American Hippo

by Sarah Gailey

  “What?” Hero wondered if perhaps Adelia needed another hour of sleep before she would be coherent.

  “We don’t need a plan for the murder, Hero,” Adelia said. “It will be simple. I will walk into the party and slit this ‘Burton’ fellow’s throat. Or I’ll hit him between the eyes with a throwing knife. Or I’ll find a curtain tie and garrote him.” She was studying the backs of her hands as she spoke, her eyes tracing the network of tiny scars that mapped them. “I will kill him the same way I would kill anyone else. No elaborate plan required.”

  “But how will we get him alone?” Hero shook their head. “You’re not making any sense. You can’t just walk into the middle of a party and kill a man—a government official. You’d hang.”

  “I’ll hang anyway,” Adelia murmured. She looked up at Hero, and her eyes were the clearest they’d been in days. “Gran Carter will find us, Hero. Yes? He has found us already. He will find me here—he is probably on his way already. And then he will capture me, and I will hang anyway. So I may as well do this job quickly.”

  “But—I don’t understand,” Hero said desperately. “I mean, I understand, but I don’t—you’re just giving up?”

  Adelia smiled—a tired smile, but a warm one. A real one. “No,” she said. “I’m not giving up. I’m making a plan.” She looked back down at her hands, and Hero realized that they were seeing Adelia differently than they’d ever seen her. Even when she was about to give birth, Adelia had never seemed nervous before.

  A cold finger of fear traced the scar just below Hero’s navel.

  “Hero,” Adelia said. “I am going to kill Burton at the party, and then Parrish’s demands will be met. Very shortly thereafter, Carter will capture me. I cannot outrun him, not like this.” She gestured to herself—to her sweat-soaked hair, and to the damp patches over each breast where the cabbage leaves had made the fabric of her shirt cling. “I’m very sick, and I cannot run on my own. So … Carter will capture me, yes? We know this. And I will hang.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish,” Adelia said softly. Hero bit their lip hard. They didn’t want to hear the rest of this—there had to be another way. “I’m going to hang, but before I do … you can get Ysabel back from Parrish. He’ll hand her off—he won’t want to keep her, not once I’m captured and the job is done. He’ll give her to you. And I need you to take her.

  “Hero, I haven’t—hm. How to say it? My life, for the past fifteen years, has been all about running. In all that time, I haven’t trusted anyone but myself. That is”—she swallowed hard, still staring at her hands—“I haven’t trusted anyone until these last two months. You had every reason to hate me—to kill me, even—but you didn’t. You stayed with me. You helped me birth Ysabel, and you’ve helped me with her when you had no place helping me with anything. You’ve saved my life more times than I think you know.” She cleared her throat. Hero blinked back hot tears; this was easily the longest they’d ever heard Adelia speak, and she was saying more than they could take in.

  “You’ve been a friend to me, Hero. You’ve done so much for me, and now … I have to ask you for more.”

  Hero shook their head. “Don’t,” they whispered. Adelia looked up at them, her eyes brimming.

  “Promise me you’ll take care of Ysabel,” Adelia whispered. “Tell her—” Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and instead of wiping them away, she reached out and grabbed Hero’s hands. “Tell her I was a murderer, that’s—she should know that, she should know why I’m gone. Tell her I was the best. She should know that, too.” Adelia smiled even as her tears splashed onto Hero’s hands. “But tell her this. Tell her that I was every inch her mother, and that I loved her more than I loved being the best.”

  She squeezed Hero’s hands so hard that the bones creaked. Hero felt themself nodding, even as an ache filled their chest. “I’ll tell her,” they said.

  Adelia nodded back, once. She released Hero’s hands and wiped at her face with the linen the cabbage had been wrapped in. “Alright,” she said with a loud sniff. “That’s settled, then.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood unsteadily.

  “Where are you going?” Hero asked, rubbing the collar of their shirt across their cheeks. It felt so sudden—the conversation was over, and their future was decided.

  “If I’m going to meet Gran Carter tonight,” Adelia called as she stepped behind the silk screen, “I’d like to at least be clean. I hope you saved me some soap for my last bath on this earth, eh, Hero?”

  “You should have told me you were planning to die a little sooner,” Hero called back. Their voice was still thick with emotion, but they managed to laugh as a cabbage leaf came flying over the top of the screen at them. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Shove it up your ass,” Adelia shot back. “And then go find me a fresh bar of soap.”

  Chapter 10

  Archie dipped her fingertips into the water and ran them across her hairline for the thousandth time, smoothing down the wisps of hair that seemed determined to curl at her temples in the humidity of the late-afternoon air.

  “You look beautiful,” Carter murmured, in a voice so low that only she would be able to hear it.

  “Beautiful is not what I’m worried about,” Archie replied, but she smiled at him anyway. “But merci.”

  “What are you worried about, then?”

  Archie looked over at Carter, struck as always by how unconscionably handsome he was. The low, golden sun made his features almost glow. His rented hippo, Antoinette, was too small for him—the water nearly lapped his knees—but he rode with a grace that would have made anyone think he was a full-time hopper. “Getting into the party,” she said. “You’ll ’ave no problem—all you need to do is flash your star. And ’Oundstooth…” She glanced over her shoulder and ran out of words.

  Houndstooth looked like himself again. And when he looked like himself, no party would turn him away, whether he had an invitation or not.

  He’d changed into a suit that Archie had never seen him wear. She supposed he’d been saving it for a special occasion. She’d asked him if perhaps he wanted to change into it once they arrived at Parrish’s barge, but he’d said that it would weather the ride there. So far, it had; the crisp collar of his plum shirt still stood tall and contrasted his white four-in-hand brilliantly, sending a tart spark of envy across Archie’s tongue. He’d shaved and trimmed his own hair in the time it had taken for Archie to arm herself and oil the chain of her meteor hammer; he was immaculately combed, his moustache waxed into a razor curl. There was a light in his eyes—the light of expectation. The light of hope.

  He winked at her from his seat astride Ruby’s back, and Archie’s heart nearly broke with relief.

  “Why wouldn’t you be able to get in?” Carter said, breaking into Archie’s thoughts.

  “I will,” Archie replied. “I will. I suppose I am just worried about what would happen if I didn’t.”

  Carter nudged Antoinette close enough to bump into Rosa. Rosa gave a snort, spraying creekwater over Antoinette’s jowls, but didn’t move away. “We won’t be separated again, Archie,” Carter said. “I mean it. I’m not going to run off chasing Adelia. This time, if I don’t get her—and I will get her,” he added, narrowing his eyes, “—but if I don’t get her, I’m not going to run off after her. I swear.”

  “Don’t make promises,” Archie said with a sad smile. “Just keep them.”

  “Archie.” Carter shifted on Antoinette’s back, probably sore from spending so many hours in the saddle already. “I know you don’t like me to make promises, but … I’ve been wanting to talk to you about maybe making some plans.”

  Archie stared straight ahead, watching the ripples in the water. “We ’ave a plan. We’ll go to the party, find Adelia, arrest her, and let Winslow have ten minutes alone with her to find out where ’Ero is.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  A piercing whistle cut him off. Archie and
Carter both looked back to see Houndstooth staring at the water a few hundred feet away. He’d gone stock-still. One hand gripped the pommel of Ruby’s saddle; with the other, he was reaching for the fully assembled harpoon that was strapped across his back. Archie started to call out to ask him what was the matter, but he raised a hand without looking away from the patch of water his eyes were fixed upon, and she fell silent.

  For a long, tense minute, the only sound was Rosa blowing bubbles in the murky brown water. Finally, Houndstooth lowered his hand, shaking his head. He rode up next to Archie and Carter, still watching that patch of water.

  “What is it?” Archie asked, looking between her old friend and the place he was staring at.

  “I don’t know,” Houndstooth replied. “I thought I saw something—a wake—but then it was gone.”

  Archie patted Rosa’s flank, and the three of them picked up speed, riding abreast through the widening creek. “A breeze, perhaps?”

  “No, it was bigger than—never mind.” Houndstooth rolled his shoulders. “I’m sure it was nothing.”

  “It’s good of you to be so vigilant,” Carter said. “You’ve got a keen eye, Houndstooth. We could use men like you in the service.”

  Houndstooth laughed and drew breath to say something that would probably make Carter regret his invitation, but stopped before saying anything, his head cocked.

  “What is it now?” Archie asked, not unkindly.

  “Do you hear that?” Houndstooth said, a smile spreading across his features.

  “No, but then, my hearing isn’t what it used to be. What is it?” Carter asked, looking around at the surface of the water. The three of them rounded a bend in the creek, and then Archie heard it: a faint ragtime melody that grew a little louder as Ruby, Rosa, and Antoinette proceeded through the water. After a moment, Carter heard it too—his face grew stern, and as Archie watched, a mantle of authority seemed to settle over his shoulders.

  “That’ll be the party, then,” he said. One of his hands drifted up to check that his marshal’s star was affixed firmly to the brim of his hat.

  “Almost there,” Houndstooth said with a giddy grin.

  Archie didn’t say anything at all. She checked that the chain of her meteor hammer was properly coiled. She loosened the straps on the knives that were sheathed at her shoulders, her waist, and her thighs. She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. Then she leaned over, dipped her fingertips in the water, and smoothed her hair down again. Just in case.

  * * *

  The barge was bigger than Archie could have anticipated. The narrow stream that led up to it was too straight to be anything but man-made, so she’d known there was money at work, but it wasn’t until she saw the thing for herself that she realized how much money. It was a floating mansion in the middle of a perfectly round private pond. Three ferrymen poled finely appointed party guests from the shore to the deck of the barge, where they were helped up by a servant in a coat and tails.

  And there were so many guests. At least a hundred that Archie could see, and judging from the noise, twice that already inside. A loud cheer went up from somewhere within, followed by the sound of shattering glass and another round of shouts. Above it all, the music continued unabated—a powerful piano pounding out “The Wild Pottamus Rag.” It was Archie’s least favorite of the songs that had been written about the collapse of the Harriet Dam, not least because of the chorus: “And not a soul escaped alive, and not a soul escaped alive, hi-ho hop-whoa! And everybody died.”

  Not everybody, asshole, she thought tartly.

  “Excuse me.” A ferryman was stepping out of his boat and approaching them. Archie rested an easy hand on the hilt of the knife that hung at her waist. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Carter slip the strap off his pistol with all the smooth subtlety of a gator sliding into the water.

  “Yes?” Houndstooth said in an easy, friendly voice.

  “I’ll need to see your invitation, please,” the ferryman said. “And you’ll need to leave your hippopotami with the pondhand.” He snapped his fingers at a skinny, towheaded white boy in wading boots. Archie flinched, remembering another skinny boy who had wanted to be a hopper. She looked away from the pondhand before she could remember too hard.

  “Of course,” Houndstooth said, reaching into the breast pocket of his waistcoat. He paused, cocked his head, and reached into his other pocket. He made a show of checking his jacket, then swore. “Damn,” he said, frowning at Archie. “You don’t have our invitations, do you?”

  “You were supposed to bring them,” Archie said. She glanced at Carter, who nodded, then looked back at Houndstooth. “Don’t tell me you don’t have them at all, ’Oundstooth?”

  He patted himself down, then shrugged. “I must have left them on the chifforobe.” He looked up at the ferryman with a half smile. “I’m so sorry, my friend, I appear to have forgotten them.”

  “Alas,” the ferryman said drily. “I can’t let you in without one. Are you certain that you don’t have an invitation? Just one would do for all three of you.”

  Houndstooth stared at him for a beat, then broke into a broad grin. “Oh, yes, of course. How could I forget?” He reached into his breast pocket again, and this time, he withdrew a bulging paper packet, tied with twine. “Here they are.”

  The ferryman took the packet and weighed it in his hand before nodding to Houndstooth. “Very good, sir.” He snapped to the pondhand again, and the boy came running. “You may leave your hippos with Arthur and retrieve them again at the end of the evening.”

  “We’ll take them around back ourselves, thank you,” Carter said. The ferryman raised an eyebrow at him, but then, glancing up at the star on his hat, nodded.

  “Very good, Mister Marshal,” he said. He gave them directions to the paddock, then turned smartly away, greeting a set of guests that had arrived overland.

  Archie guided Rosa into the pond, patting the hippo’s white flank. “You were very brave back there, chérie,” she cooed. Rosa’s ears flipped back and forth as she slid into the clear water of the private pond. A cloud of mud bloomed from her hide, muddying the water around her. “Very brave,” Archie added in a murmur.

  The paddock was a loosely constructed ring of buoys with netting strung between them. As Archie, Houndstooth, and Carter approached, a second pondhand untied a length of netting and drew it aside. A few hippos were inside already, their ears and noses barely breaking the surface of the water. One flicked an ear at Ruby as she slid between the buoys and into the paddock, ahead of Rosa. Houndstooth pulled Ruby up short, much as he had in Thompson Creek, and stared.

  “It can’t be,” he whispered.

  “What’s the holdup?” Carter called from behind Archie. Houndstooth ignored him, urging Ruby toward the hippo that had caught his attention—a runty grey one that had clocked Ruby as she entered the paddock.

  “That’s … that’s Abigail,” Houndstooth said. At the sound of her name, Abigail lifted her great grey head out of the water. “That’s Abigail.”

  Carter looked at Archie. “Hero’s girl, Abigail?”

  Archie nodded as Houndstooth took his hat off, running a hand through his hair. “I thought we left her back at Port Rouge,” she said.

  “We did,” Houndstooth replied. “Or … I don’t know, I thought we did. It was dark, we were in such a hurry, I didn’t think to check—” He rubbed his eyes with one hand, looking old for a moment. “This doesn’t make any sense at all. How would Hero have gotten ahold of her?”

  “Are you sure it’s her?” Archie asked. Houndstooth nodded slowly, then pulled himself up onto the dock that led from the paddock to the barge. Without looking back, he stalked toward the sound of the party.

  “Will he be okay in there?” Carter asked as Archie dismounted.

  “We’ll find out,” Archie said, staring at Houndstooth’s back as the sound of his red hippo-leather boots pounding on the wood of the dock blended into the ragtime rhythm. “One way or the other.”<
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  * * *

  The inside of the barge was dense with people. The crowd fairly bristled with knives, pistols, and fists. Archie pushed her way through, Carter at her back, and found Houndstooth standing at the entrance to the formal dining room. The long table was crowded with gifts, as thick as ticks on a dog’s back—baskets of oranges, pistols shining with oil, long parcels wrapped in white paper. At the head of the table, the oldest man Archie had ever seen was hunched over a package, picking at the twine that wrapped it with a gnarled finger. He squinted at the knot with cloudy eyes, shaking his head, before pulling out a pocket knife and sawing through the twine. A young woman stood beside him with a sheaf of paper and an ivory-barreled pen; behind her was a stack of already-opened gifts, including an ill-advised model of the Harriet Dam as it had looked before it fell.

  The young woman with the pen looked up just as Archie edged into the room, and Archie had to swallow a surprised laugh. It was Acadia, wearing a pile of false curls and a heavily ruffled corset that had pushed her bony frame into the approximate shape of a violin—all extravagant curves. She gave Archie a wicked grin before laying a possessive hand on the shoulder of the old man in the chair.

  “I suppose that must be Mr. Burton,” Archie said to Houndstooth, nodding to the old man. But Houndstooth didn’t answer. Archie turned and found that he was no longer standing beside her. She whipped around, only to see him crossing the room, pushing people out of his way. A woman cried out as he shouldered past her, knocking her into a butler’s tray of tall cocktail glasses.

  “It’s her,” Carter said behind Archie. He was staring over the heads of the people in the crowd. “It must be. He must have seen Adelia—” Archie didn’t want to hear more. She followed in Houndstooth’s wake, stepping over the ankle of a man he’d bowled over, lifting her skirt to step over a puddle of gin on the floor. The quarters were too close for her to use her meteor hammer without putting the drunken party guests in danger, so she unsheathed her weightiest blade and shoved past a tall woman who had stepped into her path.