The Golden Specific

by S. E. Grove

  “And what about the man who brought her?”

  “Ah!” Miles said with a shrewd smile. “That is the deepest mystery. He vanished. After leaving to get the doctor, he was never seen again. Bligh naturally asked the doctor and the couple to describe him as best they could, but there was nothing of substance—tall, narrow of shoulder, long of face—with the exception of one detail. The weapon he carried. It was a grappling hook, attached to a long rope.”

  Theo gasped. “A Sandman.”

  “A Sandman,” Miles nodded.

  “But I thought the Sandmen—”

  “Had vanished? Well, they must have gone somewhere. Shadrack and I thought that without Blanca to lead them they would disband, each drifting his own way. But it seems we were wrong. Someone sent this Sandman to attack Goldenrod. And Goldenrod, instead of defending herself, healed him.” Miles sat back with a frown and wiped his forehead again. “That is what we know. As you can imagine, we want nothing more than to help her. But every attempt to reach the Eerie has failed. This is why I searched for them when we traveled west.”

  Theo mulled all this over in silence. He gazed at the ferns and the hibiscus, trying to picture them growing from clothes and skin. Where were the roots? How did they draw water? It was unimaginable. “You could have told me,” he said once more.

  Miles shook his head. “It would have made no difference. The Eerie refuse to be found.” He sighed. “I head off again in a few days to make another attempt.”

  “What if Sophia and I go with you?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. This will be a different kind of expedition.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I will be posing as someone I am not.”

  “I do that better than you, old man!”

  “Undeniable. But it does not alter the fact that I must go alone.”

  —12-Hour 11—

  THE TRIP INTO the city center from the Nihilismian Archive felt interminable. Sophia tried concentrating on her discovery to make the time pass quickly, but it had the opposite effect. Every block drifted by too slowly; every corner brought a lingering pause. A man swept the sidewalk before a shop selling rubber boots. The store beside it advertised oysters in bright, white letters. Workers lingered during their break outside a dye shop; an engraving shop announced a summer sale; and a young servant cleaned the windows of a boardinghouse two doors down. Near the State House, a cemetery with crooked stones offered a quiet corner of shade in the busy city. After what seemed like hours, the trolley finally stopped near Boston Common. Sophia ran as fast as she could and at twelve-hour wound her way up the stairs to the ministry offices in the State House.

  The serious-looking young man at the front desk in Shadrack’s office had met Sophia once or twice before, but he either didn’t remember her or pretended not to. “Is my uncle, Shadrack Elli, here?” she asked breathlessly.

  He gave her a severe look, as though breathing audibly in the august offices of the ministry was a serious discourtesy. “He is very busy at the moment.”

  “Please just tell him that Sophia is here and that Minna wrote a diary. He’ll know what it means.”

  The young man did not deign to answer, but he rose from his chair and left by the corridor at the rear of the room, returning only a moment later with Shadrack close on his heels.

  “Sophia?”

  “Shadrack! I found a lead—a real one, this time. She wrote a diary!”

  Shadrack looked at her with astonishment. “Come,” he said, reaching out a hand. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  She hurried after him, not even sparing a glance for the disapproving clerk. As soon as Shadrack had closed his office door, Sophia related her discovery in one long, excited burst. “Remember how I told you about the new archive I visited? It was the Nihilismian Archive on Beacon Street.” Shadrack’s eyebrows rose, but he did not interrupt. “I was looking through an index of things written in 1881. The year they left. I thought it would lead to nothing, but it was Remorse’s idea. She works there—she’s Nihilismian but she’s very kind, not at all like the ones we know; she’s really been helping me, Shadrack. And today I was reading the index and it said ‘Diary of Wilhelmina Tims’—I couldn’t believe it. Her diary! It’s at the Granada Depository. But the depository doesn’t send materials or give access to anyone other than Nihilismians, so Remorse said that we could go with her. She’s going on a mission to the Papal States and she’s leaving tomorrow, and she said she would ask the captain for permission for you and me to come, too, and she’ll get us into the archive. And then we can come back. Maybe the pirates will bring us back—do you think we could ask them? But we have to go with her tomorrow.”

  Shadrack seemed to have been rendered speechless.

  Sophia watched him anxiously, searching his face for some sign of the same elation she was feeling. “It’s too wonderful to pass up, don’t you think?”

  “I think,” her uncle said slowly, “that this is certainly a wonderful lead. And though I am curious how you gained access to the Nihilismian Archive, I am very glad to know that the diary exists. But I don’t think leaving tomorrow on a Nihilismian vessel is the best way to acquire it.”

  Sophia felt something slow and unpleasant uncoiling in her stomach.

  “The diary isn’t going anywhere,” he continued. “I can send someone to get it—someone who is familiar with the Papal States.”

  “But we need a Nihilismian to get us access to the archive!”

  Shadrack gave her a pointed look. “Yes, but Sophia—how did you get into the archive in Boston?”

  Sophia felt herself blushing. “I said I was Nihilismian.”

  Shadrack shook his head. “You took a grave risk. But having done so, you realize the possibilities. If you could lie to get into the Boston archive, why couldn’t someone else do the same in Granada? This Nihilismian friend of yours is helpful, perhaps, but not essential.”

  Something began to shift inside of Sophia, as if an hourglass that had been lying on its side had been tipped and its inner sand was now, grain by grain, accumulating into a pile. She realized that what she felt was anger. “So I shouldn’t lie, but it’s acceptable for someone else to lie for the same purpose?”

  Shadrack looked apologetic in the way a person does when he expects to be forgiven: rueful, but without remorse. He could not see her anger, just as he could not see what that look of halfhearted apology had cost her for so many months. “I am simply pointing out that this particular access into the Granada Depository is not the only one. It is long and arduous and wholly unnecessary. As it happens, Soph, we will not need to lie at all. I have a contact in the Papal States who has connections with all its archives and libraries, and he can requisition a copy even if he cannot gain personal access to the Granada Depository. There is no need for us to go.”

  Sophia simply looked at him.

  She could not explain why she felt so betrayed, when she was the one who had concealed the truth. As she opened her mouth to speak, she knew her words would be hurtful ones, but she did not know how to express what she was feeling otherwise. “Last summer you started teaching me to read maps,” she said, her voice quiet but shaking.

  Shadrack looked down at the floor. “I know.”

  “You were teaching me to read maps so that we could go out into the world and find Minna and Bronson. Now it seems we no longer have need for maps. We no longer plan to go anywhere. Why?”

  Shadrack considered this in silence. Sophia waited, urging him to understand what she was asking. I want you to care about this as much as I do. Forget about the ministry. Think about your sister. Think about me. I want you back.

  But when Shadrack spoke, his air of weary regret was unchanged. “The circumstances are different now. Bligh hopes to overturn the border closure. And, as you know, I have obligations here that prevent me from travel
ing. I am sorry, Sophia.”

  She looked at him without speaking.

  “This clue you have found is very worthwhile,” Shadrack said, his tone placating, “and I will send for a copy of the diary at once. But it does not require us to sail across the Atlantic.”

  The sand slipping down inside her reached its peak and stopped, leaving some upper part of her empty. “I understand,” she said. She had an odd thought, as she turned to leave, about the Nihilismians and their desire to feel nothing in a world that was untrue. Their intentions made sense to her now. She felt nothing at all.

  “Sophia,” Shadrack said, putting out his hand to stop her. “It’s a wonderful find—the diary. Congratulations.”

  “Yes. It is.” She left his office and walked quietly through the narrow corridor into the waiting room, then out into the main hallway. Then she left the State House and worked her way home.

  —13-Hour 09—

  THEO FOUND HER in her room, holding the spool of silver thread. Her face was wet with tears. He edged in and sat down on the floor, then gave her a friendly smile. “Want to tell me about it?”

  Sophia held up the spool. “The Fates gave me a sign.”

  Theo waited.

  “I was at the Nihilismian Archive. I found out that there’s a diary written by Mother in a depository in Granada. And my friend Remorse at the archive says she can take us there—tomorrow. She can get us into the archive. But when I told Shadrack, he said no, that someone else would get a copy of it and send it.”

  Theo pondered this. “You wanted to go to Granada.”

  Sophia sighed. “This is the best clue we’ve found! And they need me. Mother needs me. Don’t ask me how I know. I know. I thought—I thought that he and I would go, and then the diary would tell us where she is, and then we would go from there, maybe. You were right—I want to do something. And I thought Shadrack would, too. But he has the ministry, and he says things are different now.”

  “This friend of yours, Remorse—she’s a Nihilismian?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you trust her?”

  “I do. She’s different. I like her.”

  “She said you could go with her tomorrow? What, by sail?”

  Sophia nodded.

  Theo looked out the window and then at Sophia. He gave a slow smile that ended in a grin.

  “What?”

  “Let’s go with her.”

  The spool of thread in Sophia’s hand caught the sunlight and glimmered faintly. She felt her breath expanding in her lungs. “Go with her?” she echoed.

  “You and me. We pack, we plan—or, you plan, more like—and we go. We did it before, didn’t we? We can do it again.”

  Sophia felt the tears welling up in her eyes, and she realized it was due to a surprising gain and a surprising loss. They had come about gradually, but now, in a single hour, she saw they were both decisive. That ease she had felt with her beloved uncle, the sense of always being encompassed and known, had drifted away. In its place was the certainty of finding comprehension and sympathy and humor somewhere else. Shadrack no longer understood her; Theo did.

  “I guess we could,” she whispered.

  11

  Alone Among the Maps

  —1892, June 4: 10-Hour 20—

  BOSTON: The Atlas Book Shop. Founded in 1868, the Atlas has a reputation for procuring rarities. Its proximity to the Boston State House makes it a popular source for official expeditions to remote Ages.

  —From Neville Chipping’s Map Vendors in Every (Known) Age

  THE ATLAS BOOK SHOP, as the hanging sign with Atlas shouldering the globe suggested, specialized in travel books, historical geography, and maps. As the bell above the door rang and Sophia crossed the worn threshold, she heard a cheery “Hullo!” from the back. “Mr. Crawford, it’s Sophia,” she called.

  “Sophia!” The top of Cornelius Crawford’s mostly bald head, his blue eyes, and a red nose emerged from behind a precarious stack of books. “Good to see you. I’m buried back here with new inventory. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, I will.” Sophia gave him a brief wave and began searching the tight, crammed aisles for the section on the Papal States.

  She and Theo had packed their bags that morning, but Sophia could not bring herself to take any of Shadrack’s books and maps to help them. It seemed like theft to her, paired with the deception.

  Theo insisted, unconvincingly, that the two of them had not lied. Shadrack had come home late the previous evening, his face furrowed by some unvoiced concern. Over a silent dinner, it became clear to Sophia that he had either forgotten about the diary or become so preoccupied with matters at the ministry that the diary seemed unimportant by comparison. She felt a sharp stab of sadness, and her resolve hardened. When she heard him leaving the house in the morning, she sat up in bed and hugged her knees, wishing everything were different. Then she got out of bed and began packing for the journey.

  Now she was at the Atlas, buying the books and maps they would need, before meeting Theo at the Verity. She had to admit that despite the difficulty of leaving Shadrack under such circumstances, a slow pulse of excitement had begun to move through her.

  The shop was filled with the comforting smell of worn paper and leather bindings, and the sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds, as if through the branches of a tree onto the disordered floor of a paper forest. Stepping carefully over little piles of books that seemed to sprout like mushrooms from the floorboards, Sophia found the Papal States section, sat gingerly down on a pile of large volumes, and was soon lost in the pages of a history written by Fulgencio Esparragosa. Its dozens of maps and long chapters were organized around the pilgrimage routes to the religious shrines that dotted the vast peninsula. The routes had been crippled, Esparragosa explained, by the spread of the plague known in the Papal States as lapena, a dreadful illness that had paralyzed trade, dried up commerce along the pilgrimage routes, and decimated entire villages.

  No other customers entered the Atlas while she read. From time to time Cornelius, hidden at the back, spoke querulously to himself, protesting how much he had paid for the Encyclopedia of the Russias or wondering where he had put the maps of the Middle Roads.

  When Sophia looked at her pocket watch again, it was almost eleven-hour. She got to her feet and made her way to the front of the shop. “Mr. Crawford,” she called out when she reached the cashier’s box, “can I buy this book on the Papal States?”

  “Of course you can, dear,” came the muffled reply. “Just a minute.”

  While Sophia waited, she flipped through the booklet displayed on a stand nearby: Map Vendors in Every (Known) Age. It was a surprisingly useful little book, containing the addresses of prominent map sellers in New Occident, the Baldlands, the Papal States, and the Russias; there were even some entries for the Closed Empire. Sophia placed it atop the Esparragosa, and as she did so Cornelius finally emerged, huffing and puffing as though he had hauled himself out from the bottom of a volcano.

  He made a cursory attempt to straighten the wisps of hair that sprang like antennae from his head. “All right,” he said, heaving a tremendous sigh; he reached into his vest pocket for a gold monocle with an amber-tinted lens and peered through it at the books. “Fulgencio Esparragosa and Map Vendors in Every (Known) Age,” he said, writing down the titles and their prices in a little notebook. As he wrapped the books in brown paper and string, he glanced at her pack and asked, winking, “Planning a trip somewhere?”

  Sophia smiled, her excitement getting the better of her. “Perhaps.”

  “Very exciting,” Cornelius declared. He always told his customers, with faint regret, that he had never traveled out of Boston; the bookstore kept him too busy. “Well, let me know if you need anything else before you go.”

  “Don’t I need to pay you?”

  “Sha
drack has an account with me, dear. He’s in here so often he just settles the bill at the end of each month.”

  Sophia handed him a pair of notes. “I want to buy these myself,” she said.

  “Very well,” he agreed, counting out the change.

  “Thank you.” Sophia placed the books in her satchel, beside her notebook and the beaded map. Now we have everything we need, she thought with satisfaction.

  • • •

  AS SOPHIA CLOSED the door behind her and the bell ceased its ringing, Cornelius Crawford ambled slowly into the Atlas’s back room. His office made the store look tidy. A wooden chair with a worn cushion stood like a lone small tree in a city of books: towers so high they blocked the window, sagging shelves overpopulated by bound books, leaning stacks that threatened to collapse if nudged the wrong way. Cornelius sat down in the chair with a deep sigh and looked at his visitor, who was perched quietly on one of the more stable book piles.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” Cornelius said.

  The visitor, a slight young woman who wore a man’s buttoned shirt and trousers, tucked her black hair behind her ears and nervously fingered the pendant of her necklace. “She didn’t hear me?”

  “You were very quiet.”

  “Why was she here, Sam?”

  Cornelius shrugged. “To buy books on the Papal States. Very natural, I’d say.”

  “Yes, but I mean why? It is too coincidental. Ten minutes after I got here?” She shook her head. “I don’t like it.”