The Conductors

by Nicole Glover

  This didn’t surprise Hetty. News reached Cora’s ears at great speed, even under normal situations.

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Hetty said. “There’s so much to do—”

  Muffled noise at the other end of the short hallway, coming from the parlor, caught her attention.

  “You’re not alone?”

  “Not for the last few hours. Once word got around, I’ve been entertaining people who want to help. It’s astonishing, really, but the Richardsons endeared themselves to many people over the years. I must say I’m rather impressed with Eunice Loring. She’s spearheading the collection that will be going around. And has everything under control.”

  Hetty’s smile froze on her face, killing the question on her lips. Suddenly she wished she was anywhere but here.

  Eunice Loring was Hetty’s reflection in a warped mirror. As much as Hetty tried to deny it, she couldn’t entirely blame people for mistaking one for the other at social gatherings. They were close in age, and had a similar height and the same deep brown complexion. Like Hetty, Eunice had a collar forced on her until freedom came, although Eunice’s scars were easily hidden by simple ruffs and ribbons. That was where their similarities stopped.

  The beautiful wife of a caterer, Eunice was adored in the community, and for good reason. Eunice played a crucial role on a number of committees devoted to supporting children, widows, and the poor. She had held poetry readings in her home. And her work with the veterans of the United States Colored Troops went well beyond the efforts of most.

  Hetty could have tolerated Eunice’s goodness and shimmering perfection with nothing more than a groan, but Eunice had infiltrated Hetty’s circle of friends.

  It started with Marianne, who traded hostess duties for parties and teas with Eunice. But Eunice soon charmed the others, playing the piano for Penelope when Benjy wasn’t available. Dropping off entire meals for Oliver. Eunice even performed a tricky bit of magic to save one of Darlene’s paintings from ruin when it got left out in the rain.

  Eunice had done nothing wrong—she just filled all of Hetty’s friends’ stories with cheery exploits and charming escapades Hetty could never match.

  “I can still help,” Hetty insisted, determined she could do this small thing.

  “There are better ways for you to help,” Cora assured her.

  “What have you heard?”

  “I heard Charlie died in an accident, which is how Benjamin phrases everything that is a bit unusual.”

  “All sudden deaths are unusual,” Hetty said.

  Cora’s gaze sharpened. “Charlie Richardson was a healthy and lively young man who spent an hour yesterday at the Waltons’ dinner talking about buying buildings and his plans for them. Unusual is the first and last word involving this.”

  “Benjy wants to keep this quiet.”

  “Charlie’s been murdered, then?”

  “Attacked, at least,” Hetty admitted. “We don’t know what happened exactly, but we’ll be looking into it.”

  “Be careful. I know you always say you will be, but you must mean it this time. You’ve taken risks with your life before, but at least back then you did it in the shadows.”

  “People knew who we were then.”

  “They knew about the conductors. A couple, older than their years and with magical talents that were things of legend. Despite your extraordinary gifts, you’re still flesh and bone.”

  “Mrs. Evans”—Hetty took on a teasing tone—“are you trying to encourage me or warn me off ?”

  “I’m saying take care. There’s all sorts of trouble around and you must figure what trouble is worth getting down in the mud for. Sometimes,” Cora added as the door to the next room opened, “trouble is going to roll in regardless.”

  Cora patted Hetty’s arm and left her in the hall. Hetty remained where she stood, almost in a daze.

  Did Cora just hint that Charlie deserved what happened? Charlie chased after shooting stars while still scrambling after seashells to make his riches so quickly, but did he really deserve a cursed sigil carved into his chest?

  “Henrietta,” Eunice Loring called as she strode into view, a collection of papers clutched in hand. Startled, Hetty had no choice but to force a polite smile onto her face.

  Another factor that made Hetty less than keen to be in Eunice’s presence was a professional disdain of Eunice’s wardrobe. Her gowns either were in cool colors like pale green that didn’t suit her, or had unflattering cuts that were more distracting than horrible.

  Today’s offense created a new category: excessive ribbons flowing from her sleeves.

  “It’s terrible about Charlie, isn’t it?” Eunice cried. “Marianne and those poor children of hers!”

  “Yes, indeed,” Hetty said. “You’re doing the collection?”

  “Along with a few other things. I wasn’t very close to Charlie, not as close as you were, but it was such a shock to hear! I can’t believe this happened! Things are supposed to be different now. Our friends aren’t supposed to die so brutally. We’re free. We should only die of old age in our beds.”

  “I don’t believe that’s how the world ever worked.”

  “It should be.” Eunice shook her head. “It’s the only proper thing!”

  “I don’t disagree,” Hetty said softly.

  “The next few days will be difficult, but I’m grateful to have so much work to keep me occupied. I’m also glad Charlie and Marianne were part of the burial society.”

  “Burial society?”

  “The Southgate Burial Society.” Eunice nodded. “We collect a small monthly fee, and in return you are guaranteed a funeral plot and money to cover your homegoing services.”

  Hetty recalled this now. There had been notices in the paper a few times, announcements at church, pamphlets put in her hand, all of which Hetty ignored. The fee was reasonable considering the service, but it was too much money to spend in preparation of dying.

  “I know you think it’s silly, but it’s a nice certainty to have. We aren’t slaves anymore. No more slipping away in the night to hastily dig graves and whisper prayers. We should be able to take care of our dead. If we can’t do it alone, we should band together to help each other.” Eunice’s eyes had brightened as she gave her pitch. “You and Benjamin are the only ones in our circle who haven’t joined. I would feel so much better if you did. You aren’t exactly as well off as the rest of us. What would you do if something happened to your husband?”

  Hetty didn’t hear what else Eunice had to say.

  What would she do if something happened to Benjy? She saw an outline of such a life, but the thought, the mere thought—

  “I’m so sorry!” Eunice’s voice cut through the fog that whirled around Hetty. Alarm flashed through Eunice’s gentle features, and her papers crumpled under her grip. “I didn’t mean to say that! You don’t have to join.”

  “It’s fine,” Hetty lied. “We haven’t really thought that far into the future.”

  “You should start,” said Eunice’s husband, Clarence, as he drifted up to them. “No one knows the form the future may take.”

  Eunice turned to him, but Clarence didn’t seem to notice as he greeted Hetty with a stiff nod. The round frames of his glasses gave him an owlish look, which was the only interesting thing about his appearance. He had inherited a thriving catering business from his uncle and used his wealth to shower Eunice with expensive gifts, while his clothes remained poorly fitted and ten years out of fashion. Although tall, his stooped shoulders and quiet manner made him much like a turtle, one that wouldn’t even notice when spring blossoms fluttered past.

  Hetty had met Clarence in line at the Freedmen’s Bureau, joining dozens of others looking for information about missing family. She was there for Esther of course, and when the white man at the desk asked her to describe her sister, she had burst into tears. Clarence had been standing behind her, and he helped her string a few words into a sentence. It was that memory and that small
kindness that kept Hetty from fully dismissing Clarence as the dullest person she ever had the misfortune to meet.

  “This is a terrible way to convince me to join,” Hetty replied, glancing between the couple’s faces.

  “It’s a fact,” Clarence said. “You’re very fond of facts, aren’t you?”

  “Benjy is.”

  “Then tell your husband there are few facts in life you can escape, and death is not one of them.”

  Eunice laughed at what her husband had said, and it was a mighty effort, since there was nothing funny in his words or his delivery of them.

  “I’m so sorry about him,” Eunice whispered, drawing Hetty aside. “Don’t listen to a word he says. He’s been out of sorts since hearing about Charlie’s death.”

  “We all have,” Hetty murmured as Clarence said something to another person passing in the hall. “In different ways.”

  * * *

  As Hetty swung around the corner, she spotted her landlord banging nails into the main door of the building. She lingered there, debating if she wanted to turn around before he saw her.

  Her landlord was a lean man with an impeccable memory of just how short of the rent they were. Although born free, he held little sympathy for them or the people who came knocking on their door for aid. In fact, those visitors had led to the sudden increase in their rent. When they couldn’t pay, he let it carry over into the next month, with an added fee. A fee they couldn’t cover, which got carried over for another month, which meant over time they owed a great deal more money than they should have. They should move. But Hetty resisted the idea. The tiny room wasn’t the best, but over the years it had become theirs.

  Before Hetty could scramble away, her landlord looked directly at her. Instead of the dour expression she was often greeted with, McKee beamed.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Rhodes! How is everything? Any complaints about the room?”

  McKee kept smiling. She wished he would stop. The strain behind it made her wonder if he was hexed.

  “No complaints.”

  “If there’s any trouble, let me know. I’m always here to help.” He even bobbed his head at her as if she were a proper lady.

  Hetty hurried into the boardinghouse, stopping only to glance over her shoulder briefly. Their landlord only made to speak to them when they were late with the rent, and scarcely wasted a breath on anything else.

  Had good fortune suddenly dropped on his head?

  Did she even want to know?

  As she checked the mail, one of her neighbors peered out of the communal kitchen.

  “The word going around is he’s been cursed.” Her neighbor juggled the youngest of her four children on her hip. “One of the new boarders said we should let it run its course.”

  “What curse?” Hetty said, shutting the box. “I see only a blessing. What’s for dinner tonight?”

  “You just missed it, although it might be good you did. Whoever’s turn it was, they didn’t even clean the collards properly.”

  “It was Mrs. Samson.” Hetty nodded. “She eats them raw.”

  Her neighbor made a face of such disgust, Hetty didn’t need to fake a laugh. She let it roll out of her, relieving the strain that had started last night and stayed coiled inside her all day.

  Hetty shuffled the letters in her hand and a ripped scrap of newspaper fell to the floor. Picking it up, she gave it a closer look. At first glance, it was an advertisement for a nearby store. But as her fingers settled on the edges, Virgo blazed in the far-right corner. Inky words appeared on the edges of the ad, as if written by an invisible hand:

  I am in dire need of your aid, please help.

  PEGASUS

  8

  MYSTERIOUS NOTES WITH URGENT PLEAS were not unusual. Hetty had them pressed into her hand while crossing busy streets, stumbled across them in job postings, had them slid to her across the bar at a saloon they visited on special occasions. She had once received a note coded in a bouquet of flowers. That one had been her favorite, although she had needed Penelope’s help with identifying the flowers to discover its true meaning.

  This scribbled note was a bit cleverer than the others. The mark only activated when she touched it, which meant the magic didn’t leave even the faintest trace of residue. While that was clever, if a bit overdramatic, there was no name attached to it. The place to meet the writer was obvious. The advertisement was for a goods store in town, and the scribbled numbers were tomorrow’s date with a time marked right underneath it.

  And there was something else. A crescent moon scrawled in the corner.

  Hetty’s eyebrows lifted.

  The crescent moon was her mark, and it noted sensitive cases that needed a delicate touch. A sun drawing would have made a case Benjy’s, and would lead to places shrouded in vice and ruin.

  Hetty was still studying the paper as she pushed open the door to their room. She swished her fingers to form the simple jutting line of the Canis Minor sigil. Distracted as she was, she had already finished the spell before she realized the lights were already on.

  Instead of lights bursting to life around her, she was thrown into darkness.

  “Hetty!” Benjy called. “You need to pay attention!”

  “Sorry,” she said, but before she could reverse it, Pegasus flew into the lamps, the discharge of magic lighting the glass orb inside. There it would bounce inside the glass until it faded or they disrupted the charm. Although Benjy had made them, he hadn’t yet patented their design. These two lamps were the only ones that didn’t catch on fire after three uses. After months of tinkering with glass, three small fires, and turning her favorite dress into ash, Benjy hadn’t figured out how to bottle lightning twice.

  “You are usually not home this early,” Hetty said as she shut the door. “Did you manage to—” She stopped and pointed to the cradle at Benjy’s elbow. “That doesn’t belong here.”

  “Of course it doesn’t.” Benjy studied the edge of his knife before striking it against a stone. “This is kindling.” He nudged the cradle and it rattled like a set of bones. “Although I couldn’t set it on fire even if I wanted to. Did you eat yet?”

  Hetty hadn’t. On the table was a plate kept warm by an array of spells. She ate dutifully, even the forsaken collards, for she learned a long time ago never to turn down freely given food.

  As she ate, Benjy continued to sharpen his knife in measured strokes.

  “My boss’s daughter is having a baby. He purchased this cradle and asked me to carve enchantments into it.”

  “Amos asked you for another favor? You should have said no.”

  “You’re sewing christening gowns.” Benjy nodded at the tiny pile of baby clothes in a basket on the floor.

  “Penelope’s cousin Maybelle asked me to sew protective charms into the hems. I only agreed because she offered to pay.”

  Hetty looked over to her husband expectantly, but he didn’t meet her eyes.

  “Benjy,” Hetty said softly, “what have I told you about taking on things out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “It’s just a little fix,” he replied. “I only brought it here because I wanted your opinion on what charms to use. The ones I know wouldn’t be quite right.”

  There was enough truth in those for Hetty to take his explanation at face value. Although Benjy often pounded spells into the things he made and mended at the forge, his work was different from hers. His spells were the forest to her trees. Where her protection spells would protect a person directly, his spells were focused in broader scope around the person.

  Hetty drew a sigil into the air, and a gust of wind picked up one of the little gowns and sent it in Benjy’s direction. “Use this one as a guide.”

  Benjy held up the gown and brought it close to study the star sigils she’d hidden in the hems. “You’re not going to show me?”

  “Show you?” Hetty echoed. “I thought you liked figuring things out on your own?”

  “Not always,” he said, but his t
one was rather strained.

  Hetty waited for him to continue, but when he said nothing more, she took the opportunity to move the conversation to a more interesting territory.

  She held out the advertisement. “This was in the post.”

  Benjy’s eyes darted along the paper.

  “A plea for help,” Benjy said, shrugging. “No mystery there, other than how you would meet this person when you’re working at the shop.”

  “No trouble. I quit.”

  Benjy didn’t even blink.

  “What’s your reason this time?”

  “An enchanted dress. The work was perfect, but the only thing wrong was me. I did everything I was asked, but the clients and Mrs. Harper had complaints. I decided I didn’t want to listen anymore.”

  “I suppose that’s fine,” Benjy said as he lined up the stitches of the little gown against the wood.

  “What about rent?” Hetty asked, surprised at this quiet reaction. “I won’t get my last wages.”

  “I’ll take care of it. You worry about that note. That woman must be very desperate to go through all that trouble. It’s your case to solve. Keep your focus on it.”

  Hetty found herself nodding until she recalled the last time he had encouraged her to pursue a case without his assistance. She’d solved it without issue, but the case he took on without her ended up with him locked up in a lighthouse.

  “I don’t have to take this on,” Hetty said, watching him very closely. “Small cases can become distractions that could limit my time in making inquiries about Charlie’s murder.”

  “I never said a word about that.”

  “But you aren’t keen on me getting involved. Even though you suggested that I confirm Alain’s story.”

  “I did,” Benjy began, and then deftly avoided the trap she’d laid for him. “What new insights did you discover?”

  “Alain’s story about looking for the water pump is true. The pump at his home was broken, and it’s been broken for weeks without Charlie doing a thing about it. Geraldine said something about him exchanging words with Charlie, but it might have been a lie, since he never mentioned it before.”