Breath of Earth

by Beth Cato

  “A miracle. Mary, Mother of God! Maybe so.” Miss Rossi snorted. “Well, enjoy life as it is now, eh? I have work to do.” With that, she bent over to look through the camera again.

  Ingrid couldn’t help but glance downhill to follow the angle of the lens. The shot would show quintessential San Francisco: wagons and autocars parked and driving; seagulls plucking at gutter trash; a gang of dark-haired boys in knickerbockers chasing a blown-up bladder ball across the street. Fog softened the horizon. If the image could capture scent, it needed the stale reek of beer from the German rathskeller across the way.

  “It may not mean much, but I am sorry.” Ingrid stalked on past. Miss Rossi offered no reply.

  With her mood subdued again, the next few blocks passed in a blur of physical exertion. Nearby magic tickled her skin, and she spied fairy lights glinting in the bushes; Ingrid didn’t pause to look closely, but guessed them to be invasive European pixies, the equivalent of flying, pretty weeds. She had always had a keen awareness of magical creatures around her, sensing their power like prickles of heat. It was similar to the feel of the earth’s hot energy, but distinct, like the difference in ambience, smell, and sound between a wood fire and wax candle.

  The ability had nothing to do with geomancy either. Ingrid learned when she was quite young that Mama and Mr. Sakaguchi had no explanation for it, and that she needed to keep her awareness secret.

  Ingrid released a frustrated huff. So many blasted secrets.

  Russian Hill was a hard slog even when she felt well, but with her back healing and soup in hand, she felt like an A&A recruit after a full day of boot camp—exhausted to the bone. At least the pain was gone.

  The steps to Mr. Calhoun’s apartment building creaked beneath her weight. She managed the front door lever with her elbow. Electricity lighted the hallway. Any geomancer skilled enough to make warden earned adequate money for electricity and most other modern comforts.

  Up one more flight of stairs, and she reached his flat. Setting down her kettles, Ingrid wrung out her hands, wincing, and quirked her neck from side to side. Reiki or not, she was bound to ache tomorrow. She knocked on the door. Mr. Calhoun usually answered rather quickly; he seemed to spend his evenings in his armchair, listening to music on his new Marconi.

  “Mr. Calhoun?” she called. “It’s Ingrid Carmichael from the auxiliary. Mr. Sakaguchi sent me. May I come in?”

  She waited a few minutes, rocking in her shoes, before she knocked again. Was he unable to rise from bed? Should she fetch a doctor? Frowning, she tested the doorknob, and was surprised when it turned.

  “Eh eh! What’re you doin’, young lady?” The barked-out brogue stopped Ingrid cold. She turned to see the landlady halfway up the steps. Her brilliant red hair was highlighted by thick streaks of white, as though a giant had dipped his hand in paint and then trailed his fingers up from her forehead.

  “Hello, ma’am. I work for the wardens. I came to check on Mr. Calhoun, and no one’s answering—”

  “I seen you before. What, you people don’t speak amongst each other? The city’s been and gone! Someone shoulda gone to that auxiliary o’ yours.”

  “The city’s been here? What message did we miss?”

  The landlady stopped at the top of the stairs. Despite being shorter than Ingrid, the stout woman seemed to look down on her.

  “Why, tha’ Mr. Calhoun’s dead, o’ course.”

  To Ingrid, it seemed that the world became very, very still. “Dead? How can he be dead?”

  “God called him home, simple as that. Considering the ugliness of how he went, was a right mercy, the poor man!”

  “Ugly? How? I know he was ill yesterday—”

  “Ill! Pah! I’ll tell you, his rent for this month’ll be spent cleaning the place up, that’s for sure.” The landlady stepped closer and tapped her pointer finger to her lips. “He lost everything in ’is guts, every which way. I never seen anyone ’ave it so bad. His skin turned yellow, too, jaundiced like a newborn babe. Most peculiar thing!”

  The information spun around in Ingrid’s mind. What could have caused jaundice like that? He hadn’t even seemed that sick! “How long ago did he die?”

  “Don’t rightly know. I checked on him at lunch, brought him some broth. That’s when I found him.”

  Ingrid looked down at the soup kettles on the floor. This soup clearly wasn’t needed here. She sucked in a sharp breath. Mr. Thornton! If he had the same illness, he might only have hours left. There was time yet to fetch doctors and keep him alive.

  One more warden might make all the difference in safeguarding San Francisco in these next few days until help arrived.

  “I have to go!” Ingrid said, hoisting up the kettles. She pushed past the landlady and practically flew down the stairs. The first apartment door was open, and through it she could hear the wavering notes of an orchestra playing over a Marconi.

  At the sidewalk she paused for a moment, panting, as she glanced at the slope ahead and whimpered. Two blocks more. Not far as the crow flew, but damned crows had wings.

  Her calves screamed for mercy as she trudged uphill. Broth splashed from beneath the lids and warmed her fingers. Sunlight began to fade and colored the clouds in murky pink, like weak watercolors muddled with pencil.

  “Almost there, almost there,” she muttered.

  “Look out!” cried a small voice behind her.

  Ingrid turned to see a brown ball flying directly at her. Heat flared to her skin. For an instant it was as though she could feel the very presence of the baseball in the air—an instant that brought the ball alarmingly close. She yelped and stumbled sideways. The kettles clattered as she dropped them with just enough time to catch herself. Her knees banged on the hard ground.

  “Damn—darn it!” She propped herself up and immediately set a leaking kettle upright. Branches snapped as the ball smacked into the bushes behind her.

  The tingle of heat lapped against her as a blue cloud arose from the ground. She froze. Another quake, already? So many in a cluster today, especially when she was hurting at the Reiki shop. None since then, either. She rubbed her knees through cloth.

  “Gomen-nasai! Sorry!” A little white boy dashed up, panting. He wore a battered baseball player’s cap. Several other boys trailed close behind.

  “I think it landed over there,” she said, jerking her head as she picked up the soup. “Be more careful.”

  “Hai. Sorry again!” He offered her a gap-toothed smile then hurried in pursuit of the ball.

  She walked on, new warmth within her skin. She almost collapsed in happy relief at the sight of Mr. Thornton’s narrow town house. Her calves felt the strain as she worked her way up the stairs to the porch, but her knees no longer hurt.

  “Mr. Thornton! Mr. Thornton, are you there?” She stepped back to study the windows for any movement. Nothing, not so much as the sway of a curtain. She set down the kettles and knocked on the door as loudly as she could. “Mr. Thornton! If you can hear me, make a noise! This is Ingrid Carmichael!”

  Still nothing. She grabbed the doorknob and rushed inside the dark home.

  Ingrid had braced herself for the reek of illness, and was stunned at the normality of the air. She recalled the switch box was near the door, and fumbled to open the panel and flip the lever. Yellow light revealed a floor heaped with papers, books, and other debris. The china press had notable gaps where pieces once sat on display.

  “Mr. Thornton?” Her voice was softer now, wary. She dried off her soupy hand and let the fingers rest near her pocket. The bedroom would be the most likely place to find a sick man, but with what she knew of Mr. Thornton, she thought to check the study first.

  A file cabinet drawer dangled like a slack jaw, its contents vomited onto the floor. The bookshelves reminded her of a pugilist’s mouth with many missing teeth. Even a safe behind the desk gaped open.

  A large empty space on the wall denoted where a full-color map of India had been pinned. Mr. Thornton had overlaid ve
llum and colored it in layers to show the progress of the imperial conquest of the subcontinent. It had been the showpiece of the room and visible evidence of his obsession. He had daily marked the shifts in dominion.

  Bookshelves had been emptied in a way that made it impossible to know what may have been taken. Ingrid nudged a haphazard stack on the floor. The books were about China, the Qing Dynasty, and Japan’s agrarian colonization of mainland Asia. The nineteenth century had brought repeated devastation to China as part of the majority Han populace rebelled against the Manchu Dynasty that had ruled them for centuries, even as Britain, Russia, and the Unified Pacific manipulated the people and economy through opium and forced trade. The last Chinese emperor, Qixiang, almost died of an illness, and emerged as a changed man. He broke with his predecessors in a major way and declared that the Manchu and Han would be treated the same beneath the Qing Code, uniting the people as never before. His Restoration came woefully late to avert China’s decline. By then, Japan had already taken Manchuria, dubbed it Manchukuo, and partnered with America with an eye to even greater prizes.

  Ingrid and Lee knew more than most people about the history of China and other places—a different angle of history than what was printed in these books from publishers in Tokyo and New York City. Mr. Sakaguchi recounted tales of India, tales that told of how the original incarnation of the Thuggee cult had likely been a threat greatly exaggerated by the British, an excuse to demonize and massacre settlers in the interior subcontinent; he also told tales about how Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation had not truly eliminated slavery, and that thralldom continued through unlivable wages for freedmen, Chinese, and American natives; and so many other things that people never discussed in public, if at all.

  When she was younger, being party to such knowledge was rather titillating. Now the subjects made her uncomfortable. The meaning of patriotism and sedition had evolved as she grew up, as the war dragged on. She had seen too many newsreels where hooded traitors convulsed at the end of a noose. In light of Captain Sutcliff’s interest, the danger now felt eerily personal and real.

  She straightened the books, simply because she couldn’t bear the idea of them toppling over.

  Why oh why had Mr. Sakaguchi spoken so openly to Captain Sutcliff? Why had the captain even regarded him as a suspect in the first place? She hoped that among Mr. Sakaguchi’s calls, he had also contacted a lawyer. It was a shame he and Mr. Roosevelt had ended their acquaintanceship. He couldn’t have a more powerful ally than an Ambassador.

  She looked around Mr. Thornton’s chaotic office. She couldn’t see this as the work of Captain Sutcliff. If a man was particular enough to have his shoes shined in the middle of the day, he’d ransack a place and leave it tidier than he found it. It looked more like a hasty job of packing—valuable objects like coins still sat on the shelf, yet personal mementos like the map of India were gone.

  She slipped her fingers around the revolver in her pocket.

  The worn ivory handle perfectly fit against her small palm.

  The stairs were quiet as she treaded upward. The bedroom was empty, a bureau left wide open. No sign of sickness or strangeness about the bathroom either. Had Mr. Thornton even made it home?

  The feeling of terrible wrongness increased as she went back downstairs to the study. If she summoned the police, then what? Captain Sutcliff was sure to find out that two wardens had been absent today, and if he knew she had been here, his suspicion of her and Mr. Sakaguchi would worsen. Actually, he was likely to blame them regardless. Belatedly, Ingrid set her hat on the desk and brushed a hand over her hair.

  The floor creaked behind her. Ingrid whirled around, drawing the pistol.

  A tall shadow of a man loomed in the doorway, and he moved as she did. With a flourish, he withdrew a metallic rod from beneath his jacket. At the twitch of his thumb it telescoped to the length of a walking stick. A blue orb topped the copper pipe. She immediately noted it wasn’t kermanite but some other stone.

  Heat rose to her skin. Gritting her teeth, she remembered Mr. Sakaguchi’s warning and shoved her power down again. She straightened her arm, the revolver at the ready.

  “You!” The stranger stepped into the light.

  “You!” Ingrid echoed, her jaw dropping in surprise. It was the fine-looking man who had spoken to her on the auxiliary steps, the one asking after Mr. Thornton. His hat was off, his brown hair mussed in a way that begged to be smoothed.

  She really hoped she didn’t have to shoot him.

  “What’s that?” Ingrid asked, motioning her gun toward the device in his hand.

  “A Tesla rod, miss. If the tip touches you, the reaction will be quite unpleasant.”

  “Tesla! That fellow who blew up half of Long Island a few years ago?” Ingrid hastily backtracked until she half sat on the desk. Papers splashed to the floor. She had already endured an explosion and been buried alive today, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

  He sighed as if he’d gotten such a reaction before. “It’s quite stable, miss. Nothing is going to blow up. Not unless I want it to.”

  “That’s hardly comforting. What are you doing here, sir?”

  “You suggested I drop by here, so that’s exactly what I’ve done. No one answered the phone.” He said this in as friendly a way as could be, as though they’d met in a café, no weapons involved.

  She eyed the Tesla rod and considered the man again. He didn’t strike her as a hooligan. He looked like a teacher or an accountant—and not a very well-off one, at that. His leather coat had a few years of wear to it, with the edges fuzzed to white. The condition of the jacket and tie beneath looked similar, being tidy yet shabby.

  Peculiar, though, how he showed up at the auxiliary so soon before it exploded. Ingrid lowered the pistol but kept it in her grip. No reason to trust the man, even if she wanted to admire him like a Remington bronze.

  “This morning, I do believe you mentioned you were a secretary at the auxiliary?”

  “Yes, I am, sir. Ingrid Carmichael. I work for Warden Sakaguchi, specifically, and assist the board.”

  “Don’t see many secretaries toting about pistols.”

  “Shooting is taught right along with coffee brewing, shorthand, and bookkeeping, though I haven’t taken the course in knife throwing yet. That’s next on the list.”

  Amusement glistened in his brown eyes. “Maybe I should look into this training as a secretary. Might come in handy.”

  “Always good to have another trade.” She almost smiled, but resisted the urge; no need to appear vulnerable. But goodness, this man made her want to smile, and for him to smile back. “Why’s your need for kermanite so urgent?”

  “It’s for an airship, miss. Newly built by myself and my partner. Just need the kermanite, and we’ll have her airborne.” He frowned. With a twist of his wrist, the rod fell back in on itself. “What happened here?”

  “I’m not sure. I came to check on Mr. Thornton and found the place like this.” She stepped forward a little as he tucked the rod back at his waist, but still kept her distance.

  “I wondered about that fine-smelling soup at the door. Have you checked upstairs?”

  “Yes. Most everywhere. He’s not here. The whole house is like this. What was your name again, sir?”

  “Mr. Cypress Jennings. Cy for short.” The smile faltered. “Shouldn’t we . . . contact the authorities?”

  She opened her lips to speak and then stopped. This Mr. Jennings sounded hesitant about calling the police. Did he have something to hide? Well, so did she, but at least she knew her reasons were valid.

  More importantly, this crisis needed to stay among the wardens. The public knew the auxiliary had exploded, but they didn’t know most everyone was presumed dead. If they did, there’d be a panic. Now, with this matter of Mr. Calhoun dead and Mr. Thornton missing, the situation had grown even more dire. Any evacuation needed to be handled in a proper manner, not spurred by gossip.

  “I need to consult wi
th Warden Sakaguchi.” She looked past Mr. Jennings to the wooden phone box on the wall. The switchboard line meant there’d be no chance of privacy, but if she could ask Mr. Sakaguchi to meet them at Mr. Thornton’s house, that’d be enough. “Pardon me, please.”

  Ingrid might have just happened to brush her body against his as she passed by. He felt as solid as he looked, though he quickly backstepped as a gentleman should.

  Goodness, she just met the man and here she was, all ready to drag him into the broom closet to sneak a kiss. She was almost giddy. She pulled the mouthpiece down and pressed her ear to the Bakelite receiver.

  “Hello? Hello? Central?” She stared at the mouthpiece in her hand. “There’s no sound.”

  “Allow me, miss.” Long, thick fingers plucked the mouthpiece away. Mr. Jennings inspected the box and then undid the latch to open the cabinet. “Here’s the problem. The kermanite’s gone. There’s no transmission power.”

  Other devices around the house had kermanite the right size to work in the telephone box, but Ingrid had no desire to linger here while a stone was wired in. “That explains why none of Mr. Sakaguchi’s calls got through. There are public telephones close by, but . . .”

  “I can drive you home, miss. If you don’t mind, that is. It’s a two-seater.” He ducked his head in a deferential way.

  She gnawed at her inner lip. Accepting autocar rides from strange men wasn’t a wise course of action, but she didn’t fancy another long walk, even downhill. Her legs might give out and she’d roll down Chestnut Street like a snowball in skirts.

  “If you don’t mind.” Caution edged her voice.

  “Not at all, miss, though I do have one favor to ask.”

  “And that is?”

  “Can you put the pistol away? Unless I really am your hostage, in which case we should probably get some rope to make it all official.”

  Amusement lit his eyes again, and it occurred to her that the obi of her dress could work quite well to bind someone. Hog-tying wasn’t a skill taught by Mama, but maybe Ingrid needed to look it up. It might come in handy.