Saskia shook her head.
“Because she kicks ass,” said Paige. She gave Saskia a look of such tender admiration, Saskia felt a burst of pride despite herself.
“No one’s gonna be able to top that performance,” added Adrienne.
And it was true. When the other girls took their turns, none held their fingers over the lit wick for even half so long. None even got a blister. Saskia felt an odd sense of victory, like she’d won some kind of contest. A masochistic contest, but a contest, nonetheless. Her triumph, however, did not block out the pain, which continued to throb even after the Tylenol and ice.
At least she had Lila’s story to look forward to. But Lila seemed more aloof now and even a little panicked, though her initiation had been easy. She demurred when the girls pressed her for details on her Mercury Boy, claiming she didn’t feel ready to tell them yet; she had to be in the right state of mind, and all she felt now was tired and concerned about Saskia’s burn.
Fortunately, Sara Beth came to the rescue, volunteering to explain how she’d met her Mercury Boy, Mack. She rubbed her hands together gleefully, and the girls hooted and hollered in anticipation, Saskia loudest of all.
Sara Beth
Sara Beth felt pulled as if by a great magnet to the enormous building in front of her. It seemed both majestic and magical—a vision of shiny glass and cast iron that stirred something deep and well rooted inside her. The stuff of her childhood imagination, before a volcanic eruption of teenage cynicism had covered it up.
She had seen more modern buildings—buildings so tall they pierced the clouds. But this one was more fascinating somehow. Like something out of a fairy tale or Roald Dahl’s imagination. She liked the flags waving from its spires, the grand dome glistening at its center, the sunlight glinting off its countless windows, reflecting so much light that she wanted sunglasses.
“That’s it,” she heard someone say. “The Crystal Palace.”
The Crystal Palace? How perfect, she thought.
She moved closer, trying to get a better look. Hundreds of people were flowing like a river in the same direction. Men and women. Children skipping and scampering in excitement. Tut-tutting mothers.
Sara Beth began to notice that people were leering at her. “What’s your problem?” she demanded, giving one woman the stink eye.
The woman grabbed her umbrella a little tighter and turned away. Sara Beth saw that she wasn’t holding an umbrella after all, but a parasol. A delicate parasol of lace and pale pink silk. How weird. Then again, all the people here were dressed strangely. The women wore bonnets and big, billowy skirts. The men wore old-fashioned double-breasted suits, their watch fobs swinging as they walked. Sara Beth felt like she’d landed in the middle of a Victorian play. Even the little girls were decked out in frilly white dresses.
Sara Beth shook her head. Why on earth would anyone dress grubby-fingered, snotty-nosed kids in white?
Nearing the Crystal Palace, she tried to shrug off a sense of displacement and confusion. Where was she? Who were these rude people who kept gaping at her? Normally she was good at brushing things off, but this time it was hard. Her heart raced and her head pounded as she spun around, trying to find something—anything—that looked familiar. Finally, she tugged on the sleeve of a passerby.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Where am I?”
The man stopped abruptly. He was old, white haired, and slow moving. He leaned heavily on a curved cane with an embellished handle.
“Where am I?” she repeated anxiously.
“The Exhibition of the Industry of All Nations.”
It sounded like gibberish, like too many prepositional phrases strung together.
“What?” she asked.
“New York City, young lady.”
“Really?”
The man’s rheumy eyes peered into hers with a combination of curiosity and reproach. With his free hand, he tapped the side of his head. “Some advice from an elder, if I may. Stay away from the dens, my dear. Opium melts the brain.”
More confused than ever, Sara Beth watched the man lope away. Desperate for space, for a chance to think, she snaked her way out of the crowd. She tried to wrap her head around what the man had said. New York City. But how was that possible? The ground beneath her was bare earth, not asphalt. The skyline showed no skyscrapers, just a lot of small buildings and chimneys and trees and undeveloped land. Sara Beth spotted green fields and even roaming cows!
The only sign of urbanity, besides the Crystal Palace, was a slim wooden tower, triangular in shape, crosshatched with metal braces and culminating in a sharp steeple. Sara Beth had no idea what it was. Carriages, horses, and foot traffic trampled past in both directions, kicking up clouds of dust. On the corner, she spotted a sign.
Forty-Second Street.
Could it be?
She drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Then she smiled. Now she was beginning to understand. Now this mayhem was starting to make sense. She didn’t recognize anything because she was in a different time. Around the 1850s, if she remembered Saskia correctly. That was when daguerreotypes had become fashionable. That was when the young man she’d chosen must have had his portrait made.
She remembered that “Rees & Co., Broadway” was stamped at the lower right section of the daguerreotype’s brass mat. Before, that could have been any Broadway, in any town. But now it was clear Rees & Co. had been in New York City. The Big Apple. That was where she was going to meet him—whoever he was.
She shuddered, feeling just as Saskia said she would. Thrilled and terrified at the same time.
With a new sense of purpose, she strode back toward the Crystal Palace. She didn’t know why, but she was sure she would spot him there. This time when people gawked at her, she smirked at them. Stare all you want, losers. Soon you’ll be pushing up daisies, but I’ll still be alive.
She elbowed her way to a ticket office at the building’s entrance. The throngs were even thicker here, and more rude, but she rode a wave of people all the way through the door. She didn’t stop to pay the fifty-cent admission fee. She couldn’t. She didn’t have anything in her pockets except lint. But she wasn’t worried. She and Paige had done this kind of thing before, getting in for free. Concerts, clubs, bars—you name it. It was a matter of confidence. Act like you had every right to be somewhere, and people would think you did, especially if you were a pretty girl.
The main entranceway spilled into an airy glass atrium. The domed ceiling seemed a mile high. Even so, the sun beat heavily into the interior, giving the Crystal Palace the tropical, compressive feel of a greenhouse. Looking up, Sara Beth saw that there were two stories. Visitors on the second level peered down at her, their hands gripping a waist-high railing that wound ornately around the perimeter. Nearby, a man welcomed visitors, his voice booming through a megaphone. He was wearing a candy-cane-striped suit, reminding her of an old-fashioned carnival barker.
“Get your souvenirs hee-ah!” he cried. “Ashtrays, canes, medals for the gents. Thimbles, spoons, handkerchiefs for the ladies! Bring home a piece of history. A memento from the greatest collection of American ingenuity and invention ever assembled!”
Sara Beth wandered. The main room resembled a church’s nave: huge and rectangular, replete with columns and arches. Its sides were sectioned off into open rooms, with items divided by subject matter and region. There were so many things to see, she soon felt overwhelmed trying to take it all in. She passed a gallery of fine paintings; a fire engine and schooner; rooms full of tapestries, sculptures, and busts. She browsed clocks, lamps, safes, safety pins, and a lighthouse lens. She admired a fountain that shot arcs of water into the air and a gun that looked like it belonged in Billy the Kid’s holster. She saw more machines than she’d ever seen in her life—machines that sewed, printed, combed hair, carried water, sifted gold, made wood pulp, extracted teeth, washed dishes, and
stirred ice cream. Most of them seemed primitive and quaint, things she might find in her great-grandmother’s basement. But she realized from the astonished expressions of the people around her that these devices must have been extraordinary for their time.
“See the miracles of this age,” she heard another carnival barker shout. “The height of modern technology!”
She scurried past a statue of Christ and his apostles. She and her sister had been raised as Protestants, but she didn’t like to remember those long, boring hours in Sunday school. She’d always hated the idea of the Holy Trinity watching her every move, determining whether she was a better fit for heaven or hell. Given her penchant for trouble, it was already pretty clear where she was headed.
Finally, she passed a photography exhibit—ambrotypes, calotypes, cyanotypes, and—yes—even daguerreotypes. The only photography method that used mercury, Saskia had said. The only one that was magical.
Sara Beth expected to spot the man in her daguerreotype here, gazing at these same photographs. It was only fitting. She flitted through the people, anxious to find him. But he was nowhere to be seen. She continued to roam, growing increasingly worried. Perhaps her instincts had been wrong—perhaps he was nowhere near the Crystal Palace.
Just when she considered leaving, though, she spotted him. She should have known he’d be in the very center of the hubbub. Standing on a high podium of polished marble, beside a theatrical statue of George Washington on horseback, he looked larger than life. A crowd formed a semicircle around him. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed him before.
She drew closer, watching him talk candidly, hands animated, smile megawatt bright. He was dressed exactly as he was in the daguerreotype: white shirt, old-fashioned bow tie, and elegant black suit, sharply cut and precisely pressed. His fingers fiddled with the bronze buttons on his velvet waistcoat. Briefly, he removed his shiny black top hat, revealing a head of equally shiny black hair. He looked expensive. Dapper. And very handsome.
Too handsome for his own good—or for mine, she thought.
She joined the crowd and jostled her way to the front. For a split second they locked eyes. Her heart lurched. He jumped down from the platform, landing with an easy grace. At first she thought he was walking over to her. Instead, he extended his hand to a child standing beside her.
“Would you like to be my partner for this next trick?” he asked the little girl. She nodded, her curly, beribboned hair bouncing.
The man peeked playfully into the child’s ear and asked her why she was using it as a piggy bank. Hand on her mouth, she giggled. The crowd giggled, too. He showed his bare hands to the crowd, front and back, then proceeded to pull nickel after nickel out of the girl’s ear. She turned red as he handed them to her in a glimmering silver stack.
“I’m sorry to tell you,” he said somberly, “but there’s more in there.”
“More money?”
“No, I’m afraid.”
This time the man pulled out a long red handkerchief. It seemed to go on and on, its every inch drawing more laughs. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand, this magician, this charming charlatan, and he knew it.
Dramatically, he peered into the girl’s ear once more. His eyes grew comically wide. “Tell me, my dear, do you have a pet?”
The girl shook her head, suddenly serious.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, sir.”
“Well, I think she’s about to get one,” he told the crowd. Rubbing his fingers together, he took a deep breath. “Oh yes, it’s trying to come out this very moment.” His fingers touched the girl’s ear. Sara Beth strained her eyes, looking for a sleight of hand, a secret revealed.
“It’s stuck, I’m afraid,” he said.
“What is?” asked the girl.
The man began to pull something out—something long and skinny. A piece of brown yarn, perhaps. He paused a moment, taking his time, making the crowd hungry. Suddenly the girl squealed. She stared in disbelief at what had emerged from her ear: not yarn, but a tail. The tail of a little mouse.
The man held the creature in his open hand. Its nose twitched. Its tiny eyes looked like black beads. “He’s a cute little fella, isn’t he?” he said to no one in particular. Much of the crowd roared with laughter; the rest looked aghast.
“Do you want to keep him?” he asked the girl.
She shook her head vigorously. Her blush deepened.
“But it’s yours,” he insisted. “He’s been living in your ear, after all.”
Letting out another squeal, the girl turned and ran into her mother’s arms. The crowd tittered.
“All right, then,” the man continued, faking resignation. “I suppose I’ll take him home.”
He removed his top hat and slipped the mouse gently inside. Then he gestured toward the girl, whose face was now buried in her mother’s long skirt. “Let’s have a hand for this little lady. She’s a brave soul!”
The crowd applauded, clapping mixed with assorted hoots and hollers. Not wanting to lose momentum, he raised his top hat with a flourish, then slowly turned it upside down. Sara Beth gasped, sure the little mouse would fall out. Maybe it would even dash into the crowd. But nothing happened. The man showed that the hat was empty. The mouse had disappeared, or else it hadn’t been there in the first place. Sara Beth smiled, impressed by the man’s cleverness.
“If you’ve enjoyed the show, folks, feel free to express your appreciation,” he said, putting his hat on the ground. A half dozen people stepped forward to pitch in coins. But the sound of tinkling metal didn’t last. “Every little bit counts to a traveling man,” he urged.
Too late, Sara Beth thought. The crowd had already begun to disperse, its attention scattering in a hundred directions. “I thought you’d do better,” she said, approaching the man.
To her surprise, he ignored her.
“There are only a couple dollars in there,” she continued. This time he followed her gaze to the handful of coins inside his hat.
“Not to worry, miss,” he said dismissively. “This is just a hobby.”
“If this is your hobby, what’s your job?”
The man shook his head. Sara Beth was startled. She wasn’t used to be disregarded, especially by men.
“Come on,” she persisted. “You must do something important to afford a suit like that.” And in fact, it looked even more expensive and well-tailored up close.
Sphinxlike, he met her eyes, refusing to give.
“You can tell me,” she coaxed.
“Miss, I don’t know you.”
“But I know you.”
His face showed confusion as well as irritation, and she realized with a jolt that her looks were likely the reason for his indifference. He probably had no idea what to make of her twenty-first-century outfit: T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. She must have looked like she’d run away from the circus. A freak.
“Rees & Company Gallery—isn’t that where you had your photograph taken?” she asked, determined to win his interest. “At 289 Broadway?”
The man stared at her sharply, his expressive eyes issuing a stern rebuke. “How do you know that? Have you been following me? Are you one of Fat Mo’s girls?”
“I have no idea who Fat Mo is,” she replied, amused in spite of his anger.
“I don’t believe you.” Hastily, the man plucked the coins out of his hat, which he jammed onto his head. He suddenly looked like he was in a hurry. “Tell Mo he’ll have his money. I need a few more days. He shouldn’t have sent a woman to do his bidding.”
“I told you, I don’t know anyone named Mo. Never mind Fat Mo.”
“You take me for a fool.”
“You take me for a fool,” Sara Beth countered.
“If you’re not his acquaintance, why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I�
�m trying to get your attention.”
He cocked his head, seeming to assess her anew. “I saw the way you were studying me. What are you trying to learn, the tricks of my trade?”
“I still don’t know what your trade is, remember?”
Obviously beginning to relax, he broke into a smile. “I don’t know if I’d call it a trade.”
“Why the big secret?”
As if making a decision, the man drew close to her, so close she could smell peppermint, tobacco, and talcum powder. “What I do isn’t exactly honest.”
She shrugged, murmuring, “Doesn’t bother me.”
“It’s gotten me in trouble with the law—and with men like Fat Mo—more than once.”
“So what is it—bribery, forgery, fraud, racketeering?”
“That’s quite a list.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it involves fooling people.”
He gaped at her.
“Because if you can fool people so easily with your tricks,” she continued, “why not use it to your advantage in real life?”
He laughed out loud. “You’re very astute, miss.”
“Maybe you’re not that good, though,” she said, gaining confidence. “You gave away so many nickels to that little girl—that’s no way to run a business.”
“I’m not in the habit of taking from children.”
“Who are you in the habit of taking from?”
He leaned in even closer. She followed his gaze as he scanned the room. “There. Do you see her?” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”
“She’s ancient,” Sara Beth replied, dumbfounded by his choice: a heavyset old woman with a bonnet wrapped around her wizened face.
“Old is the best kind. They’re slower—physically and sometimes mentally. And they want to trust, even if they know better. At a certain age, everyone is gullible.”
“But why her?”
“See her clothes—how finely made? And her jewelry—there have to be twenty diamonds on that brooch.”
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