Cinnamon Moon

by Tess Hilmo

  When we get there, Father Farlane leads us to a rear corner of the church. “We have plenty of offerings,” he says. “There has been such generosity since our city’s tragedy. As terrible as these situations are, they sometimes bring out the best in people. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I wouldn’t—not after all I’ve seen.

  “Any word on your friend?” Father Farlane asks, pulling a wool coat from the box and holding it up to Quinn. “This might fit you.”

  “Sort of,” I say. “We learned she was stolen off the streets and is working in the sewers, killing rats.”

  “Terrible news,” he says.

  “They’ve scared her,” I say. “And we can’t convince her to run.”

  “That is often the case in these matters. It’s a sad truth of our times and one the system seems to support.”

  Quinn drops his old coat into the box and slips his arms into the sleeves of the heavier one. “We can’t fix everything, but we want to help Nettie escape.”

  “Definitely,” I agree.

  Father Farlane’s eyes soften with his smile. “I wish I had more time to help. My duties since the fire have kept me so busy. I will keep the matter in my personal prayers.”

  That seems pointless. I dig to the bottom of the box and realize there aren’t any ladies’ coats so I pull out a wide-breasted navy coat. It will have to do. “Thank you,” I say. “Can we bring one of these coats for Nettie?”

  “Of course,” Father Farlane says. “Though I don’t see any that would fit a child her size.”

  “This might work.” I pull a boy’s coat out. It is faded and three sizes too big, but at least it will be warm. I imagine her burrowing into it like a field mouse in a woolen blanket.

  “Excellent,” Father Farlane says. “If that is all you need—”

  “Would you say a prayer with us, Father?” Quinn asks, which stuns me.

  I start to explain how completely unnecessary that is, but Father Farlane agrees before I have a chance to gather my words. He takes our hands and starts in fervent prayer. Quinn’s head is down but I can’t bring myself to participate. I look around at the cold stone walls of the church and think of Ida’s question: Where is God in these moments? When Father Farlane finishes, he gives my hand a squeeze and thanks us for coming to see him.

  “We just needed warm coats,” I say, causing Quinn to give me a dirty look that I don’t understand.

  “Thank you again, Father,” Quinn says pointedly, as if I am somehow being ungrateful.

  “Of course,” Father Farlane says, putting his hands into the pocket slits of his robe and walking down the hallway.

  “What?” I say to Quinn’s look when we are alone again at the back of the church.

  “Forget it. Let’s go get those sandwiches.”

  So we go to Quixom’s Market and buy as many sandwiches as we can with the remaining money the music school man gave us—which turns out to be fourteen sandwiches. At first, Mr. Quixom smirks at our order but the moment Quinn puts the four dollars and fifty cents upon his countertop, the shop owner gets this wide, sloppy grin on his face and begins slicing bread. Then we tromp through the slushy streets to the main water pump to fill Miss Franny’s bucket once again.

  “Not so high it sloshes over,” I admonish, tying Nettie’s new coat around my waist to free my hands.

  “I know,” Quinn says.

  I kick at a pile of dirty snow that looks like a sad, wilted mountain and imagine how Nettie’s face will look when she sees we brought fourteen sandwiches. I can’t guess how many children are held up in that hotel, but Mr. Quixom has been generous with the egg-and-cheese filling. Even if they share them, it will still make a decent meal. Not to mention having a new coat for her. I push the toe of my shoe along the jagged edge of the snow pile and ask Quinn, “Do you remember that story Father sometimes told if he found us lazing at our work?”

  “About the children sleeping on the sunny rocks?”

  It was a warning about an area in Ireland—near Rosses Point—where the sun shone down on a small patch of rounded rocks. If children allowed themselves to be lured by the warmth and fell asleep, fairies would slink in and steal their wits and the children would wake up fool-headed. “Yes,” I say. “I thought of that story when I saw Nettie yesterday.”

  “She’s not fool-headed,” Quinn says, stopping in the street.

  “I know, but she wasn’t herself either. She’s allowed them to get inside her mind and convince her they are helping the rats and saving the city. Did you hear how she called those guards helpers? Does she really think they are helping her?”

  “Maybe she has to be that way to survive,” Quinn says. “I think that’s always been the case with Nettie, but more so now.”

  I fall in step with him, carrying the bucket of water and trying to keep it from sloshing over.

  We turn onto Madison Street and cut across the rubble to the back of the Monroe Hotel. We aren’t there two minutes when that same boy comes sauntering out the rear door.

  “Thought I’d see you again,” he says, wrapping his fingers around his shabby gray suspenders. Then he sees the bucket of water. “I’ll take a drink instead of a penny.”

  “We brought sandwiches, too,” Quinn whispers, leaning his fiddle against the back of the outhouse and raising the package from Quixom’s Market.

  “Swell!” the boy says.

  “Shhh!” I warn, remembering the guards just around the front of the building. I want to give Nettie a sandwich first but I can’t find it in me to turn this hungry boy away. “Be quick,” I say, stepping aside and letting him kneel down at the bucket.

  He drinks deeply and then takes a sandwich from Quinn, ramming it into his mouth, hardly chewing at all.

  “Now go get Nettie,” I say when he is almost done. “And don’t say anything about these sandwiches. I want her to be the one to give them to the other kids.”

  He ignores me until he has eaten the last bit of bread and pushed his face back into the bucket, taking two more long drinks.

  “Go get her,” I say again when he is done.

  “Can’t.” He drags his sleeve across his mouth and face, making a pink streak of clean on one cheek. “She ain’t here no more.”

  “What do you mean?” Quinn asks. “Is she working?”

  “Maybe she’s working, maybe she’s sleeping. Whatever she’s doing, it ain’t at this hideout. After they saw you visiting her yesterday, they tied her up and took her off.”

  “Where?” I demand. “And what do you mean, they tied her up?”

  “Ankles together, wrists together, and then a rope from the ankles to the wrists. Like a proper hog.”

  My mouth falls open and I look to Quinn. I notice his hands are trembling.

  “If you brought those sandwiches for us,” the boy says, stepping toward the package, “I can take them inside.”

  Quinn’s right arm snaps out and grabs the boy by a twist of his collar. He pulls the boy in to his face, nose to dirty nose, and says, “Listen here.” The words leak out between Quinn’s teeth and even I am scared. I’ve never seen him like this before. “You’re gonna find out where they took Nettie and you’re gonna tell us, understand?”

  The boy doesn’t answer so Quinn shakes him good and strong and pulls him back nose to nose. “Do you understand?”

  The boy makes a fragile squeaking noise and shakes his head. “They’ll never tell me where she is.”

  Quinn’s rage is pulsing just below his skin. Red splotches creep up his neck and across his cheeks. “Nettie is an innocent girl. If you don’t help her, I’ll make you sorry you ever lived a day on this earth.” He drops the boy, landing him on his bottom. “We’ll be back,” he says as he picks up his fiddle.

  I look at Quinn and then down at the boy, who is on the ground. My brother’s actions astound me and my heart is flapping around my chest like a wild bird in a cage, but I wonder if it had the same effect on this boy. He is probably used to being pushed aroun
d. “We need your help,” I say in the most imploring way I can, though the plea seems meaningless in the wake of Quinn’s threats.

  The boy scrambles over, grabs the Quixom’s package, and darts back into the hotel.

  Quinn is stunned by his own outburst and starts walking with a listless gait. At least, I am guessing him to be stunned. Maybe he is upset at the dreadful turn of events for Nettie. I walk in silence at his side, still holding Nettie’s new coat and toting the empty bucket I dumped out after the boy ran back into the hotel. The red splotches on Quinn’s neck begin to lighten and fade away.

  I feel something wet land upon my nose and look up. Dark clouds are stealing across the sky, spitting out slushy snowflakes and blocking any trace of sunlight.

  We go to Ida’s shop because it is fairly close, but the door is locked and the CLOSED sign is hanging behind the glass.

  “She won’t be back for a little while still,” I say. “She was going to meet that carpenter, remember?”

  “Where’s the carpenter’s shop?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, worried about Ida in this storm. She doesn’t have a wagon, so she would have walked or taken a hansom cab.

  “Wherever she is,” Quinn says, “she’ll have to stay until this passes.” He tries Ida’s door once more, then starts off in the direction of Miss Franny’s. It is clear he is still pretty shaken by what happened at the Monroe.

  As we walk, the snow quickly turns from small, wet flakes into heavy sheets of freezing slush. Wind appears out of nowhere and what began as a reasonably bright morning quickly spirals down into the wicked darkness of an Illinois blizzard.

  My eyes are fixed on Quinn’s new coat a few feet ahead of me and I think to reach out and grab the hem to keep from losing him (or him from losing me) but can’t coax my free hand out of its pocket. I am enveloped by frozen misery and by the time we start down Miss Franny’s street, I can hardly feel any of my limbs.

  “There’s someone on the porch,” Quinn says as we get to Miss Franny’s. It’s hard to hear him through the storm. “How are we gonna sneak into the henhouse?”

  Before I can think of an answer, the figure on the porch comes running down toward us. It is Sam.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Miss Franny kicked us out,” I say, knowing that isn’t exactly why we are caught in the storm but taking the opportunity to help Sam see the light.

  “She never expected you to stay away,” Sam says. “She was just angry. The truth is, she’s been pacing the floor with worry.” He puts his arm around Quinn’s shoulder. “We’ve been lookin’ all over for you two.” The yowling wind slices Sam’s words and I wonder how air can be so loud.

  “They took her away,” I say through the storm. “We went to visit Nettie, but a boy there said they tied her up and took her somewhere else.”

  Sam pulls me in with his other arm and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We’ll find her,” he says. “I promise.”

  I tuck my chin down to avoid the bitter-cold snow as Sam guides us into Miss Franny’s.

  The residents there are milling around the main room, where a fire blazes in the great stone fireplace. It is the only grand thing about the home, and when it is lit, it is majestic.

  “You found them!” a woman says when Sam brings us in. I don’t recognize her, but Quinn and I are discouraged from interacting with the paying customers. Not that I am interested, anyway. There are so many of them and they are always changing. The woman looks out the window. “And just in time. It’s dreadful out there.”

  Quinn strips off his coat, drops it in a crumpled heap, and sits down in front of the fire. I want to join him but know Miss Franny would have a word to say about wet coats on the floor. So I pick up Quinn’s coat and go into the kitchen to hang it on one of the allotted nails by the back door.

  That’s where Miss Franny is. She isn’t pacing the floor like Sam said; she is slouching on a stool in the far corner, shoving a muffin into her mouth. When she sees me, she puts the remaining muffin down and says, “Well, well. If it isn’t the prodigal child crawling back home.”

  “Sam made us come.” I hang Quinn’s coat on a nail, along with the new one we got for Nettie. “And this isn’t my home.”

  “I see you are still an ungrateful rat,” she says.

  “And I see you are still a miserable codfish.”

  Sam is at the kitchen door. “You promised not to argue, Fran. It’s been a tough day for Ailis. We knew where they were hiding Nettie but Ailis just found out the girl has been moved somewhere different. Take it easy on her.”

  “That snot called me a codfish!”

  Sam’s head drops into his hands and he rubs his face with a low moan. I imagine he would give anything to be at the pub just now. “You two ladies need to get along,” he says through his hands. Then he looks at us. His eyes are dull and tired. “Please?” he asks.

  Miss Franny tugs on her apron. “Fine,” she says as if she is granting a favor. “I’m sorry to hear about Nettie. I truly am. I understand this has been difficult for you, Ailis, so I will do my best to forgive your cruel words and overlook your dismal nature.” She gives a short nod to Sam, who sighs and leaves the room.

  “Wow, thanks,” I say.

  “If you truly wish to thank me, you will begin by scrubbing these pots. The plates and cups are also in need of washing.”

  “But the water pump is outside. In the storm.”

  She gives me a hard look so I go outside.

  The snow is sharp with bits of ice and the wind blows it sideways. It feels like miniature knives slicing my cheeks and ears as I get water for Miss Franny’s dishes. Luckily, the pump isn’t frozen over, but the handle is painfully cold and I tremble uncontrollably as I pour the water into a pot and wait for it to warm on the stove. After a few minutes, Quinn thaws out enough to realize I’m not there and comes into the kitchen to check on me.

  “You should go in the other room where it’s warmer,” he says. “You’re gonna get sick if you don’t warm up.”

  “Which would suit Miss Franny just fine. She’ll be easy to spot at my funeral. Just look for the person dancing a jig.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Who said I was joking?” I hold my hands close to the stove and then rub them together. It hurts when I try to bend my fingers, which means they are starting to thaw out. “There are so many dishes here, I’ll need more than one bucket of water to get them all clean.”

  “I’ll get more.”

  Quinn takes the bucket, puts on his coat, and heads outside.

  Sam comes into the kitchen and swipes a muffin from the basket on the window ledge. He is the only one in the house, besides Miss Franny, who has access to the food.

  “Quinn went to the pump,” I tell him. “I’ll finish these dishes as soon as he’s back.”

  “No worries.” Sam tosses me his muffin, which I let fall to the floor.

  “I can’t eat that. Queen Franny would have a fit.”

  Sam bends down and picks the muffin up. His blond curls bounce with the movement. “Ease up, will ya, Ailis?”

  “She says the worst things to us.”

  “Wasn’t it you who called her a codfish?”

  I look away.

  “You can’t go around calling people names. You’re too old for that sort of nonsense. It’s childish and you need to be thinking more about growing up.”

  “What do you know about growing up?”

  “You’re right,” he says, taking my hand and placing the muffin on my palm. “I’m a lousy adult. But that doesn’t mean you should be one, too. Take this, please.”

  I push it back into his hands. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Your choice. But know Fran is sorry for what she did. And to prove it, she wants you and Quinn to move back into the rear bedroom from now on. She’s agreed not to rent it out.”

  “You mean the closet?”

  “It’s a bed, isn’t it?” Then he slumps down on
a stool and says, “Not everyone can be as strong as you are, Ailis. Some of us splinter against the blows of this life.”

  I am struck. “I’m not strong.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re a fortress.” He starts rolling the muffin against his palm. “There are things about Fran you don’t know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how her supposed mother ditched her while she was standing in a breadline when she was only four years old. Told her she was going to read the sign at the front to see when the doors opened, and asked Fran to stay and hold their place in line. But she never came back. Can you imagine how little Fran felt standing there all alone—probably for hours? And at what point she realized she had been abandoned? You grew up with parents to teach you right from wrong,” he says. “But Fran grew up on the streets, all alone. Her ideas about some things, including the Irish, are wrong. I understand that. She just doesn’t know any better.”

  I realize he intends for me to feel sorry for Miss Franny, but I can’t muster anything more than a few drops of annoyance. “And that gives her the right to be mean the rest of her days?”

  “Splintered,” he says. “Sharp, jagged splinters where a whole person used to be. If you bothered to get to know her, you’d see she’s not as bad as you think. She really has been searching for Nettie and was genuinely worried about you and Quinn. She’s just lousy at showing it.”

  I let out a harrumph of disagreement and disgust.

  “Why do you insist on only seeing the bad in her?” Sam asks.

  “Why do you insist on only seeing the good?”

  Sam pushes his hand through his hair and lets out a slow breath. “I don’t know,” he says, and the way his words fall, I know he is telling the rock-bottom truth. “I just do.”

  20

  When I go into Ida’s on the first Monday of the new year, Greta is back in the shop.

  “Sorry about missing work on Saturday,” I say to Ida. “You were still out when we came by and then the storm hit. Were you somewhere safe?”

  “Oh yes,” Ida says, snipping her scissors through a swath of red satin. “I had to stay at the carpenter’s shop all night, but it was fine.” She finishes her cut and lays the scissors down. “Having another hat block will allow us to work alongside each other. I’ll be able to train you. But enough about work, tell me about Nettie. Is there news?”