Where Cowards Tread (Ravenwood Mysteries #7)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Watson sat on a stool, eyeing the remnants of bacon on a faraway plate. He had a calculating look in his feline eyes, and was measuring the distance with a wiggle of his rear end. No one was concerned that he would make the jump.

  This was the lull in the storm—the quiet between breakfast and chores. “…he was covered in honey and flour, pale as a ghost, his eyes wide, and naked as the day he was born—”

  “Ma!” Tobias tried to shush his mother, to no avail.

  Lily didn’t miss a beat. “I asked him what on earth he was doing. Do you know what he told me?”

  Tobias put his face in his hands, and tried to melt under the table.

  “He tells me, ‘I can’t figure out how white folks get the flour to stick.’”

  Laughter filled the kitchen as Isobel wandered inside. Riot was right behind her, a wooden box tucked under his arm.

  Maddie wiped the laughter from her eyes. “Toby had used up all the honey and flour, and we couldn’t get more because the snow was waist deep. But all ma did was laugh herself to tears. I thought she’d gone crazy that day.”

  “A sure sign of someone cracked,” Tim said, cackling.

  “You mean Miss Lily didn’t even scold him?” Sarah asked.

  Riot joined Isobel by the counter. She handed him a cup of tea, then poured herself coffee.

  Maddie was finding it hard to talk while she laughed. “No, ma’am. Ma put him in the stable with the sheep. They licked him clean.”

  “And that is why Tobias won’t go near a sheep to this day,” Lily said.

  Tobias crossed his arms. “That wasn’t right, Ma. That just wasn’t right.”

  “Did they hurt you?” Lily asked.

  “I was covered in drool! And they tried to eat—” Tobias cut off, ears near to burning.

  “Bet you never did that again,” Tim said. “That’s cabin fever at its finest. Stranger things have happened, ain’t that right, A.J.?”

  Riot was leaning against the counter, blowing on his tea. “Are you referring to the time you and some other miners decided to put on a Parisian fashion show in the middle of winter in the Klondike?”

  Tim beamed. “I won, too.”

  When the laughter died, Isobel asked, “Do you keep old newspapers, Miss Lily?”

  “I do. Down near the boiler by the coal pile.”

  Without a word Isobel darted from the kitchen. Riot watched her leave, slightly puzzled. But then the woman was a constant puzzle.

  Lily indicated an empty chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Riot.”

  “I’m afraid we’re running late.”

  “Dam—darn straight,” Tim hastily corrected, checking his watch. “We have an agency meeting.”

  “I do recall,” Riot said.

  “Yet you missed breakfast.” Tim eyed him with a knowing glint.

  Riot ignored the older man, and sipped his tea.

  “What’s in the box?” Sarah asked.

  Riot had set the sleek wooden box on the counter. It had a red bow around it. “I’ll let Bel explain,” he said.

  Tim pushed back his chair. “Thank you, Miss Lily. A fine breakfast as always.” The old man plucked up his own plate and hers, and carried them to the sink. There was no place for formality in the family kitchen. Everyone helped themselves.

  Isobel soon came rushing back with her satchel stuffed to brimming and bumping against her side. Her hair was unruly, neither long nor short, wisps stuck out in untamed directions. A smudge of coal was on her nose, and her blouse sleeves had similar stains. Riot found himself smiling at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You,” he said softly.

  Steely eyes narrowed on him, and he handed her the wooden box to distract her. Isobel turned to the table. “Here.” She set the box in front of Jin.

  “What is this?” Jin asked.

  “It’s a birthday present.”

  “It’s Jin’s birthday?” Sarah exclaimed. “I had no idea. How old are you?”

  Jin frowned at the long wooden box tied with a bow. “I was born in the year of the Ox, but I do not remember the day.”

  “You’re one step ahead of me,” Riot said. He knew neither the day nor the year of his own birth. He figured he was either close to forty or a nudge past it, so he tended to make up an age on a whim. “We would have given you the gift yesterday, but that would have put it on the seventh.”

  “Why does that matter?” Sarah asked.

  “Seven is considered unlucky. July is a ‘ghost month’ and…” He paused. “Regardless, many happy returns.”

  “I’ll bake a cake for you tonight,” Maddie offered.

  “I do not like celebrations,” Jin said, though she held the box with reverence.

  “That’s what we figured. You’re safe for this year,” Isobel said, giving the girl’s braid a fond tug. Jin was too stunned to glare at her, or kick her shin.

  “Open it!” Tobias ordered.

  Jin scowled, but the other children took up the chant and Jin gave in. She set her gift on the table, removed the bow, and opened the box. Jin frowned down at the leather case inside, then picked up a card, and read it to herself. The girl swallowed. With eyes downcast, she snapped the lid shut, tucked the box under an arm and hurried from the kitchen.

  “She didn’t open it,” Sarah said, dismayed.

  “She didn’t clear her plate,” Tobias accused.

  “Is she all right?” Maddie asked.

  Isobel stared at a spot on the floorboards—a single water drop in the doorway. A tear. Without comment, Isobel handed her satchel to Riot and hurried after the child.

  “She’s likely overwhelmed,” Riot explained. He nearly followed, but knew Jin had an easier time confiding in Isobel.

  Grimm stood, his shoulders hunched. He always stood that way. The lanky young man either didn’t know what to do with his height or he wanted to hide from the world. It was easy to forget he was there. Grimm quietly picked up Jin’s plate, and set about doing the dishes.

  Sarah sighed. “If anyone is wondering, my birthday is November seventeenth, and I love celebrations.”

  “Noted.” Riot said.

  “What did you get her?” Sarah asked.

  “It’s a surprise,” Riot said. He placated the girl’s arguments with a kiss on the top of her head. Sarah smiled up at him.

  “We gonna need the hack?” Tim asked.

  “We’ll take the cable car,” Riot said.

  Lily pushed back her chair, and gave a look to the remaining children. They got to work without complaint.

  Riot eyed the food, but his stomach hadn’t recovered from the Amsel’s feast. And his head was still throbbing from the effects of Marcus’s liquor cabinet. Riot finished off his tea, and went with Tim to wait in the foyer.

  Isobel climbed the stairs to the very top of the manor. She tried to imagine an old man and his housekeeper living in this house alone. How quiet it must have been. No clicking of heels, no drifting voices, no creaky stairs, and definitely no child bolting up four floors like a gust of wind. Was she growing old at twenty-one? Or had she never been exposed to the exuberance of youth?

  Isobel paused at the attic door. There was another flight of stairs behind it. She tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. Isobel poked her head inside. “Jin?” she called softly.

  No answer.

  Taking silence as an invitation, she climbed the last flight of stairs and gazed around the attic room. She would have loved the room as a child—private, with access to the roof and a rope ladder. Far away from parental supervision, and buffered by too many stairs. It was perfect.

  Jin stood in front of the window, her body stiff and her shoulders set. Isobel knew by the severity of the child’s spine that she was struggling with emotion. The box lay on a desk.

  “This is why I never give anyone a present. It sends them running away,” Isobel said lightly.

  “I cannot accept it,” Jin bit out.

  Isobel walked slowly across the room to stand
beside the girl. Jin turned slightly, so Isobel couldn’t see her face.

  “I knew we should have bought you a frilly dress.”

  Jin crossed her arms.

  Humor wasn’t helping. Isobel placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Jin, talk to me.”

  Jin took a step to the side. Her lips were set. Her cheeks dry. “I cannot accept the gift,” she repeated.

  Isobel considered her adopted daughter. One thing she had learned about the damaged child was to never back Jin into a corner, figuratively or literally. And most especially, emotionally.

  “That’s all right, then. But I’d like you to keep it safe for me. For a time.”

  A lash fluttered. “I might break it.”

  “It’s been around the world at least twice. You’re a tempest, but it’s seen worse.” Isobel touched the back of Jin’s neck briefly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  She made to leave, but Jin broke. The girl turned and slipped her arms around Isobel’s waist, burying her face against her blouse. Jin held on for a fierce moment. Isobel could feel the child trembling.

  Isobel smoothed her hair, then placed a kiss on the top of her head. Deeply scarred, both mentally and physically, Jin had watched hatchet men butcher her parents, and then had spent years with a cruel woman. This wasn’t something that would be fixed overnight. Words wouldn’t heal the child, and so Isobel said nothing—only held her.

  “I am a bad daughter,” Jin said, her voice muffled. She turned her head, and rested it against Isobel’s stomach.

  “I’m a bad mother, but then we haven’t been at this very long, have we?” Isobel placed her hands on Jin’s shoulders and stepped back to catch the girl’s eyes.

  Jin’s eyes flicked to the floorboards, and stayed there. Isobel studied the girl’s face. Scars crisscrossed her cheeks. Some made with a knife. Others with fingernails. Jin was always difficult to read. She churned with emotion but kept it all hidden.

  “Why do you think you’re a bad daughter?”

  The moment Isobel asked the question, she knew she’d get no reply. Jin had clammed up, and pressing her would only make her retreat farther.

  Isobel sighed. She gave the girl another hug. Jin didn’t resist. “Remember, I chose you,” she whispered. “I won’t be mad, Jin. Whatever is going on. I won’t be mad with you. All right?”

  Jin nodded.

  Isobel waited. Hoping. But Jin only turned back to her window.

  The old man rocked impatiently on his heels. “We could bring Jin with us.”

  “Bel and I considered it, but thought it best if she settled in here,” Riot said, as he poked through the newspapers in Isobel’s satchel. There was no rhyme or reason to them. Some of the dates were years old.

  Tim was shaking his head. “I worry about that girl. I’ve seen soldiers with that same look in their eyes.”

  “So do I,” Riot said.

  “Either way, she’s a bright one. Before she ran off to that asylum, she picked up everything I showed her like she was born to it.”

  Riot turned slightly. “What precisely did you teach her, Tim?”

  Tim paused. He put on his “innocent” face. But before he could think of an answer, Isobel appeared at the top of the landing. Without breaking stride, she hopped up on the banister, slid down sidesaddle, and hopped off before reaching the end post. She landed easily on her feet, and took back her satchel.

  Riot helped her into a coat. “Is everything all right?” he whispered over her shoulder.

  He felt her sigh. “I don’t know. Love can sting, I suppose.”

  It could. It pierced armor and defenses and went straight for the heart. “Should we keep her with us for the day?”

  Isobel gave a slight shake of her head. “I think she needs some space to let things settle.”

  Riot nodded and got the door. Isobel and Tim headed through. As Riot turned to put his key in the lock, Isobel asked, “What was the other reason for Jin’s birthday being on the eighth?”

  “In Canontese the word ‘seven’ closely resembles a vulgar word for penis,” Riot said.

  Isobel laughed. “You’ll have to teach me that one.”

  “Gawd, you have a mouth on you already, girl,” Tim said.

  “I can always use a larger vocabulary,” she shot back.

  “A big gun works best.”

  “Says the short old man.”

  “Who’s still kicking.”

  The three strolled to Union Street, and crowded onto a cable car. Isobel stood on a runner just under Riot’s arm, crushed between a woman draped in furs and a grizzled man whose girth threatened to get him sideswiped by street traffic. Every time a wagon or cable car passed, the man had to suck in his gut.

  Isobel seemed oblivious to the commotion of the city, her fingers drumming on the overstuffed satchel. She must have taken the entire burn pile.

  They disembarked along Montgomery Street and followed Tim towards Washington Square, near where the new agency was located. Tim stopped in front of a run-down saloon-cum-whore house turned detective agency. Riot inspected the front, his stick clicking on the boardwalk as he walked along, eyeing the brick building.

  “I know it don’t look like much now,” Tim said. “But work has been busy, and I don’t have a whole lotta time on my hands.”

  “I didn’t say a thing, Tim,” Riot said.

  Tim harrumphed. “But you was thinking it.”

  “Am I so transparent?”

  “This girl here has ruined your cool hand.”

  Surprisingly, Isobel didn’t take his bait. She was deep in thought and Riot knew better than to disturb his wife when she had that look on her face. Something was gnawing at her mind, and she’d only come to it when she was ready.

  The windows were a threat—easy to shoot through—so Tim had bricked most of them in, leaving only the two in the front that were next to the door. But they were large and new, with bright gold letters on them.

  But Isobel wasn’t looking at the saloon-cum-detective agency. Her gaze was down the street on the whorehouses. “Can I borrow some money from you, Riot?”

  “Everything I have is yours, Bel.”

  Isobel glanced at him, and held out her hand. He gave over his billfold and she marched off with the whole thing. Riot stood somewhere between amused and stunned.

  Tim chortled. “What do you suppose…” The old man trailed off as they watched Isobel corner a group of news boys. Riot couldn’t make out her words, but she offered them each a cigarette, and flipped them a coin.

  The group scattered.

  Riot leaned on his walking stick, waiting for her to return. She handed him back his billfold. “You can take it out of my wages.” Her eyes danced with amusement. Then she marched through the door, barely glanced at the room inside, and ignored the greeting of the ever cheerful Matthew Smith. Without further ado, She upended her satchel on the battered bar, and began sifting through her newspapers.

  4

  Sharp As A Knife

  Sao Jin sat in a corner clutching the wooden box. She stared at the present. A gift for her, and her alone.

  Jin had received a gift before—a wooden duck. It had happened in another lifetime.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to melt into the wall at her back. The wood under her fingertips was familiar. Painfully so. But instead of a box, she felt the grain of her little wooden duck. She remembered joy. It was a distant thing—like a long forgotten language.

  To calm herself, Jin counted to ten in English the way Isobel had taught her. Then she counted in Cantonese, Latin, Portuguese, and finally German.

  A full minute passed. She opened her eyes.

  The attic room was vast by her reckoning. The wooden walls had been whitewashed by Sarah and Tobias. A warm rug sat on the floor by her bed, and downy blankets covered a plush mattress. A desk, a wardrobe, and even a trunk that locked. All hers.

  She could decorate the room anyway she pleased, but Jin didn’t know what she wanted for he
rself. She had never had a room. She didn’t even know who she was. For the past five years, she had simply lived for the sake of survival with a smoldering fury deep in her gut.

  Fury had kept her alive.

  And now she held a present in her hands. Jin stroked the wood, tracing the path of its life—the grooves and knots and smooth patches, like Jin’s own skin.

  Jin knew from experience that joy was fleeting. What if Isobel and Atticus were killed? She looked down at her present, but all she saw was a little wooden duck covered in blood.

  Jin took a deep breath through a snotty nose. Annoyed that she had been crying, she opened the wooden box and stared at its contents.

  She ignored the card for now. That was too painful.

  Carefully, she picked up a battered leather case and slid out a sleek tube. Leather capped both ends. It was a spyglass made of brass and mahogany, she realized.

  Jin removed the leather end caps, and extended the spyglass. She put it to her eye. Her whitewashed room jumped into high focus. She lowered it to study the wood. It was worn but well cared for. Many hands had held this spyglass. V.S. was etched in the grain.

  Jin replaced the leather caps, and turned to the box. The note inside still stung. The words were like a dagger to her heart. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.

  She placed the box on the floor, and closed her eyes.

  Eventually a soft something rubbed against the back of her hand. Softness was accompanied by a loud purr. Then a low growl. Jin opened her eyes. A giant orange and white head nudged her hand, then nibbled her.

  “Ow. Get away from me, you stupid cat.”

  Watson fell on his side, rolled, and began batting the end of her braid. Jin snatched her braid away. The giant cat stretched, and extended his claws to grab her spyglass case. Jin hissed at him.

  Watson narrowed his eyes. And sneezed. Twice. Then he rolled over, and with a flick of a tail sauntered over to her bed. For a large cat, he was surprisingly spry. One giant leap had him curled on her bedspread.

  Jin set the box on her desk, and marched over to the feline.

  “That is my bed. Leave. Now.”