He pushed himself up off the ground.
“How do we get out of here?” Miranda got up, stiff and unsteady, dusting off her jeans. The walls were closedby now, she knew. The gates in Bootham Bar were much bigger and sturdier than the ones they’d vaulted to jump down into the garden. She didn’t want to be stuck in this creepy courtyard all night.
“Now that it’s dark, we can climb over the fence,” he said, gesturing to the spiked wrought-iron railings on the other side of the courtyard. They looked too high and too menacing to Miranda, but Nick showed her how to use the stone basin and a piece of brick jutting out of the adjoining wall to hoist herself up. She swung down onto the street on the other side, feeling pleased with herself, like an accomplished cat burglar. Nick came soaring down after her, a black-feathered bird of prey.
“Well, thanks. Good-bye.” Miranda awkwardly held up a hand, more like swearing an oath than waving.
“Tomorrow night at Monk Bar, okay?” Nick demanded rather than asked. “We can make it later — six o’clock. One
Miranda didn’t understand until Nick waved his hands at her and then pressed them firmly against the tarp. She pushed down with her own hands, feelingthe tarp give way a little as it was tamped into the soft earth. From deep within the ground she felt a vibration, something shuddering. The motion made her hands tremble.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Men. Horses. Dozens of them. They’re getting closer — can you tell?”
She nodded. It felt like thunder rumbling underground. The soil beneath her was pulsing, the way a car seemed to pulse with the bass when the driver had the stereo turned up way high. It was rhythmic like the bass, too. Footsteps and hooves clopping along the road. When Miranda closed her eyes, she could hear them as well as feel them. Heavy, trudging steps. A shout — guttural, echoing — and then a shrill blast of sound that made her jump.
“Trumpet,” said Nick. He must have heard it, too. “Announcing their arrival.”
The footsteps kept thudding, but they were growing more distant now. Miranda realized she was clawing her fingers into the tarp, eager to feel the last of the procession.
When the ground stopped pulsing, she and Nick sat in silence. Miranda didn’t want to open her eyes. Roman soldiers, ghosts for almost two thousand years, had walked the road beneath her, and she’d heard them. This wasn’t frightening, like the ash ghosts in Clifford’s Tower. This was exhilarating. She’d been so silly, wondering if Nick was going to harm her or drag her intosome criminal activity. She wished she could come here every night.
“There might be something about them in here,” she said, fumbling for
Tales of Old York
in her coat pocket. “It has tons of stuff about ghosts.”
“Where did you get —” Nick began. He frowned at her, stretching a pale hand toward the book.
“This? Someone gave it to me. Have you read it?”
“No.” He dropped his hand. “It’s just — my mother had a copy of it. I never read it, though. You don’t, when you grow up in a place. You find things out by seeing them for yourself. Especially when you can … see more than other people can. You know.”
“I … I guess,” stammered Miranda. She had never realized that she could see more than other people could. She’d had no idea that she was some kind of ghost whisperer. But when Nick talked about it, he made it seem almost normal.
“Just don’t believe everything you read or hear about ghosts.” He sounded stern. Miranda wanted to ask him about the ghosts she’d seen on the Shambles — Margaret Clitherow and the apprentice in the attic window — but there was something about Nick’s dismissive tone that made her keep quiet. Rain was falling now — cold rain, splotching onto her face.
“Come on — we should go.” He pushed himself up off the ground.
“How do we get out of here?” Miranda got up, stiff and unsteady, dusting off her jeans. The walls were closedby now, she knew. The gates in Bootham Bar were much bigger and sturdier than the ones they’d vaulted to jump down into the garden. She didn’t want to be stuck in this creepy courtyard all night.
“Now that it’s dark, we can climb over the fence,” he said, gesturing to the spiked wrought-iron railings on the other side of the courtyard. They looked too high and too menacing to Miranda, but Nick showed her how to use the stone basin and a piece of brick jutting out of the adjoining wall to hoist herself up. She swung down onto the street on the other side, feeling pleased with herself, like an accomplished cat burglar. Nick came soaring down after her, a black-feathered bird of prey.
“Well, thanks. Good-bye.” Miranda awkwardly held up a hand, more like swearing an oath than waving.
“Tomorrow night at Monk Bar, okay?” Nick demanded rather than asked. “We can make it later — six o’clock. One
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