“Yes, exactly,” I said.
“I think we should do this again soon. Especially as Katalina wants you to be strong enough.”
“Strong enough for what?”
Hurricane sat back, her eyes darting to the entrance. “Maybe Katalina should tell you. She . . .”
“What is it?” I’d suspected Katalina was not telling me everything. “I need to know, Hurricane. Strong enough for what?”
“To . . . to save Indigo, if he’s still alive.” Hurricane looked down at her hands. “Don’t you remember the last time you were at the camp?”
“Of course I remember.” My stomach clenched. “It was three years ago.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “The Midsummer’s Eve festival.”
“That’s right. But how did you know?”
Hunching her shoulders, she said, “You kissed a boy you shouldn’t have. His name is Indigo, and . . .” Her white-blond eyebrows drew together. “You quite possibly cost him his life.”
Chapter Thirteen
Kaleidoscope
I marched down the dirt road. Khan knew better than to speak to me after I’d flown into a rage at Hurricane’s accusation. My shouts, as I’d stuffed my hair into my hat and stormed out, had even startled deaf Yoska.
Now, at last, I knew the boy’s name. It fit him.
I thought back to that night. Before my father had dragged me out of the tent, Indigo had whispered in my ear, “Swear you’ll come back tomorrow. I need to see you.”
I had disobeyed my father, just as I’d done tonight. I’d gone back.
Yet, when I’d arrived, the Gypsy camp was deserted. The remnants of the fair lay strewn across the grass, smoldering embers of the bonfire trailing smoke into the air. They’d disappeared. He knew I’d come back, and still he’d left. I’d cried all the way home, my thirteen-year-old heart aching from his slight.
I was angry with myself for storming away from Hurricane. If I wasn’t such a pawn to my emotions, I could have discovered what else had happened. I’d just been so incensed that she thought a kiss from me could cost Indigo his life.
It was going to be a long, miserable walk home. Luckily, Khan had thought to bring a lantern. I heard a rushing sound behind me, as Seraphine landed expertly on the shoulder of my jacket. As usual, she relaxed me. After a while, I slowed my furious pace and yelled out to Khan, “Slowpoke.” To salt the wound, I added, “I’m going to trip up here with no light. Can’t you walk a little faster?”
With the lantern attached to his pack, Khan’s shadow bobbed like that of a drunken giant. He caught up quickly. “Ah, so you’re ready to tell me what the hell happened?”
“No,” I huffed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, walking by my side now. He started whistling a ditty to the beat of our steps. I loved that about Khan. I never had to explain myself to him if I didn’t want to.
The sounds of the night penetrated my thoughts. An owl hooted; the trees whispered in some ancient but familiar language. My mind began to uncoil. I looked up at the velvety black sky, pierced by a thousand pins of light.
At my side, Khan tilted his head, listening. I heard it, too: the unmistakable tromping of horses. Someone was coming up the road. We stepped to the side as a two-horse covered stagecoach jingled up and stopped. The driver, sitting on a high bench in front, glanced down.
“Sure is late to be out walking. We’re up from Canarsie Landing to Fort Greene.” He nodded toward the road. “How far you boys going? I could give you a ride.”
Khan stifled a laugh. I kept my head down and kicked his foot.
“Sure thing, mister,” Khan said. “We’d appreciate it. We’re headed your way.”
I pulled my hat lower and remained quiet. Folks would not think highly of a girl out alone at night with a boy, let alone a white girl and a black boy. I shook Seraphine off my shoulder; she disappeared into the night.
The driver watched, rubbing his chin. “Well, I’ll be. Falcon, right?”
Khan answered for me. “Yep, raised from a chick.” He blew out his lantern as we climbed into the coach. Khan respectfully removed his hat, but I didn’t dare. I was glad of the one small lantern up front, which kept the bulk of the carriage in shadows.
The moment we sat down, I felt the tension. A well-dressed man and woman were in the seat across from us. They stared at Khan. Clutching her valise to her body, the woman leaned over and whispered something to the man.
Khan sighed. “Think I’ll ride in back,” he muttered.
I wasn’t about to let him ride alone. I jumped up, following him out and around to the rear of the coach. We climbed up onto the jump seat.
“Are you all right?” I whispered as the driver cracked his whip and we started off.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “How about a spot of bourbon?” Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a pewter flask. Pressed into the metal was the image of a balloon above a battlefield: the Balloon Corps.
“Is that my father’s?”
“Yes, war-pocked and all. He gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday.” He took a long swig and held it out to me.
My father had engraved Khan’s full name on the back, along with the date. Over two years ago, not long after I’d been forced to quit school. I took a drink, and started coughing. The amber liquid burned its way down my throat to rest like a hot coal inside my stomach. Somehow it felt good, the heat radiating through my body.
We leaned our heads back to gaze at the stars as we passed the flask back and forth between us.
“Khan,” I said at last. “I want to ask you something. And this time you’d better not give me the runaround with your vague answers, you hear me?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
I glanced at him. “And wipe that silly grin off your face.”
He lifted his hand and wiped his mouth down into a frown, mocking me.
“This is serious, Khan. What was going on in Five Points?” Am I slurring my words?
“You don’t give up, do you?” He rubbed his forehead.
“Khan, it looked like . . . like a street gang.”
“What?” His eyebrows shot up. “I am not in a gang.”
“So tell me then,” I whispered. “Khan, I’m your best friend. But you’ve been very distant lately.”
“Those young men you saw me with came here to work. But you know better than anyone the conditions in the factories and mills.” He frowned, a shadow in his eyes. “I hate how many hours you put in at Cross Street.”
“Mr. Soliman.” I pretended to fan myself. “You sound like a musty old man who believes a woman’s place is solely in the home.” I laughed, the alcohol making me feel flighty.
“Far be it from me to tell you that, Avery. I know you wanted to get an education.” He reached over and ran the back of his hand along my jaw. My breath shortened. “You’re beautiful and smart.” No one had ever said that to me before. I was quiet as he continued. “Those men are trying to form a labor union, but as you can imagine, they face a lot of resistance.”
“A labor union?” I grabbed the side of the seat as we went over a rut in the road. “Khan, I forgot to tell you. Some men at the Works are also involved with a union. Secretly, of course. It’s impressive, given how dangerous it seems.”
“Yes. I know.” He nodded. “Avery, I didn’t want to burden you with all this when you’re so worried about your mother.” The words seemed to draw him back to himself. Khan lifted the flask in the air. “To your mother,” he said, taking a sip and then handing it back to me. It was almost empty.
“To my mother.” I drank, feeling the warmth spread into my chest, feeling bad for doubting Khan.
Khan whistled. “Not bad for a first-timer.”
“Family trait.” I laughed. It felt good. A breeze caught my hat and I grabbed it before it blew away. My hair tumbled free, fanning out in the wind. I snuggled closer to Khan, enjoying the rhythmic sway
of the carriage. “What about you and Katalina? The two of you seem close.” I cursed my quick mouth; I sounded like a jealous shrew.
Khan raised his eyebrows, a bemused smile on his face. “We’re good friends. I’ve known her a long time. I helped repair her father’s boat.”
Maybe Gypsy girls are simply more open in their affection.
Khan put his arm around me. “Are you cold? Your hands feel like ice.” He lifted my hands to his mouth and blew warm air into them. “Mmm, you smell good, like honeysuckle.”
His breath tickled my wrist, sending a fluttery feeling through my stomach. I looked up into his warm, tawny eyes. A shiver trembled down my back. I’d always felt safe in his strong arms, but this was different. I couldn’t get my head around what my body was feeling—my stomach in knots, my breath shallow. I wanted the touch of Khan’s mouth on mine. Was it the alcohol muddling my thoughts? He was my best friend, my safety net.
Would kissing him change all that? Was this my way of erasing the thoughts of the Gypsy boy?
My necklace poked Khan in the chest, breaking the moment. He lifted the leather cord. “What is all this stuff you wear?”
“Memories . . . things I love . . . things that are special to me. It’s silly, I know.” Laughing, I held up a ring. “Remember when you gave me this?” My voice sounded slow and fuzzy.
He smiled. “I do, actually. What was I, nine?” I nodded. Khan’s eyes focused inward. “It was a promise ring. I’d wanted to marry you, before I knew it was taboo.” He reached into his own shirt and pulled out a chain. Dangling from it was a tiny silver tube. “It’s a kaleidoscope,” he said.
“Oh! I’ve never seen a miniature one.”
“It was my mother’s. She . . .” He took a deep breath. “I’m told she gave it to me before she died. My ouma said it reminded my mother of the world’s beauty when everything around her was ugly.” He held it up, squinting. “Can’t see it in the dark, but the patterns are made from all kinds of seeds. She intended to plant them one day, when she was freed from bondage.”
He slid it off the chain and placed it in my hand, wrapping my fingers around it. I looked at the intricate designs etched into the silver. “Khan, I can’t.”
“Keep it for me, then. We’ll plant the seeds together when your mother is free from the Tombs.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. I bit my lip, feeling the trace of tears in my eyes. The coach slowly came to a stop at a deserted station at the edge of town. “Must be Fort Greene. We won’t have far to walk from here.”
I tucked the kaleidoscope into my pocket and prepared to jump down. At that moment, the well-dressed couple stepped around the rear of the coach. Their eyes opened wide at the sight of a black boy and a white girl huddled together.
The woman sucked in her breath. “Scandalous!” she hissed.
I don’t care, I thought recklessly. I gave her a cheeky grin as I hopped down, Khan’s hand in mine.
Chapter Fourteen
Lost Time
I woke to the clamor of a hundred ticks and tocks. Khan once said the sound would drive him crazy, but I loved it . . . usually. After so many years living with Father’s creations, I didn’t think I could handle silence.
Today, though, my head throbbed with every click of a gear, every swing of a pendulum. I rubbed my forehead. I should’ve made one of Father’s concoctions, but couldn’t stomach it.
I’d had another vivid dream. I was Seraphine, flying above the city, circling the updrafts to go higher and higher. I was free. Powerful. A hunter. I cocked my head at a flicker of movement below, something darting into the street. Tucking my wings, I dove. Wind rushed by, faster and faster, until everything was a blur around me, my eyes locked on my target. Inches above the street, I knew to snap out my wings, snaring the prey in my talons. In the same instant, I would swoop back up into the sky. But something was wrong. My wings, pinned tightly to my sides, would not open. The street came up to meet me, fast, and I smashed full force into the cobblestones, my brain exploding out through my third eye.
I leapt out of bed. Sunlight bathed the shop in a warm glow. My father’s alcove was empty. He still made his bed like a soldier, tight as a drum. He was at morning mass, no doubt. Every Sunday he lit a candle for my mother.
As angry as I’d been last night, I knew I had to talk to Hurricane and Katalina again soon. The Gypsies were my only chance to learn everything I could about my visions, and to help me figure out how to get my mother out of the Tombs.
When I’d stumbled in last night, my father had raised his eyebrows at me knowingly and made me a cup of wild sage tea for my queasy stomach. I didn’t dare tell him I’d gone to the Gypsy camp, so when I pulled the arnica root from my pocket, I had to lie to him, again. My stomach had twisted at how easily the deception slid off my tongue. “Khan got it for me. He learned it from his grandmother.” We’d made the poultice and applied it to my foot.
I peeled the hardened gauze off my ankle, gently circling my foot. The pain was gone. Even the purple bruise was fading. The arnica had worked like magic.
Stuffing a chunk of soda bread in my mouth, I threw my father’s long wool infantry coat over my nightshirt and slipped out the side door. I made a quick stop in the hallway bathroom, which we shared with the Olson family. We were lucky; many tenements on our block did not have indoor plumbing. Then I headed up the stairs to the roof to check on Seraphine, the vestiges of the dream still haunting me.
The cold bit into my bare feet as I stepped out onto the roof. I held my breath as I lifted the canvas flap over Seraphine’s roost. Ki-ki-ki-kee, she chirped, happy to see me, as always. Stroking her brown-and-white speckled feathers, I imitated her sound. She ducked her head and repeated it back to me, making me smile.
I’d inherited the young peregrine falcon the day Old Man Lorenzo started spitting blood into his handkerchief. He’d lived upstairs and had a crackling sense of humor; he was the one who wanted me to call him that—“Old Man Lorenzo.” I’d spent hours in his apartment helping him with his birds. He had all kinds, but Seraphine was my favorite. Caring for Seraphine was the only thing that got me through the horror of losing my mother and moving to Vinegar Hill.
In between terrible coughing fits, he taught me how to train and feed her. When he died, she’d disappeared for two full days. I thought she was gone for good, but she came back to me, and as she grew, she learned to hunt and feed herself. Our neighborhood certainly had fewer rats, thanks to her. Now she’s a part of me, I sighed. If I lose her, I lose part of myself.
“It was just a dream,” I whispered, pressing my lips to her soft head. I went over to the low wall enclosing the roof. The sun-warmed ledge at the bottom felt good on my frozen feet.
The street below was coming alive. Sunday was a day to be outside in any weather, but today it was all the more spectacular. The morning sun cut through the brittle October air, melting the fine layer of frost and bouncing off the light fabric of the airships flying over Manhattan Island. Crisp sounds reached my ears: horses clopping on the cobbles, newsboys shouting headlines, the far-off clanging of the bridge construction. From my elevated vantage, I looked down on feathered hats and bonnets strolling arm in arm with fedoras and derbies and toppers on the way to St. Ann’s or Plymouth Church. My father should’ve made hats instead of clocks. We’d never be hungry then.
Seraphine flew to the wall, and together we watched the bustle below. I noticed some pedestrians pointing into the dark alley across the street. A young boy cried as his mother pulled him briskly away. Two men emerged from the shadows; people dodged them, lowering their heads to avoid eye contact. I knew why. It was their masks, their crow-like masks.
They angled toward the large clock jutting from the wall above our store. I heard them banging on the door and put a hand on my chest to still the pounding of my heart.
They’ve found us. I was trapped. I couldn’t leave the building barefoot, in a nightgown. Seraphine, sensing my distress, started to twitter and scree
ch. I grabbed her leather hood and secured it over her head, obscuring her eyes. She puffed out her feathers and calmed down.
“Shhh,” I whispered to her. “Stay quiet now.”
Crouching behind the parapet, I slowly peered over the edge until I was staring directly down at the crows. In addition to their beaked masks with goggle eyes, they wore black wide-brimmed hats and long black leather coats. They rapped again on the glass front door to our shop. One of them tried the knob and found it locked. They scanned the street. I ducked out of sight as one tilted his head to look up. Then I heard glass shatter, followed by the sound of the men crashing their way through the shop.
I stayed huddled on the roof until my legs were numb, images of the crows bursting out onto the roof flooding my imagination. When I dared peek down again, I saw that they were leaving. I let out my breath. My hands shook and my teeth chattered.
Amidst the glass strewn across the sidewalk were pieces of wood and metal and a myriad of elaborate gears. Our entrance clock lay in pieces, another moment of time lost to me forever; another omen of my broken family.
The crow-guards crossed the street. Just then I saw my father, walking obliviously toward them, his mechanical leg reflecting in the sunlight every time he took a step. He’d taken to wearing a long coat to conceal it, but as he moved, it showed anyway. With the guards’ backs to me, I beckoned, hoping to catch his attention. He had his head down, as if deep in thought, but as he got closer he looked up, somehow sensing their presence. From the way they picked up their pace, I could tell they knew exactly who he was. Without taking his eyes off them, my father lowered the brim of his hat and slid his hand slowly down the side of his metal leg. He was going to pull out his gun. I had to stop him before something terrible happened.
Frantically, afraid to yell out, I tried to signal him. I jumped up and down, waving my arms in the air. I had to get his attention.
An idea hit me. Quickly, I removed Seraphine’s hood and pointed at my father. Recognition sparked in her eyes. She leapt from the wall and swooped down toward him. It worked. The movement caught his eye, and he saw me on the roof beyond. He held up his forearm as Seraphine came in for a landing, skimming the tops of the crows’ black hats. The guards jumped back. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I could tell they were furious.
The Tombs Page 10