Lightfall Four: Risk, Rise, Rebel (Lightfall, Book 4)

by Taylor, Jordan

  The faint, slow melody of a gramophone hums beyond the second door—violins, pianos, more strings Ivy has not heard in a year and a half.

  Grip takes a seat on the sofa, moving cushions aside. There is room to keep a couple of feet between them so Ivy, hat and sungoggles in hand, takes the far end, startled as she feels the soft fabric and thick, comfortable padding.

  The woman closes the door and follows as far as the chairs, staring at Grip with an expression both transfixed and regretful.

  “I don’t know what to say to you, dove,” she says softly. “You couldn’t have written?”

  “There is no longer post out of Santa Fé.”

  “For how many years? Boy like you never rode by a mailbag in all this time?”

  Boy? Grip says nothing.

  “Always knew you hadn’t the sense God gave a goose.” Standing by the coffee table, she leans forward to lift his chin with her gloved fingertips and gaze into his eye. As she looks, her face changes—the joy fading, leaving the regret and deepening look of concern.

  After a long silence filled by the trickle of running water and hint of music, she says, “Who else?”

  Grip shakes his head and looks away. “No one new died.”

  She lowers her hand, still staring at him. “Are you sure about that?”

  Grip remains motionless for many seconds before deciding the question is not rhetorical. “I am all right, Arista. It has been ... a few decades in a few years.”

  She waits, but he says no more. Arista runs her fingers through his black hair, Grip motionless, not even flinching, then she steps to one of the silvery chairs. She sits, still watching him, shifting her skirts, before looking at Ivy.

  She smiles. “Arista van Wieren. Mistress Arista to most. How do you do.”

  “Ivy Jerinson. How do you do.”

  “Do I know the name?”

  “My father is a researcher in Boston working to combat Daray’s disease. It is his name you would have heard.”

  She looks at Ivy a long moment, not unlike she just looked at Grip. A light crease forms at her brows. “Maybe so ... yet....” She glances at Grip, back to Ivy. “You are the girl who fights Plague. Quite the rebel. Is that correct?”

  Ivy looks at Grip and Arista in turn, tense despite the cushions. “How do you know that?”

  “Rumors and bets rule this part of the country, Ivy. Not politicians. I began to hear tales some months ago.”

  Ivy is so taken aback the woman used her given name, she can think of no answer. Is this, too, a product of pants?

  “Arista,” Grip says. “We would value your assistance—”

  “We would?” She raises a delicately arching eyebrow and looks again to Ivy. “How long have you known this man?”

  “Only ... since spring.” As she says “only,” Ivy feels painfully aware of how long ago that was.

  “You should know it’s always ‘we’ if he needs help; always ‘I’ if he’s done something for you.” To Grip. “Be still a minute. How long has it been? Two years? On toward three? And you’re still hunting. For which I am sorry on several counts.”

  Grip opens his mouth, but Arista nods.

  “Oh, yes. He’s here. But you know that already, don’t you? You didn’t come to Monument for your health. You were targeted in the shooting in the middle of downtown this morning? Next time you’re passing, see me first, dove.

  “He’s been here, off and on, a long time. Gone most of the spring and summer, back in August. Yet I didn’t expect to see you. I imagined you’d been dead nearly since the day you rode away last time telling me you would catch him.”

  Her smile returns. “How is your family?”

  “Hungry. Nothing getting into Santa Fé.”

  “How’s your sister?”

  Grip shrugs.

  “Please now, slow down. Don’t overwhelm me with details—you’ll go hoarse. She ever marry after what happened?”

  “I do not expect she will.”

  “One never knows. Hard to beat a man like that though. Raúl made the rest of you appear such jackasses. Bless his heart.”

  “Thank you, Arista.”

  “If the shoe fits.”

  “He was a Casanova.”

  “He was kind. He was humorous without sarcasm. He was intelligent without pride. We can forgive the girl if she feels she cannot find better. How old is she now?”

  “Nine—twenty—” Grip closes his eye. “She turned twenty-one in April.”

  “The years get away from us, don’t they? You still have no ring on your finger.”

  Dutifully Grip slides his thumb below the thin, gold chain around his neck and pulls the necklace from under his shirt. On it hangs a plain gold crucifix and small gold ring set with a tiny emerald.

  “Oh, dove....” Arista sighs. “You haven’t given that girl your ring yet?”

  “What is the purpose as long as—?”

  “As long as you put your life on hold for this man? Don’t start that self-pitying, leave behind a widow, deserves better shit.”

  Ivy feels her face heat. She has never heard a woman of any class use such a word.

  Grip turns ring and crucifix in his fingers, then drops them below his shirt once more.

  “Think your mama, God rest her soul, meant you to wear it yourself all your life? Keep her cross, but give her ring away—isn’t that what Darío said? Isn’t that what she told you? I don’t know—” She drops her hands in her lap, shaking her head. “If you wouldn’t listen to them, you won’t listen to me. And Darío was the only one you ever did listen to. Is she well at least?”

  Grip glares at the low table between them. “As possible. Her mother is dying. She dwells in a world of fancy in which I am a saint, her life is not hellishly arduous after being brought up in a velvet cradle, and she will at any moment be whisked onto the back of a white horse to ride into ‘civilization.’ I find it difficult to relate to such drastic notions. Or much of anything she says.”

  “She still wishes to see the Emerald Isle with you?”

  “She wishes to follow me to Hades should I book passage, yet she is already there. Santa Fé has been walled, under threat of Plague. One of the only points we have in common is our dread of the closed and viewless. She has had nightmares and been sleepwalking since the wall went up.”

  “Then why do you not bring the girl a white horse? You’ve hated the place as much since they died.”

  “Cross-country travel is closed. We are going nowhere soon.”

  “You are this far. I’m sure a wedding would lift her spirits.”

  Grip rubs the back of his neck, head bowed. “Arista, I did not come here to thrash apart mine and my family’s personal relationships.”

  She smiles, though her eyes remain sad. “You had to assume they would come up in my parlor, dove. A moment’s peace: Nep will be fixing our tray while the girls swarm for a bite. I’ll fetch it myself and be right back. Then I’ll tell you what I know regarding ... circumstances.”

  Grip nods.

  Ivy sits motionless against her arm of the sofa.

  Arista stands, smoothing her skirts, and glides from the room, taking the door across from them. For a moment, the music grows louder, then she closes the door behind her and it goes back to a breath.

  Ivy squints at the gleaming brass cat in the window while Grip watches the top spin on the desk. She always thought Winter free with information, rambling even, draining Ivy of energy just to sit with her for an hour or two as she talks about this and that—gardens, the water supply, the best way to make a sourdough starter. But she has never said a word about nightmares. Never mentioned the wall terrifies her. Does Rosalía know? Does Rosalía feel the same way? Another reason she followed them here?

  Sam told her months ago Grip wanted out of Santa Fé. Yet, with all his adopted family there, and his freedom to travel the region on a whim, she had not thought a great deal of this either. Certainly never thought he could compare the place to Hell. As far
as him leaving ... according to Rosalía, and this woman, he would never have left with Everette still at large, regardless of the shutdown.

  She shifts her gaze to the top and notices a silver-framed hourglass, no higher than a teacup. She cannot tear her eyes from it, watching as black sand flows backward, upside down, into the top. It fills until the bottom is nearly empty, then the glass swings about on a central axis, flipping completely over on its stand, and the upside down sand begins flowing once more. Ivy has seen any number of makers’ trinkets, but this? How? Is it an illusion? Is it magnetized? She does not understand every detail of steam engines and the more complex clockwork devices, but knows enough to accept them. This....

  “Grip?” Ivy whispers when the mistress’s footsteps are inaudible. “Are we in a brothel?”

  “Yes.” He does not shift his gaze from the top. Or is he also looking at the hourglass? “Although this lady is no whore. She is a businesswoman. One of the wealthiest and most intelligent people in the city.”

  “You said you were in Monument a year past.”

  “Briefly and under duress. I did not call.”

  “I suspect she would be interested to know you came through.”

  “I suspect you will not tell her.”

  “Does your family know where you collect information?”

  “My family knows little about me.”

  “I believe your sister knows you well. Is that why you are so horrible to her? She is too close?”

  “I am not horrible to her, Miss Jerinson. You have never seen me be horrible to anyone.”

  She forces her eyes from the hourglass to glance at him. “This is more relativities. My father used to say, ‘Never believe everything you know. Never question everything you know.’”

  He looks at her. “What?”

  “It makes sense when you consider it.”

  “It does not.”

  “It does. Think about it. She has books.”

  “Yes.” He returns his attention to the top or hourglass.

  “You haven’t any idea how that makes me feel,” Ivy says, staring at shelves of colorful spines to the ceiling.

  “Which is for the best. Too many women share too freely of their feelings.”

  “Wouldn’t want to offend. Why does she call you dove? I can think of few creatures less apt to your ... qualities.”

  “We were all dove to her. From her grandmother, I believe. A Russian who called the children turtle and dove.”

  “She does not sound Russian. Nor her surname....”

  “Arista is second or third generation American. She spent her childhood on a plantation.”

  They hear returning footsteps and fall silent, Ivy feeling her throat tight as she keeps gazing at shelves.

  Arista opens the door and rests a tray on the low table, inviting both to serve themselves. A small cheese plate, chocolate biscuits, and hot scones with a dish of sweet cream butter and another of honey beside them. The sweet tea is not steaming and in a pot, but iced, in a tall glass pitcher. Ivy has never seen anything like it. Real slices of fresh lemon float on top.

  “How—?” Ivy stops herself, swallowing. No need to become as rude as her clothes make her appear.

  Arista smiles at her as she sits down. “We still have trade open into San Francisco, although we are not supposed to.” She looks at Grip. “Mr. Hilvalen runs Monument these days. That string bean of a maker. Our elected Sheriff Trask and Mayor Conway are neither of them passive or reticent men, but Hilvalen is the one with all the big ideas to keep roads open illegally. And keep San Francisco begging us for our goods and wisdom.

  “They are a technologically poor city facing a large problem and we are a crystal palace in the desert. At least, that is what Hilvalen has told them while they eat from his hand. Now they are in a bind on the coast. Praise the Lord, thus far, we have been overlooked. It came down from north and east. Do you know Salt Lake City is gone?”

  “I did not,” Grip says, watching her.

  “They were unprepared. Or perhaps they thought their god, or prophet, would save them.”

  She holds her hands up invitingly to Ivy. “Please, honey, help yourself. I know what it’s like to be on those long trails with nearly normal people. I cannot imagine how uncomfortable it must be to ride with this wet hen.”

  “Thank you.” Ivy fills a small glass from the heavy pitcher, then offers it to Grip, who has not leaned forward.

  He takes it in silence.

  “What’s the relation?” Arista removes her long gloves before reaching for a saucer and biscuit. “I see he’s no more polite to you than he ever was to me.”

  “We....” Ivy pauses. “It is ... rather an accident. We have been working together in New Mexico Territory.”

  Arista smiles. “My mother said, ‘Claiming you had an accident is the same as claiming God made a mistake.’”

  Ivy glances sideways at Grip as she drizzles honey over a scone. “Yes ... well, in this case....”

  Arista laughs, shaking her head “My dear, you are good for him. I can tell. Who else do you ride with these days?”

  Grip scowls at the tray, holding his glass at his knee. “My little sister and two sodomites. What of the—?”

  But Arista is laughing so much she sits forward to rest her saucer on the table, pressing a hand into her abdomen, held firm by her corset.

  “Now, you must cease, truly. You tease me.”

  “No.” Grip’s dour expression has not changed.

  “Rosalía is here in town with you?” Arista dabs the corners of both eyes with a handkerchief. “I should dearly love to meet her. All of your friends.”

  Grip does not appear keen on the idea, but he shrugs. “If you would not be offended.”

  “Of course not. Well, I won’t say they’re not bad for business.” Still chuckling. “But I know a fair number in Monument and the mines. You may send them my way for introductions if they’re looking for a good time.”

  “One is convalescing. The other would not know a good time if it punched him on the nose.”

  “Making at least two in your party.” She smooths her skirts, catching her breath. “I do enjoy their company. I would not know so many of such persuasion if they did not frequent the establishment, of course, keeping up appearances. Drey calls every Friday night, always a bottle of something delightful for me. The Lord knows I love a long conversation with a bright man who never imagines me without my clothes.”

  She sighs and leans back. “Now I must take you all to supper. Tomorrow night? How long are you in town?”

  “That depends on what you tell me.” He sounds impatient.

  “Les Canyons is the best. Was it here last time you were in Monument?”

  “It is not the type of establishment I would be aware of regardless. And I expect Mr. L’Heureux already has unpleasant memories of the place.”

  “That is because a whiskey shot and a cowhide on the floor top your standards for high living, dove. L’Heureux one of your eccentric friends? Not the horseman? I heard he passed on.”

  “His son.”

  She leans forward once more to pour herself a glass of tea. “What happened to him at Les Canyons?”

  “The Gordon brothers booked an appointment to kill him.”

  “Dear me.” She sips her tea. “Sounds like them. Then perhaps tomorrow night is too late?” She glances to an ornate clock on the wall.

  “They’re giving him a miss for now,” Grip says. “They believe he was injured this morning in the shooting.”

  “I do adore a chivalrous man as well. Tomorrow night then? You get gussied up and we’ll jump the gun to assume all are still alive?”

  “Arista, I came here to ask you about Everette.”

  “And I told you to be still a minute. You are irascible, dove. I’m not running out on you. Will you see the Kaibab while you’re here?” She glances from Grip to Ivy as she takes another sip.

  “I have seen it before,” Grip says.

&nbs
p; Arista tilts her head. “Seen one canyon, seen them all? That is the most fatalistic remark I have heard in a long time. What happened to our spirited young adventurer?”

  “He’s dying of old age waiting for the point to be addressed.” A mumble.

  “At least he still knows how to sweet-talk a girl.” She shifts to more directly face Ivy. “They were always in after information when they rode this part of the country. Did you know? Grip and his brother and friends. Scarcely older than you are now, I would say. Raúl younger. They knew where to come to find out if a man they hunted had been through town. Famous in their day. If the law couldn’t catch trouble on a fast horse, those boys could.”

  Ivy nods. She longs for another scone and fresh cheese almost as much as she wants to shove several books under her duster. She does not move.

  “Darío was all business: who, what, where, when? Like one of those Pinkerton detectives. While Everette had all the wild ideas: this or that they could do, ambushes and makers’ smoke bombs. Overactive, that man—cricket on a hot griddle. Raúl ... he would kiss my hand and ask how I was and did I have anything new? I do a bit of metalworking myself, you know. Only one civil enough to ask after me. All caught up in themselves. Grip wouldn’t say much of anything, bless his heart. Just keep an eye on Darío.

  “They talked more when the others weren’t around, Raúl and Grip. Both had girls back home. Raúl would marry and become sheriff of Santa Fé, real lawman, not roam all over creation anymore. Grip would have to say goodbye, going home to Ireland. He’d promised his dying mother he would. Promised he would find her family she never meant to leave. Girl from the States waiting with her bag packed to go with him. They would do these things sometime. Sometime later.

  “A good year or two after I last saw them all, Grip came riding into Monument on his brother’s horse, asking if I’d seen Everette, proposing to kill the fellow. Now it’s been a couple more years, but he comes back and asks the same question.