by Rysa Walker
“Comstock’s not a problem. Did he look at your face? Because he barely glanced at mine. Colonel Blood might notice the difference, or one of the others, but Comstock? No way.”
Several minutes later, I’m in Prudence’s black dress and stockings. Her shoes, however, are nearly two sizes smaller than mine, and I can’t squeeze into them. My black ballet flats are more obvious beneath this slightly shorter skirt, but we don’t have another option.
Prudence doesn’t even bother to put on my dress. She flings it and her boots over one arm and stands there in a very modern-looking bra and pale-blue panties with a Smurf face on the front.
“Tell them I jumped,” she says, tugging on the window.
“Are you kidding? No one could walk away from that jump.”
“Fine. Tell them I used a time key and went back to the frickin’ future. Your choice.”
She snaps to attention. I hear it, too—voices. Downstairs. Female voices.
“They’re back. I need to go. Give me the damn key!”
My hand wraps instinctively around the spare key, and I have to force myself to drop it into her hand. This could be a huge, gigantic, enormous mistake.
Prudence smiles and hugs me. I stiffen at first, but make myself hug her back. It’s not as hard as it was in London. This Pru has some rough edges, but she wasn’t nearly as horrid as a teen. It’s a little easier to see why Kiernan was attracted to her.
“I’ll see you back at the Farm,” she says. “But when?”
“You said—”
“Never mind. You can’t tell me that.” Pru sighs. “Believe me, I’ve heard it before. Is the Farm even on this key?”
No, no, no. I didn’t think about that.
“I don’t know! You gave it to me. Just go somewhere that’s not here!”
At almost the exact moment Pru disappears, the door swings open, and a woman steps into the office. “I need a few minutes to gather my things.”
I recognize her from the photos. It’s Woodhull’s sister, Tennessee Claflin—or Tennie C., as she’s usually known. Her dress is similar to the one Victoria wore at Apollo Hall—like a women’s version of a business suit, with a black jacket and skirt, a crisp white shirt with a narrow row of ruffles down the front, and a purple ribbon at her throat. It fits her differently, however—she’s much more curvaceous than her sister.
“Prudence!” I get the sense that she was expecting to see someone in the office, but not me.
“Blood sent Zulu to the attic,” I whisper.
She nods, then says, “How unfortunate that you were caught up in this. But with any luck, our attorney will have us—”
Comstock pushes through the door, with Victoria and Colonel Blood just behind. Judging from the sisters’ expressions, not to mention Colonel Blood’s casual attitude earlier and the stripped-clean state of this office, they expected the arrest. It’s good publicity—the price for a copy of the paper will skyrocket over the next few days, and I suspect they’re savvy enough to have ensured that most of the money comes their way.
“Where’s the other one?” Comstock demands. “Where’s your sister?”
“What sister?” Victoria asks.
“She jumped.” I glance over my shoulder at the open window.
“Oh dear God!” Tennie rushes to the window, probably expecting to see a body on the bricks below.
“I don’t think she was hurt,” I say. “At least not badly. She walked away.”
Comstock yells into the outer office. “Colfax! Adams! One of them escaped through the window. The one in that . . . that dress. She can’t have gotten far. Go after her!”
“Why?” Colfax asks. “From what Colonel Blood said, that girl wasn’t involved with the paper.”
“Perhaps not, but she’s engaged in immoral activities. You heard the man outside. She propositioned him . . . in broad daylight.”
I’m definitely wishing I’d kicked him now, no matter how many people were watching.
“Sorry. Unless she’s advertising her services through the mail, she’s committed no crime under my jurisdiction as a federal agent.” Colfax delivers this line with an air of satisfaction that I suspect is directly related to the unsmoked cigar in his pocket.
Comstock sputters, then points to Woodhull and Blood. “Then grab these two and toss them in the wagon.”
“You don’t need to grab or toss us,” Victoria says in a very gracious tone as she and Blood walk into the outer office. “We’ll go peacefully. This is a clear violation of our rights under the First Amendment. My attorney will have us out by nightfall. Is your wagon covered, Officer? I believe we’re in for a bit of rain.”
I’m sure Comstock imagined this scene playing out differently, with the wicked Woodhull being dragged from her office screaming obscenities. Yet here she is strolling out with Adams, calmly chatting about the weather. He stares for a moment, looking disgusted by the whole situation, then steps forward to grab Tennie’s arm.
She jerks away. “I’ll also come willingly, but I need a moment alone first.”
“No,” Comstock says. “You might jump, too.”
“Hardly. The things I need are upstairs, in my personal quarters. It’s difficult to imagine someone jumping from here without injury. I’d hardly take that risk from the top floor.”
“No,” Comstock repeats, gripping her arm harder this time, and though she tries to wrench away, she can’t. “Colfax, take the other one.”
Colfax steps into the office, and Tennie looks at him imploringly. “I hope you are more reasonable than this gentleman, sir. I need a moment alone to attend to a personal matter.” She pauses and then adds, “Of a feminine nature.”
Colfax’s face turns slightly red. Comstock’s eyes bug out, and he drops Tennie’s arm like it’s on fire, brushing his hand against his jacket.
“I have to go with her,” I say. “Same reason.”
“Of course,” Colfax stammers, moving away from the door. “We’ll . . . um . . . just . . . wait. In the stairwell. Until you’re . . . done.”
Comstock doesn’t speak. He’s still trying to pull in a breath, and his face is turning a rather alarming shade of purple.
I follow Tennie, who’s wearing a pleased grin. “Works every time,” she says as she unlocks the attic door, “especially with the pious types. But why did you follow me? I just need to speak with Zulu—”
“And I need to speak with you.”
The attic room is dark except for the sunlight coming through a single window, partially blocked by the shoulders of a young man looking outside. Several cots are on the floor, along with a bed and two chairs. Stacks of papers are everywhere, scattered among the books and office equipment.
Zulu comes running over and hugs her aunt. The green hat is still hanging on her back. The young man follows her, making strange noises. This must be Byron, Victoria’s older child who was born with brain damage.
Tennie pulls him into the hug, too. “It’s all right, Byron,” she says, rubbing his back. “But we still need to be very, very quiet and stay in the chair. Can you do that for Aunt Tennie?”
Byron nods and put his finger to mouth, making a shh sound. He then goes back to his chair near the window, still holding the finger to his lips.
“Zulu, once everyone has gone, get Byron to Aunt Utica.”
Her face falls. “Can’t we just stay here? I can take care of him, you know I can! Utica’s mean as a snake—”
“I know you can take care of him. But I suspect the police may come back to search after we’re gone. I don’t want you dealing with them if we can help it. Roxy and Papa Buck are at Utica’s. Byron will be okay with them overnight. You both will.”
Neither Tennessee nor Zulu look convinced by the statement, but Zulu says, “Yes, Aunt Tennie.” Then she looks at me. “Did you come up because you want your hat back?”
I glance down at the dress. “How did you know it was me?”
“Your eyes. And the pink spot on your neck.”<
br />
My hand flies up to my right jawline. The scar is barely noticeable now, just a slightly discolored patch.
“Why did you swap clothes? The other dress was much prettier.”
I give her a weak smile. “You can keep the hat. And you have sharp eyes.”
“I do,” Zulu says. “Mama and Aunt Tennie say I’ll make a good writer for the newspaper in a few years.”
At the word newspaper, Tennie scans the stacks of papers and equipment along the edges of the room and sighs.
Zulu picks up on that, too. “Do you want me and Byron to take the papers with us?”
“No, sweetheart. We got two cartloads of them onto the streets before that foul little man arrived. That will have to do. Every word on those pages is truth, and we have the right to print them. We have a friend across town who’ll print another run tonight. You just watch out for Byron and yourself.”
Then Tennie turns to me with a piercing look. “So who exactly are you? Why would you swap places with Prudence if you knew those men planned to arrest her?”
“We’re after the same thing, Ms. Claflin. Your sister took something that belongs to us. We need it back.”
“Is this about that ugly hourglass pendant? Prudence gave that to Vickie. That’s what she told me, and my sister always tells me the truth.”
I start to object, but she holds up a hand and leans down to Zulu. “We have to go now. Keep Byron away from the window, okay? Someone might spot him. Mama and I will see you tomorrow at the very, very latest.”
Zulu nods and goes over to her brother, watching wistfully as we leave.
“Comstock is probably already headed to the courthouse,” Tennie says. “I thought his head was going to explode. But they’re probably getting impatient, and even if you aren’t actually Prudence, you’ll have to come with us. Otherwise they’ll come looking for you, and they’ll find Zulu and Byron.”
“It’s okay. I have to talk to Victoria anyway. I’d be happy to pay her for the pendant.”
She laughs, heading down the stairs in front of me. “Too late for that. Vickie sold the dreadful thing weeks ago—along with almost everything else we owned, trying to scrape up the rent.”
“Sold it? To whom?”
She doesn’t answer. Marshal Colfax is on the landing, alone. I glance into the office as we pass by, but I don’t see Comstock anywhere, so Tennie may have been right.
“Hello, Mr. Colfax,” Tennie says. She slips her hand into the crook of his arm and smiles coquettishly up at him. “I’m ready to go now. Shall we?”
Ten minutes later, I’m squeezed into a carriage between Tennie and Adams, the younger marshal. Woodhull and Blood are across from us. Comstock is long gone, and Colfax opted to ride up top with the driver.
Tennie squeezes closer to the window. “They should have let us walk to the courthouse. It would be faster than these oxen move. More comfortable, too.”
I really want to ask about the lack of horses, but I bite my tongue. Everyone else seems to know what’s going on, and confessing my ignorance on this point won’t do anything to improve my current situation.
“Since we’re going to be in here for a while,” I say to Victoria, “perhaps we could talk about my medallion. The one you borrowed?”
She sniffs. “I understood that was a gift, Miss Pierce. A token of appreciation after my nomination for the presidency.”
My arm is pressed against Adams’s side, so I feel his ribs move as he struggles to hold in a chuckle. His poker face must need work, too, because Victoria gives him a knowing look.
“Do you doubt the government would be a better place if women were involved, Officer Adams? Would your mother allow the level of corruption we see in this city? Would she vote for leaders who let children starve in the streets while the wealthy live in splendor? Or would she demand accountability?”
Adams doesn’t respond. She’s winding up to speak again, but I cut her off.
“It wasn’t a gift. I was trying to be polite, but you took it without permission. And I need it back.”
“I tell you what,” Vicky says. “I’ll have my attorney represent you so you don’t have to spend more than, oh, let’s say a week or so in jail. Surely that’s adequate payment for such a paltry trinket?”
“It was my grandmother’s. I don’t want to stay in this city—there’s no work for me here—but I can’t return home without the pendant. My grandfather will be furious, and . . . he isn’t a kind man.”
There’s a bit of truth in the mix, but Victoria isn’t buying it. “Demosthenes says the medallion isn’t even yours.”
I have no idea who this Demosthenes person is, but she’s talking like I should know him. “Then Demosthenes is lying.”
Victoria draws back like I’ve just slapped her. “The spirits cannot lie! I know exactly why you want the pendant, but something like that belongs in the hands of someone capable of communing with the spirits. And I no longer have it, anyway. I couldn’t figure out how to work . . . the clasp. So I sold it.”
“To whom?”
“An acquaintance who deals in such items. I thought he might be able to make it work, and he was willing to give me six bits.”
Seventy-five cents? She didn’t even hold out for a dollar. “Would you give me his name and address? I’ll gladly pay him double that—”
The mention of cash jolts Colonel Blood awake. “Since when do you have money? Last I heard you were sleeping on a rooftop outside Molly’s place. Can’t see why she wouldn’t let you have one of the beds.”
Victoria and Blood both laugh. I don’t get the joke until I remember the jerk outside their office—one of his friends said something about “Molly’s girls.”
“That’s not funny,” Tennie snaps. I’m not sure why she’s taking my side, but it’s clear their little joke didn’t sit well with her. “Is that the job you recommended her for? A brothel?”
Victoria glances at the marshal and gives her sister a cautionary look. “Of course not, Tennie. Molly needed another girl to work in her kitchen. The job only paid room and board, however.” She gives my bag another pointed look.
“My mother sent me money to come home,” I say through clenched teeth. “Not much. Just enough for a ticket and maybe some food. I’ll walk home if I have to, but I can’t go back without the medallion.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Miss Pierce.”
Tennie looks at her reproachfully, then goes back to staring out the carriage window. We’ve just turned onto Broadway, clomping slowly past the shoeshine stand, where the group of boys is still gathered.
The trees along the edge of City Hall Park have just come into view when Tennie says, “The man is Ira Davenport. Or possibly his brother, William. Ira was in Boston for the meeting of the American Spiritualist Association back in September.”
“Tennessee Claflin! How dare you!” Victoria whacks her sister’s knee with her handbag.
“Oh, be still, Vicky. You’re being petty. I told you I didn’t detect anything connected to spirits when I held the stupid thing. It couldn’t possibly transport anyone to the spirit realm.”
The connection my mind was trying to make earlier finally snaps into place—Houdini’s interest in spiritualism. And while it could be wishful thinking, I’m fairly certain I saw the name Davenport in the books about Houdini.
“Thank you,” I say. Tennie nods, but doesn’t look my way.
The carriage draws to a stop outside the courthouse. Word of the arrest seems to have spread quickly. The sidewalks are packed, with people spilling over into the park. Comstock stands on the steps, waiting to take credit for his latest effort to protect the city’s virtue.
“I doubt the information will do you any good,” Victoria says, straightening the blue tie at her neck. “The Davenports are currently on tour. And even if I decide to ask our attorney to represent you—and I’m not at all certain that I shall—there’s still the matter of bail. Did your mother send enough for that?” She sm
iles, moving toward the door. “I suspect you’ll be here a lot longer than we will.”
And you’d be dead wrong, I think.
Colonel Blood holds out his hand to help Vicky out of the carriage. Tennie follows, and while her skirts are blocking the door, I pull out my key and vanish.
∞13∞
EASTBOURNE, GREAT BRITAIN
April 26, 1905, 9:27 p.m.
Kiernan’s exactly where I left him when I jump back into the alley near the Hippodrome.
“How long were you gone?” he asks, his voice tinged with suspicion.
“Long enough to get the information I need.”
“Where did you get that?” He’s looking at the 1905 dress I’m wearing.
I don’t answer because he knows perfectly well where I got it—from the guest room closet at his cabin in Georgia. Prudence is off somewhere in time with the mutilated remains of the dress he bought, and the clothing options at Katherine’s are nearly depleted, so I didn’t have much choice.
“You should have asked.”
“Why? From what you’ve told me, it’s my dress.”
Kiernan’s jaw tightens, and for a moment it looks like he’s going to disagree. “Perhaps. But when last I checked, it was inside my house.”
He has a point. Our relationship has changed a lot since he said the room was mine whenever I needed it. No big shock, I guess, when it’s been six years for him. And I’m glad that he’s moved past the point of building a cabin in the woods for a girl who’ll never live there.
But I miss his friendship. Maybe he never really thought of me that way—as a friend, even if we couldn’t be more than that—but it was nice to feel I wasn’t entirely alone in all of this.
“Fine, Kiernan. I’ll keep my dress in my closet from now on. Would you like to erase your cottage’s stable point from my key while we’re establishing boundaries?”
I try to keep the snarky tone to a minimum, but it’s definitely still in the mix.
He stomps off down the sidewalk without responding. I follow at my own speed, making no special effort to keep up with his longer stride. I can just as easily not talk to him from ten paces behind.