“You’re that boy who makes all the noise in the yard.” The woman’s eyes were open, and she regarded the intruders with irritation.
Anders ignored this. “You have to get out of here.”
“Are you aiming to rob me, young man?”
“There’s going to be a fire,” Anders said.
She batted his warning away with the back of her hand. “There’s a fire every night.”
“We haven’t had a fire in this section in a while,” he went on calmly. “We’re due for one, and the wind is bad.”
Fiona heard voices in the courtyard, and moved quickly to dampen the wick in the kerosene lamp. She reached for the old woman’s hand. “Please, we wouldn’t harm you,” she said, and she must have sufficiently shown her worry because the woman allowed Fiona to escort her to the front of the house. As they reached the door, they heard the glass being shattered in the living room.
“We have to go,” Fiona addressed the old woman. “We’re in trouble if we stay. Promise me you’ll leave this place. Go wherever you have friends, as long as it’s south of here. If there’s a fire, the wind will keep it moving north.”
“Don’t worry,” she replied with a little cackle. “I’ve survived it all so far.”
The houses and apartments and shanties of the neighborhood had emptied, and their residents filled the streets. Franklin was as crowded as at midday, and almost as light, for the stables on the corner of Jackson were now crowned by fire. All around them, they heard speculations as to when, or if, the firefighters would arrive on the scene. A man in a fine black suit and bowler begged for help in putting out the flames but he was mostly ignored. The building bore the name Parmalee, a stagecoach company that served the finer districts of the city. It had been erected that summer, on several lots where the homes of dockworkers and their families had recently been razed, earning the ill will of the local population. Nobody from around here would be sorry to see it fall.
Fiona heard a shriek, and turned to see the old woman whose living room they had just passed through pummeling the man with the bristly mustache. He was impervious to her attacks, however, and his eyes were steadily scanning the swarm of people. Suddenly he raised his arm and pointed right at them.
In the general chaos and confusion no one seemed to notice that the tall man in the leather duster was advancing through the crowd, his gun drawn and pointed at the sky. Her blood was thunderous in her ears and Anders’s grip was strong. His eyes searched hers with their vivid light. “I’ll find you at your family’s place,” he said, and let go of her hand. “Don’t worry.” He took a step away from her and his smile cut a dimple in his cheek. “Go!”
When she realized what he intended to do, her face went cold with dread.
His head was bent in determination and he was half running through the dense crowd of bodies, in the direction of the burning stables. After a second or two of helpless agony, she did the only thing she knew to do.
“You can’t go in there!” called the man in the bowler—but meekly, as though he knew that keeping riffraff out was the least of his troubles. Anders paid him no mind, and neither did Fiona, following him through the small door off to the side of the locked, carriage-wide main doors.
She had let him go once before, and could not stand to lose him again.
Twenty-Seven
Repent! For the bordellos and houses of chance that proliferate in the dark corners of every district of this city breed such hot lust, inspire such dancing with the devil, that the only cure shall be a great cataclysm, a fiery act of God that will level this city and cleanse its sin that all souls may burn with His righteous knowledge.
—Reverend Finney, All-Night Tabernacle of the Holy Evangels, South River Street
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Anders said, but he didn’t seem exactly surprised to find her still at his side. Fiona recovered her breath and smiled, happy to be with him again. “Those are reckless men, they won’t hesitate to follow here. But we’ll be gone when the roof caves in, all right? And they’ll still be searching for us. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Fiona whispered, although she wished she could be as sure as Anders that they would soon be leaving.
An aura of doom hung over the place. The interior of the stables was wide, the fixtures new and clean and redolent of varnish. It was empty of people, but not empty of creatures. The twenty or so stalls that lined either side of the space were still occupied by horses, regarding them from behind their gates with giant, shrouded eyes. Overhead, there was a hiss and rumble that made her breath quick.
Anders began to run back and forth, opening the gates so that the horses—which must have smelled danger already—went dashing through the main space of the room. The forces of nature swirled around Fiona, paralyzing her. But only for a moment, and soon she was helping Anders, pulling back the gates and freeing the animals. Their coats were slick and dark and their eyes rolled and their manes whipped back and forth. Fiona was close to the rear of the building—near the back wall hung with saddles, bridles, and other equipment—when they heard the first shot.
“You hear me, Mag?” Even over the stampede of horses that filled the middle space of the building, Gil Bryce’s voice carried, sharp and cruel.
Move, Anders mouthed, and they began to crawl as one toward the corner. The mass of horses began to buck and neigh in terror.
“You thought I’d be too chicken to follow you in here? You thought I’d let you go, like that? There’s no exit back there, you know. Only way out is through me.”
The pack was wild in the main space of the room, and she feared that in a few minutes they’d be crushed under hoof. So she scrambled on hands and knees under the wall of one of the stalls, and Anders crawled behind her. The double-wide doors at the front of the place creaked, and another shot sounded from Gil Bryce’s pistol, and the horses stampeded. The earth shook with the mad rush as Fiona and Anders crawled on their bellies from one stall to the next.
“Come on out, boy,” he called. “It’s just business, and you owe me money.”
A few horses remained, which she and Anders must have missed in their haphazard attempt to free them. Fiona was afraid she and Anders would be kicked as soon as they reached an occupied stall, but they had no choice but to risk it. They came upon one just as the toes of Gil Bryce’s boots appeared beneath the gate. A horse blanket was hanging at the rear of the stall, and on instinct she grabbed hold and used it to cover her and Anders.
“Hello, you,” she heard Gil Bryce say.
Fiona dug her fingernails into Anders’s arm before she realized he was speaking to the horse. His tone was gentler than the one he used for his actual prey—he must not have noticed the boy and girl, huddled behind the big, mahogany mare.
Don’t breathe, she thought, and though she knew it wasn’t really possible, she felt certain Anders had heard.
“Is it hot in here?” Gil called to Anders—farther on now, moving up the stables, toward the rear. “Who is that lovely creature you’re dragging all around? Maybe you’d like to trade her to pay your debt to me?”
The others began to laugh again, as though they found the snap and crash of combustion overhead exciting. But Fiona remembered how quickly the barn on the West Side had been consumed—this place would be ash so much sooner than these men knew. They laughed again when the first flames penetrated the ceiling, and a blazing rafter fell to the ground—although their laughter became higher, wilder, and one of them yelped in pain.
“Hear that, Mag?” Gil Bryce called in his low, guttural rasp. “You’ll be hurting soon too.”
The horse trotted agitatedly in place. Through the blanket, Fiona felt the switch of its tail. She clung to Anders, trying not to shake.
“We’re out of time.” Anders barely put breath to his words, yet she heard him clear. “We have to get out of here. I’ll go first, get their attention, then you go quietly. It’s me they want, so they won’t notice you. Just go quick and don’t d
raw attention to yourself.”
Fiona’s heart darkened with understanding. Anders had never really thought he’d leave this place. It had always been a wild chance—he had drawn these men in for a final confrontation, knowing full well they were none of them likely to survive. “As soon as they see you, they’ll . . .” she murmured.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Soon none of this will matter.”
The inside of her mouth was parched, and she was finding it difficult not to cough. The blanket was rough, smothering in the heat.
“You’re making me angry.” Gil Bryce was across the room. The way he growled, Fiona knew he meant what he said. “And I’ve been angry a time already.”
“You weren’t supposed to follow me.” Anders spoke his words into her ear, so she felt their vibration more than she heard them. “You shouldn’t have followed me at all. You already escaped the neighborhood, you know. You will again. The first day you saw Emmeline walking in the street with her father, you said ‘That girl will see the world, let’s be friends with her,’ and she was like a promise that we, too, could leave. But it never mattered. You were always going to escape. I should have told you earlier. I’ve always known. I was just afraid you’d outgrow me, I suppose—have the dress shop you always dreamed of opening, or marry some important person. It wasn’t Emmeline who was too big for us. You were always too big for us. For me. Me, I was never really going to get out. That’s what I wanted to tell you, before—before everything. I wanted to tell you that you’ve already made it, and that I didn’t think I should hold you back by kissing you again. But I am glad I did, Fiona. I love you.”
She was so overwhelmed with emotion she couldn’t manage a reply. But she felt strangely at ease, as though he had just explained everything to her, everything there was to know about Anders and Fiona and all the years they’d been friends, and was glad at least that her own heart was no longer a mystery.
She touched his face, the strong line of his nose, felt the tension in his jaw and the close crop of his hair. He put his mouth to hers, one last time. Then he threw off the blanket, and jumped to his feet. Fiona followed, crawling forward and taking the reins, whispering to the mare to stay calm. In the early days on Dearborn, when she and Emmeline had first learned how to ride like ladies, she had been afraid of the horses, and the horses had rebelled at her presence. But in time she learned to be confident with them, to lead with a sure hand. She murmured and waited to see what Anders would do. In a moment he bolted toward the center of the room, whooping in rage.
Her eyes darted as she crept forward, leading the horse. The stables were dark with smoke and drifting particles, yet she made out how Gil Bryce moved toward Anders, shrugging his leather duster from his shoulders and clutching his gun’s grip. Fingers of flame pierced the ceiling in a hundred places, and the beam that had fallen close to the wide entrance created a nearly impassable wall of fire. Everywhere around them the hay and wood plank were ignited by the sparks that whirled like glowing orange snow.
“You want me?” Light shone on Anders’s teeth when he grinned. “Here I am.”
The gang closed in on him. They took no notice of Fiona, crouched behind the horse as she led it toward the entrance. Inside she seethed with despair, but outwardly she did the only thing she could do: she tried to go unnoticed.
The double-wide front doors were burning now, and they bent and swayed with the heat. She heard a popping sound, and the windows began to shatter, one and then another. The mare heard the breaking glass and reared, and if Fiona had not had a firm hand on the reins she would have lost her. But she was able to hold tight, and when the mare fell back to all fours, Fiona gave her a commanding pat and swung up onto her back.
She could not escape Gil Bryce’s attention now.
“Hey there, little girl.” He drew the tip of his tongue along his teeth. “I was wondering where you hid yourself.”
The horse reared again, and Gil Bryce and his men stepped back. Any other day, Fiona knew, she would have been thrown. But her body was alive with panic and she felt possessed by a superhuman strength. Anders crouched, and took the leather coat that had been Gil Bryce’s signature in hand. The horse charged and the men scattered, leaving only Anders, fearless in the mare’s path, even as her front legs pawed the air and wheeled around.
The men stared, stunned by the crazed animal, watching how she trotted, snorted, tossed her mane, and readied to charge the door. Fiona gave a little nudge with her ankles. She did not have to look to know that Anders had broken into a run, that he was running alongside as though the horse were a freight train—running until he was hurtling, until he could launch himself onto the mare’s back. Fiona felt him grab hold just as their mount broke into a gallop. Anders clutched Fiona’s waist with one arm, and drew the leather coat around their bodies with the other, and Fiona held fast to the reins. They were hurtling into a ring of fire, but it was too late to turn back. Fiona flinched, and the mare leapt over the burning beam, through the ruins of the door, and into a mass of onlookers who had gathered to watch the conflagration.
The crowd screamed and scattered, clearing a path for the out-of-control horse and the two riders who clung to her back. There was no time to get one’s bearings: a few seconds, and the people were shrieking about something else. Fiona glanced back and was flooded with relief, and at the same time choked with horror. The building in which she had just been trapped collapsed under the weight of its own fiery roof. A sound like rolling thunder shocked the onlookers into silence.
“He’s gone,” Fiona gasped. “All of them, they’re—”
“Don’t think about it,” Anders said, and she knew how much he meant it. His features were hard and his eyes opaque. They’d meant Anders harm, she knew, but he had lured them in that place and to their deaths. He sat back, but did not relax his grip on her torso. The terrible light of the destroyed warehouse was mesmerizing, and for a moment he watched in the same dumb manner as the rest who stood with mouths hung open and eyes blank with shock. “Let’s find your family, Fiona,” he said eventually, and urged the horse on with a pat.
For a moment or two she couldn’t remember how to say words. But it didn’t matter. There was nothing that needed saying; anyone could see what would happen next. The fire was too voracious—it would spread to the nearby buildings, maybe to the entire neighborhood, and those who lingered would lose their lives along with everything else.
Twenty-Eight
You can’t put out a high wind with water.
—Overheard on the corner of Jackson and Wells
Fiona had not known there were so many people in the whole world. Even at high noon on a busy Friday she had not seen the streets as densely populated as now. From atop the horse’s back, she surveyed the impassable sea of bodies that filled the avenue, along with wagons piled high with shop goods and trunks, animals, and wailing children. Piano benches and spinning wheels were passed overhead across the tide. She checked her watch, and so knew it was nearing midnight. It had taken her and Anders half an hour to make their way from Franklin onto the alley where her parents kept their home.
Panic was general through the old neighborhood. Talk of the fire and its path was everywhere. Her eyes darted through the mass, hoping to see one of her siblings. As the minutes peeled away with no sign of them, fear over her family’s whereabouts tightened in her throat. If not for Anders’s hands resting at her waist and shoulder, she would certainly have panicked, too.
But on the street where she used to live, no one spoke. Eddies of cinder and ash whirled in the air, and men and women hurried by without meeting each other’s eyes. Despite the heat, they wore layers of clothes—whether to protect themselves from sparks, or to preserve the coats and jackets and dresses they could ill-afford to lose, she was not sure.
“Here,” Anders said, and swung himself to the ground.
Fiona’s face went pale. The facade of the three-story frame structure was plain and solid as ever, but she wa
s afraid of what she would, or would not, find within.
“Remember?” Anders pointed to the place where, some months ago, he had taken her against the wall and his lips had touched hers. His eyes were bright and reassuring, and the memory of a cool quiet night, when they had stood together on this spot, gave her some courage.
“Yes,” she said, and jumped to the ground.
Anders tied the horse to the railing and they went up the porch steps.
“Hello?” she called, although she knew as soon as she stepped through the door that it had been abandoned. Nothing had been touched. The furniture was as it had been the night before, the book of verses lay on her father’s chair, her mother’s crochet basket was placed neatly on the shelf. But the life had gone out of the place. It was like some house on the prairie, abandoned after the crops went bad, never to be a home again.
“They’ve left,” Anders said. “That’s good. That means they sought safety.”
“I just want to see them.” Fiona couldn’t seem to raise her voice above a whisper. “I need to know they’re all right.”
An eerie quiet hung over her family’s possessions. The bluster outside was forgotten here, but not the heat. The skin of her face flushed as though she had just leaned in to check a loaf of bread baking in the oven. Her eyes were dry, her throat parched. She walked through the apartment and into the room where her parents slept. The bed was made, the blanket neatly tucked around the mattress, and the white enamel washbasin and pitcher, which she had given them for Christmas—the Carters hadn’t wanted it anymore—remained on the bedside table, as though waiting for someone to retire for the day.
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