by Erin Lindsey
“I asked for Pietro’s help because…” Think, Rose … “Because they stole my granny’s brooch, and…” Suddenly I was weeping openly, stammering out the lie between gulps of air. “It’s the only pretty thing I ever had. My mam brought it all the way from Sligo. Even through the famine, the family never parted with it, and…” I buried my face in my hands, sobbing now.
It wasn’t just an act. Though the story was pure hocus-pocus, the feelings were all too real. The events of the past week had left me more fragile than I’d realized. I’d been keeping a tight rein on my emotions, but now that I’d loosened my grip, I was in danger of losing it entirely.
“Don’t cry, Fiora.” Pietro put his arms around me, and as he gathered me close, he whispered, “What are you doing?”
Augusto made an imperious gesture, and a moment later somebody pressed a glass of something into my hands. I tossed it back without even looking at it, wincing as it blazed a trail down my throat. “I’m sorry,” I said, composing myself with a genuine effort. “I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”
The aging padrone considered me with a thoughtful look. “I tell you what. I look into this for you, quietly.”
“Oh, I don’t want any trouble. I should never have asked Pietro to bring it up. I was just so upset.”
“It’s all right, signorina. No trouble.”
“Are you sure?” I dabbed at my eyes with a handkerchief. “These are dangerous men, and I would hate for it to come back on Pietro, or you.”
“You don’t worry about it. Augusto can take care of himself. And his people,” he added, inclining his head at Pietro.
The relief in my expression was perfectly genuine.
Sensing an opening, Pietro put his arm around me again and said, “Come, Fiora, I take you home.”
“Sì, take her home,” Augusto said. “Get some rest, signorina.”
“Thank you so much, Augusto.” I let myself be led out of the store.
“Porca Madonna,” Pietro blurted when we reached the sidewalk. “What was that? Are you planning to join the theater?”
“Honestly, I’m not even sure where that came from.”
He shook his head, rubbing his bare hands in the chill. “Do me a favor, Fiora. Next time you need me, send a boy inside.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose I made quite a scene.”
“It’s not that. I don’t want you anywhere near Augusto. I told you, he’s dangerous.” He started to say more, but just then we rounded the corner onto Mott Street, and he drew up short. “What is he doing here?”
Mr. Wiltshire loitered outside Wang’s General Store, head bowed, tapping his walking stick absently. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t even look up at the sound of his name; I had to touch his arm to get his attention. “Ah, good,” he said, “you’ve found Pietro. All is well, I trust?”
“As well as can be,” Pietro said coldly, “considering you keep putting Rose in danger.”
I frowned. “Pietro, please, that’s unfair.”
“Not entirely,” Mr. Wiltshire said. “I had my misgivings about leaving you alone in that place.”
“But you did it anyway,” Pietro said. “I guess that’s what you call being a gentleman, eh?”
Heat flashed to my cheeks. “That’s enough. You’re being terribly rude, and not only to Mr. Wiltshire. I’m not a child.”
“No, you’re not a child. And what you did in there”—Pietro gestured back at the Italian grocery—“was not a game. If Augusto finds out you lied to him, we are both of us in a lot of trouble.”
“I said those things to protect you. I should never have asked you to get involved, but now that you are, I needed to say something that would take the focus off you and put it back on me where it belongs.”
“Trust me, you don’t want the focus of a man like Augusto.”
Mr. Wiltshire sighed. “What’s done is done. All we can do now is wait to see what it brings.”
“We?” Pietro snorted but otherwise left that alone. “It’s freezing out here, Fiora. We should go.”
“Er, there’s something I need to take care of first. I’ll meet you later?”
“Ah, sì, va bene,” he said caustically. With a final cold glance at Mr. Wiltshire, he headed up the street.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said when Pietro was out of earshot. “I don’t know what’s got into him.”
“Don’t worry, I quite understand. It’s natural for a young man to be protective of his sweetheart.”
“S-sweetheart?” I blushed all over again. “I’m not … He’s not … It isn’t like that between us.”
“Oh? My mistake. It seemed as if … Well, he obviously cares for you a great deal.”
“Maybe, but not in that way.”
“It’s none of my affair. Please forgive me for bringing it up.”
I could tell he didn’t believe me, and that got under my skin. “I promise you he doesn’t. I would have noticed.”
Mr. Wiltshire smiled at that. “Even the best detective can be woefully blind about such things.”
“Oh, really, do you think so?” I scowled and looked away. “Are we going inside or not?” It really was freezing out here, even under my heavy wool overcoat.
“In a moment. I’d like to hear about what happened at Augusto’s, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, I doubt Mam would be proud. I danced for the king and demanded the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter.”
Mr. Wiltshire didn’t know quite what to make of that. “You, er … seduced him?”
“The next best thing. I cried.” Sighing, I added, “It was all I could come up with on the spur of the moment. Augusto noticed my stitches and made the connection straightaway. He could easily have traced it back to you, and that would have been very bad for Pietro. So I did my best to distract him.”
“By appealing to his chivalry.”
“That’s one word for it. I don’t much fancy playing the damsel in distress, but at least it worked. Pietro’s safely in the background now. On top of which, Augusto offered to look into it, so we may get our information after all.”
“You did the right thing. Not every disguise we adopt can be entirely to our liking.”
That made me feel a little better. “I wonder if Augusto will come up with anything.”
“It certainly helps to have a second iron in the fire. I have no doubt Miss Harris will track down the Irishman eventually, but it’s his employer we really want, and that could be more difficult. Augusto may prove to be a valuable resource. You really have done very well, Rose.”
Muttering a shy thanks, I glanced up at the sinking sun. “What time is it? I guess we’d better—” The words were cut off in a mangled cry. A stab of cold doubled me over, seizing every muscle in my body.
“Rose!” Mr. Wiltshire caught me as I buckled. “Are you all right?”
Another stab, as if an icicle had been driven between my ribs. I gasped, filling my lungs with just enough air to say, “Shade.”
“Impossible.” He clamped my face between his hands, scanning my pupils urgently. “It’s not yet sunset, a shade couldn’t … No.” A look of pure horror came into his eyes. “No, no, no…” Sweeping me up into his arms, he reeled back and kicked open the door of the Chinese grocery. “Wang!”
There was a great commotion around me, people dashing about and shouting in at least three languages. I barely registered any of it, writhing in a futile attempt to dislodge the phantom blade of ice in my chest.
“Be still,” Mr. Wiltshire whispered, clutching me against him. “I know it hurts, but you must be still, or you could drive the fragment deeper.”
“It burns.”
“I know.” Then, in that same broken whisper: “I’m sorry. Oh, Rose, I’m so sorry…”
And for the first time in my life, I knew true fear.
CHAPTER 21
FRAGMENTS OF THE DEAD—THE MAN FROM CHICAGO—A RARE MEDIUM
“She will be awake so
on.”
A familiar voice, though for a moment I couldn’t place it. I tried to raise my head, even just open my eyes, but the effort was too much. I felt as if I were suspended in that moment between sleep and waking, when your mind is slowly becoming alert but your body refuses to budge.
“You should drink this.” Mei Wang, speaking gently to someone nearby.
“Thank you, but no.” The low murmur of Mr. Wiltshire’s voice sounded from just below my head. That, and the prickle of straw beneath me, told me that I was lying on some kind of cot. How much time had passed? I didn’t even remember blacking out.
“Shall I get you a chair? The floor is not clean.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Sir—”
“You’re very kind, Miss Wang, but truly, you needn’t fuss over me.”
A sigh, followed by the sound of Mei’s slippered feet retreating. Then silence. It was so quiet that I could hear Mr. Wiltshire’s watch ticking softly. I tried again to stir, but my body still refused to obey.
At length, another set of footsteps entered the room, and someone asked a question in Chinese. “No, thank you,” Mr. Wiltshire said. “Your daughter already offered. I’m afraid I couldn’t stomach it just now.” Then, very quietly, “You saved her life, Wang. I’m eternally grateful.”
Mr. Wang said something in reply.
“I don’t know.” Mr. Wiltshire’s voice sounded strangely muffled, as if his head were bowed. “God help me, I’ve no idea.”
Mr. Wang answered in Chinese. Back and forth they went, and though only one side of the conversation was in English, I followed it well enough.
“Of course it’s my fault. She wouldn’t be caught up in any of this if it weren’t for me … Yes, but for how long? A day or two, perhaps three if she’s lucky. I’ve wired Chicago, but even if Jackson takes the first train out, he’ll never get here in time … No, I don’t think she’d thank us for that. If anyone’s to inform her mother, it should be Miss Gallagher herself. Or me, if she’s unable … It’s not only that, Wang. My every instinct warned me not to involve her, and yet I did it anyway.”
Mei’s voice interrupted them, murmuring something to her father. “He’s asking for you, Mr. Wiltshire,” she added in English.
He hesitated. “I should be here when she wakes. She’ll be frightened and confused.”
“I will stay with her. We know each other.”
“I’m not sure if—”
“I will take care of her, I promise.”
Mr. Wiltshire sighed. “Very well. I’ll be back as soon as I can. If she wakes, tell her…” Another sigh. “Tell her whatever you think best.”
Time passed. I managed to wiggle my toes, and then my fingers, but Mei didn’t notice. She sang softly to herself in Chinese, a sad, beautiful melody that sent my thoughts abroad to a tiny village framed by mist-cloaked green mountains, where a young girl sang of lost love.
Eventually, I managed to pry my eyelids apart. Seeing me stir, Mei leaned in close. “Rose, it’s Mei. You are in my father’s store. Can you understand?”
At first, all I could manage was “Mmm.” It felt like my vocal cords were lashed together, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. But as the minutes passed, my throat seemed to clear, and my head, too. “Why can’t I sit up?”
“My father gave you special tea to keep you from moving. It’s wearing off now. You will sit up in a moment. Don’t rush.”
I took her advice, lying back and letting my thoughts order themselves. Awareness was creeping back in, but that came at a price; as the fog receded, fear took its place, clear and hard-edged as a blade of ice. “I could hear you talking.”
Mei smiled—the sad, indulgent sort of smile you bestow on a sick person. “You speak Chinese?”
“Mr. Wiltshire does.”
“Some.”
“He seemed to understand it well enough. And I understood him.” Swallowing, I said, “Mei, am I going to die?”
She glanced away. “Mr. Wiltshire is very upset. He said some things maybe he should not.”
“Please tell me the truth. I need to know.”
There was a long pause. Mei continued to avoid my eye. “You are very sick. Most people with this sickness … do not survive.”
“What sickness? What’s wrong with me?”
“It’s better if Mr. Wiltshire explains. My English…”
“It’s the shade, isn’t it? The one who touched me?”
Mei’s head drooped. She nodded.
“Jesus.” I didn’t think even Mam would judge me for taking His name in vain under the circumstances.
Mam … Who would take care of her now?
Tears pricked behind my eyes, but I squeezed them shut. If I let myself go now I might never recover, and I would be damned if I spent my last hours in this world wailing and gnashing my teeth. Besides, I thought I’d heard a word of hope, however faint. “Mr. Wiltshire said something about Chicago. That’s where the Pinkerton Detective Agency is based, isn’t it?”
“He sent a telegram. There is a man there, he says, maybe he can help you. That is all I know.”
With Mei’s help, I managed to sit up and prop my back against the wall. From the look of things, we were somewhere among the warren of Mr. Wang’s back rooms, the hidden reaches of which I’d only guessed at before. Muffled voices and the creak of floorboards reached us through the walls, and a sweet floral scent drifted down the hall, suggesting we weren’t the building’s only occupants.
“Fan tan today,” Mei said apologetically. “Noisy sometimes.”
“How long was I out?”
“Not long. Half hour, maybe.”
“Mr. Wiltshire says your father saved my life. What did he do?”
“He gave you medicine.”
“Let me guess. Special tea.”
Mei smiled at that, something closer to the real thing this time. “My father has many special teas.”
I was beginning to understand that, and a lot else besides. “Mei, what is this place? Not just a store, obviously.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry I could not tell you before. My father keeps his business—”
“Very private, I know. You said so in your letter. Thank you for that, by the way. I don’t know that I’d have found Mr. Wiltshire without it.”
“Something of a mixed blessing, I’d say.” I looked up to find Mr. Wiltshire hovering in the doorway, his posture as grim and stiff as if he stood before St. Peter himself, awaiting judgment.
The remark would have made me angry if I’d had the energy. As it was, it just hurt. “If you think saying something like that is going to make me feel better, you couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Forgive me, you’re right of course. Miss Wang, would you mind terribly if I spoke to Miss Gallagher alone?”
Mei looked to me; when I nodded, she gave my hand a squeeze and left.
“May I sit?”
“On a chair, or would you prefer the floor?”
“Ah.” He glanced away awkwardly. “You’ve been awake for some time, obviously. How long?”
“I’m not sure. The first thing I remember is Mei offering you tea.” Sensing what was coming, I added, “And the last thing I remember before that is you apologizing, so please, let’s not cover that ground again. I’d rather focus on what happens now.”
He closed his eyes fleetingly, overcome. With what emotion, I couldn’t tell. His fingers twitched at his sides, as though he were battling some raw impulse. “As to that, I hardly know what to tell you. I will of course do everything I can, but your situation is beyond my power to resolve. I’ve wired my superiors in Chicago. I’m hopeful they’ll send someone who can help.”
“But it will take him at least two days to get here, and you’re afraid I don’t have that kind of time.”
He forced himself to meet my eye. “The fact is, I don’t know. But yes—that is my fear.”
A wave of dizziness came over me. I gripped the edge of the cot to stea
dy myself.
“Rose—” He started toward me.
“Just give me a moment, please.”
In the silence that followed, the muffled laughter of the fan tan players buffeted me like a cold wind, cruelly indifferent. Show some respect, I wanted to scream through the walls. Don’t you know I’m going to die?
But no. I wasn’t going to die, not just like that. There was still hope. “The man from Chicago—he’s a doctor?”
“His name is Jackson, and he’s a witch.”
“A witch?” That set me back a step. “What exactly is wrong with me?” I kept my gaze trained on the floor. The smooth tenor of Mr. Wiltshire’s voice was a comfort, but the haunted look in his eyes was not helping my composure one bit.
As though sensing this, he gave his answer in carefully measured tones. “You recall what I told you about shades being damaged? Their spirits retain some physical link to the mortal world, but it’s extremely brittle. Like slate, or a thin layer of ice. The slightest stress can cause it to fracture.”
“Stress…”
“Coming into contact with a physical object, for example. Or a living person. When the shade touched you, she left a fragment of herself behind. A very small one or you would already be…” He faltered. “Small enough that you exhibited none of the symptoms. Your pupils were returning to normal, and…” He trailed off again, and when I looked up, he was shaking his head. “Stop making excuses for yourself, Thomas. Better to say that if the signs were there, I missed them.”
“What sorts of signs?”
“Nightmares. Shivers, or in severe cases, seizures. I’ve heard it described as a splinter of ice embedded in the flesh. It comes and goes, flaring if the shade is near. Sometimes the mere memory of the shade is enough to trigger it.”
Nightmares. That was why he’d asked how I’d slept. And shivers … “I’ve felt them, I think. A shudder in my breast when we talked about the bloody woman. I thought it was just nerves. But what happened to me outside…”
“It was the shade. She was waiting for me outside the store, as I asked her to. The sun still hadn’t set, so she was unable to manifest, but even so, her presence caused the fragment embedded in your flesh to resonate. It’s buried somewhere deep inside you, slowly working its way toward your heart.”