City of Ash

by Megan Chance

  The city looked alive again in a strange way. Even more foreign than it had yesterday: the harbor without its wharves and without the trestles that crisscrossed it, but with boats gathered in the water like ants waiting for a picnic to end; the colliers still burning; tents going up amid telegraph poles sticking bare and charred into the air and the remnants of brick walls and gnarled horsecar rails; the sounds of hammering and pounding and the spray of water from great fire hoses constant and loud. Now and then there was an explosion that made me flinch, the crash of brick as men brought down weakened walls and raised clouds of dust. The streets were hazy with it. Men coughed as they hammered together makeshift frames, sneezing as the flapping canvas duck caused little tornados of ash. One or two places were already open again. I passed a doctor’s tent, and two that advertised lawyers, but I hadn’t seen a store since the one where I found Brody; there was no clothing to be had and no steamer had been able to land supplies enough to start up a grocery or a dry goods store or a restaurant.

  When I got to what had been the Regal it was to see something so astonishing that I stopped short. I recognized three of the set carpenters hammering together a frame of charred wood studded with nails, but beyond them were Jack and Brody and Aloysius, wearing only their shirtsleeves as they hammered alongside them. Next to them was Lucius doing the same, calling out orders to the others as he straddled a beam. Susan sat on a trunk off to the side, laughing as she watched them, and Mrs. Chace reclined on a wagon in the street, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.

  I laughed as I came over. “Why, I never thought to see you do an honest day’s work, Jackson!”

  He flashed me a quick smile. “You’d best get an eyeful then, as it won’t be happening again.”

  “And I had no idea Lucius was so handy with a hammer.”

  Lucius paused, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “You wound me, my dear! I was building sets when you were little more than a weanling.”

  I sat on the trunk next to Susan. Affecting as casual a tone as I could, I asked, “Where’s Mr. DeWitt? I thought Lucius told him to be here today for rehearsal.”

  “He’s been here and gone.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  Susan gave me a sly look. “Don’t worry, Bea, he’ll be back any minute. Lucius sent him off to get breakfast. He looked ready to swoon for the lack of it. He was so eager to see you I guess he forgot to eat.”

  I felt myself go hot, and I looked away from her to hide it, and as I did, I saw him coming down the street, his frock coat flapping, his hand curled around the leather strap of the satchel over his shoulder. I went nervous as a schoolgirl. When he approached I looked away, suddenly wishing he wasn’t yet here, when all I’d wanted the whole damn morning was to see him.

  He came up to the trunk where we sat, ignoring the fact that I meant to ignore him, and said in a very cool voice, “There you are, Mrs. Wilkes. What happened to you last night?”

  I refused to meet his eye. “What do you mean?”

  “I thought we were to meet. To”—he glanced at Susan, who was watching us both avidly—“to go over the new scenes.”

  I made the mistake of looking at him just then, and he was staring at me as if he couldn’t decide whether to hit me or kiss me. “I’m sorry. I was … delayed.”

  “Delayed?” His gaze sharpened.

  “Yes.” I looked at Susan, who was not even pretending not to listen. “By our mutual patron.”

  “Is that so?” There was not a trace of jealousy in his voice. “I would have thought him too preoccupied.”

  “With what?”

  “Why, with his wife’s disappearance. There was a search party up at the camp this morning. The rumor was that he’d sent it.”

  “I take it they didn’t find her. Or her body.”

  Sebastian shook his head.

  “The only bodies they found so far were some bones in Wa Chong’s,” Susan put in. “And those Celestials were already dead and waiting to be shipped back to China.”

  “I hope they don’t find her,” Sebastian said softly. “I hope she somehow escaped it.”

  “Then why hasn’t she shown up?” Susan asked. “I think she’s dead, Mr. DeWitt.”

  He sighed. “I wish I could disagree with you. I’d give my entire fortune to see her alive.”

  My stomach tightened. “Your entire fortune? I had no idea you cared for her so much.”

  “We were friends, as you know. And I wouldn’t wish that kind of death on my worst enemy. Certainly not a friend.”

  “I bet Bea’s glad enough of it,” Susan teased. “Ain’t you, Bea? Now that she’s gone, you got Penelope back.”

  I looked away, back to Jack and the others, feeling more than a little sick.

  “Oh, I doubt Mrs. Wilkes is so spiteful as that,” Sebastian said—and damn if he didn’t sound as if he thought exactly the opposite.

  “Of course I’m not,” I snapped.

  Lucius cursed once more and rose, kicking at the framing, so that Jack called out, “Steady, dammit! I can’t hammer a wiggling board!”

  Lucius strode toward us. “Ah, back again, DeWitt.”

  Sebastian began to take his bag from his shoulder. “I’ll come help.”

  “No, no.” Lucius held up his hand to stop him. “No need. We can finish it well enough on our own, and you need your fingers, I think. I’ll require the first act of Much Ado by tomorrow.”

  Sebastian nodded and settled the bag again. “As you wish.”

  “I thought you called a rehearsal this morning,” I said. “Where are we to rehearse?”

  “I had thought we would be further along than this by now. Ah, ‘delays have dangerous ends,’ but in this case, I think them inevitable.” Lucius glanced ruefully at a swollen finger. “Rehearsal will be tomorrow instead. You are excused for today. Off with you now, or stay and be amused, as you wish.” He strode back to the frame, picking up his hammer.

  Susan wiggled off the trunk. “As funny as this is to watch, I got a whole morning off and a miner to see to. Tomorrow then!”

  In the wagon beyond, Mrs. Chace settled back and lowered her hat over her eyes as if readying to take a nap.

  Sebastian stepped closer. “Come with me.”

  “Really? You care to be with someone as spiteful as I am?”

  “I already know what a villain you are, remember?” he said with a smile that whipped away my irritation.

  “To where?”

  “My tent. It’s quiet there, now the search party’s gone.”

  It was what I’d meant to do, of course, but now I was nervous. Stupid, stupid girl. I was already feeling guilty. I thought of the secrets I kept: Mrs. Langley alive and our plan and the fact that I needed to see what happened in the new version of Penelope Justis, and that was half the reason I would go with him. The way he looked at me was so damned disconcerting. “I thought Lucius wanted you to work on the play. Won’t I be a distraction?”

  His gaze riveted to mine. “I’m hoping so.”

  That gaze, those words, stole my voice.

  He went quiet, watching me as if he could somehow read my thoughts. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure he couldn’t. He readjusted the satchel over his shoulder and said, “Well. Let’s go, shall we?”

  I followed him down the street, and I was afraid and excited at the same time, as if the thing I most dreaded was also the thing I wished most to do, which wasn’t such a bad way to put it, I guess. I did dread Sebastian DeWitt; I had this feeling that he was too much for me, that I couldn’t control him. But I wanted him too, and I’d never felt like that, and that feeling was so damned new that I didn’t know what to do with it—except maybe to fuck him until it was gone.

  He walked quickly; I kept taking these running little steps to keep up with him, but he showed no signs of slowing. My corset gripped until I couldn’t catch my breath. It was impossible to speak; I didn’t have enough breath to form a single word, but that was a relief too. I di
dn’t want to talk to him. I was afraid of the things he might say.

  I was sweating and panting by the time we reached the camp. Dozens of tents settled on the vacant lot, the smoke from small campfires drifting, dogs barking and dodging, people moving about, cooking or drawing water from four huge barrels along the camp’s edge. Women and children mostly—I supposed most of the men were gone for the day, looking for work or food. A few militiamen patrolled it, but they had a laxer air than those down in the burned district; they laughed and joked with the children following them, and the whole place had a strangely homelike feel.

  Sebastian slowed. He took my arm solicitously, a little possessively, and I didn’t pull away. I liked it more than I should—I was not used to men treating me as if I mattered to them. No one did more than hazard a quick glance at us as he led me through the tents, most of them wide open at each end to show gathered bedrolls and clothing hanging from tent poles and salvaged belongings.

  “It’s this one,” he said. Four rows back, at the edge.

  The flaps had been tied up; as we entered, he loosened the ties and let them fall. The canvas duck seemed to glow; it smelled of sun-warmed fabric, heated rubber. Inside it was spartan: a ground cover spread almost to the edges; a bedroll on one side; an oil lamp with a cracked chimney next to an ink bottle, scattered pen nibs, all set upon a crate that read SINGERMANN & CO; a battered pail black with soot on the outside; a ragged towel. Even at the very center, the tent was too low for us to stand. Sebastian let go of my arm and lifted the satchel from his shoulder, letting it fall near the bedroll as he went to loose the flaps on the other side. They fell closed, blocking us from the world’s view. I heard voices, the laughter of children, the hiss as someone put out a campfire, and here we were, alone, and it seemed too quiet.

  I stood back, unsure, as he shrugged out of his frock coat. He hung it on a nail sticking out from the tent pole, and then he turned to look at me. “Home sweet home. Perhaps even a sight better than where I was before the fire.”

  I glanced toward the crate, trying for nonchalance. “You’ve managed a desk.”

  “I did a little looting of my own before the militia came.”

  “It looks as if you’ve been writing.”

  “Last night,” he said. “When I was in the mood for villainy.”

  He came up to me, hunched, his head brushing against the low-slung canvas, sending the walls shivering. There was no room to back away; even had there been, I’m not sure I would have. He whispered, “I’ve thought of nothing but you. When I woke this morning, my lamp was still burning because I’d fallen asleep waiting for you like some lovesick fool.”

  “You shouldn’t … talk that way,” I managed.

  “Why not? Isn’t that what I am?” He reached for me, his fingers at my waist again, curling, pulling me closer, such an awkward position, both of us bent and cramped, him forward, me backward, arched against him like a cat. “Don’t torment me, Bea. At least tell me you’ve thought of me too.”

  “Yes, of course,” I whispered back. “Of course—”

  He was kissing me before I’d said the last word, and I twisted my hands in his hair until it must have hurt, anchoring him, breathing into him, going with him when he pulled me onto the bedroll. I heard the muffled voices outside, the sounds of daytime, while in the tent there was only our quiet moans, the harsh gasp of our breathing, the rustle of cloth as we undressed each other, and then he was naked beneath my hands. He groaned and I shivered, and when he rolled me beneath him, I arched to meet him, clasping him with splayed hands, and his mouth was on mine as my pleasure spiraled and grew, and I forgot Mrs. Langley and the plan and Nathan and everything else.

  I was drowsy, and the tent was very warm with the sun beating down upon it; there was a thin veil of sweat shimmering on my skin and on his where we both lay upon the bedroll. I thought idly that anyone could simply step inside or even peek as they walked by; the flaps were not tied shut, and there was a crack between them. Instead of making me shy that thought raised a little excitement. How shameless you are. But there it was, no doubt the reason I’d taken to acting to begin with.

  Sebastian’s eyes were closed; his breathing was rhythmic and deep, his lovely thick hair falling back from his face, and I thought about tiptoeing my fingers down his body, bringing him awake with my tongue and my hands, but I liked watching him too. I liked wondering what he dreamed of, imagining he dreamed of me.

  Now who’s lovesick? the little voice teased and jeered, and I smiled and stretched. My fingers brushed against his satchel, lying abandoned on the floor, and I paused, thinking of what was inside it, the play he was revising. I glanced at Sebastian again, and then I rolled onto my stomach, reaching for the bag, undoing the buckle that closed it, and if I felt guilty, well, it wasn’t too much. A host of pencils and pens threatened to roll out; I pushed them back, instead pulling out a sheaf of papers. Much Ado About Nothing was on top, the play Lucius wished him to alter. I thumbed through the pages until I found where it ended and another began.

  Penelope Justis. I pulled the papers toward me, rising on my elbows to read it better, shaking my hair back from my face. On top was the scene at the funeral, the one I already knew, and I shuffled through the pages, past the fireside scene with Marjory, the original and then the revision where Marjory’s idea became instead Penelope’s plan to pretend to be Florence’s ghost, to haunt Barnabus to madness. In spots they were nearly illegible, so many crossings-out and blottings, streaks where his hand had dragged the ink over the paper.

  Sebastian stirred, making a sound in his sleep, and I glanced over quickly. He settled; outside someone laughed as they walked by, kicking a stone that skidded and thudded gently against the tent stake. I turned back to the manuscript. I was caught by new lines, a speech I hadn’t yet read that sent shivers down my spine.

  Ah, how I would like Barnabus Cadsworth to feel my sister’s despair, to wrest from him free will and reason, to see him twist and writhe as his mind slips ever more quickly into a fog from which there is no returning.… But why not? Why could I not take his future from him as he took my sister’s? Why could I not make him mad with fear and melancholy? Why not summon my sister’s spirit, dripping wet and pale? A ghost to wring from him confession and remorse even as it steals his mind away? Now there is an idea to warm me at last! No more shall my bones be cold.

  What a role! For a moment I was so hungry for it I forgot all else. I found myself mouthing the words, rolling them on my tongue, finding Penelope in them—

  “What are you doing?”

  Sebastian’s voice was a whisper; still I jerked in surprise. I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Reading your new revisions. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No.” He rose on one elbow. “Where are you in it?”

  “Only where Penny decides to drive Barnabus mad.”

  “You’ve seen that already.”

  “No, the soliloquy’s new. I adore it. I can hardly wait to speak it. I hope you’ve made her a villain of Richard the Third’s stripe. There’s a part to savor.”

  “Oh, she will be. I mean it to be a tragedy. Like King Lear.”

  “A tragedy?” I laughed. “The only version of King Lear we ever do is the one where Edgar marries Cordelia and they all end happily ever after.”

  “Such a terrible corruption of genius.” He leaned to kiss my shoulder.

  “This from the man who’s busy revising Much Ado About Nothing.”

  “I’ll take a scalpel to it rather than a bone saw.” He nuzzled the hollow between my shoulder and my neck. “Speak the words for me. The way you were doing. I want to hear them in the voice I wrote them for.”

  I smiled and looked back at the pages again and did as he asked, reveling in his listening, becoming for those bare moments the character I felt I’d been born to play. There was no stage here, and no audience but Sebastian, but I let myself fall into the part, submerging so completely that when I was done it took a moment to come back
to myself.

  “You’re the perfect actress to play her.” His voice was reverent enough to make me blush.

  I disliked the embarrassment; it was easier to tease. “You think me so calculating?”

  He smiled. “I only meant that you bring her alive. And now she’s yours again.”

  I stiffened—that guilt again, and along with it jealousy and resentment. “The perfect actress? You don’t think Mrs. Langley was better?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Why compare yourself to her?”

  And in spite of the fact that I was naked beneath him, and his hands played upon my skin, and I knew better, I could not help myself. “Everyone thought she had talent.”

  “So she did.”

  “They all think I’m glad she’s dead.”

  “Do they?”

  “You heard Susan. The rest haven’t said it, but I know they do.”

  His hot breath pulsed against my bare shoulder. “I think you’re imagining things. They think nothing of the kind. They adore you, Bea. They’re all on your side.”

  “Now who’s being absurd? I was afraid she might be better in the role, I admit it.”

  “There was no chance of that. She didn’t want to be anyway.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “It was never her intention to steal your part. She was unhappy and looking for something to do. And she was trying to help me.”

  “How well you know her.” I could not keep the acid from my voice.

  “She would have helped you too. Eventually.”

  “You had that much influence with her?”

  “She would have seen your talent for herself. Even without me.”

  “Ah, the story of my life. Another missed opportunity.”

  “You never know. Perhaps she’ll appear yet.”

  I kept my voice as casual as I could. “Perhaps.” And then, because now that it was in my head as a possibility, I couldn’t let it go, “You know, I’m thinking of starting my own company.”