“You saved us,” he says.
He keeps his arms wrapped around her. He smells like smoke and soap and something spicy.
She kisses him back.
Necco
She’s sitting in the backseat of Pru’s car, riding back to her apartment. Promise the doll is on her lap. It’s early the next morning. They’ve spent the entire night at the police station, answering questions, being videotaped, signing statements. Necco is no longer the prime suspect in Hermes’s murder. The police found a coat with blood on it in Lloyd’s car. They are waiting for lab results, but believe the blood is Hermes’s. They also searched Lloyd’s house and found evidence linking him to Elizabeth Sandeski’s murder all those years ago. Errol has told the police that Lloyd killed Miles and Lily, and Hermes, too. Errol is being held at the police station as a possible accessory. Necco, Theo, and Mr. Marcelle told the police how Errol had saved them; it was because of him that they were all still alive.
Necco has pulled the doll from Hermes’s backpack and runs her fingers over her old toy. The only thing her father made that she has left.
Promise’s pink gingham dress is stained, tattered at the edges. Her hair is tangled, her face splotchy with dirt and oil and years of grime from living on the street. Life has been hard on Promise.
“What’s her name?” Theo asks.
“Mina,” she says. “Her name was Mina. My father suggested it. It was the name of Thomas Edison’s wife. But I called her Promise.”
She’s very special. Promise you’ll take good care of her?
She thinks of her father’s other inventions: of the way he’d sometimes build secret compartments into them that she had to find and figure out how to open to reach the treasures inside: gumdrops, tiny wrapped chocolate bars.
She picks Promise up, turns her over. She tries gently tugging and twisting on different body parts: her ears, feet, hands, nose.
She recalls her recent dream: her father with his left eye gone, a telescoping monocle stitched in place, a needle in his hand. “A way to keep an eye on you.”
An eye on you.
Eye.
She touches the eyes of her doll, gently at first. She fits her fingernails into the little grooves around each eye, gives them a tug. Nothing happens. She gets a firmer grip, tries wiggling, twisting. The left eye budges, turns slightly counterclockwise. She turns it again, and the eye unscrews.
“What are you doing?” Pru asks. They’re at a stoplight and Pru is peering into the backseat. “Don’t hurt her.”
The glass eye comes off in her hand, revealing a tiny key, like on a windup toy.
“What is that?” Theo says, leaning in to get a closer look.
Necco turns the key slowly, carefully, until she feels it click. She thinks of her father’s workshop, the cogs and gears, the tiny clockworks, the smell of oil, coal, leather, and pipe tobacco. How when she was in there, anything seemed possible: the inanimate were brought to life, the dead could speak once more.
Under her dress, the doll’s torso swings open. Necco lifts up the folds of dirty fabric to reveal the hollow body under the door of Promise’s belly. There’s a bag made of thick translucent plastic. Inside the bag is a stubby brass tube, about four inches long. And inside the tube, she knows, even before she unscrews the cap, is a sheaf of papers folded carefully and rolled up tight.
Here it is: the secret her parents and Hermes had been killed for.
Crazy to think of.
Killing anyone for a few pieces of paper stuck inside a doll.
But it wasn’t just any paper, was it?
She had seen the invention. She knew what it could do.
I’m whoever you want me to be.
How wonderful it would be, to talk with her parents again. To tell her mother how sorry she is for not believing her; to tell her father that she’d kept the plans safe, that the Chicken Man and Snake Eyes are really dead this time. That she’ll go on keeping them safe.
But she understands that if you open a door, anything might come through. And she isn’t going to risk it. Not with a child of her own to protect.
She tucks the plans back inside, clicks the doll’s belly closed, and hugs her to her chest.
ONE YEAR LATER
Necco
Necco has a difficult time traversing the path; the sleeping baby in the sling on her chest pulls her off balance and makes it impossible to see where she’s putting her feet as they go down the embankment. Theo is beside her, holding a flashlight to illuminate the way. Necco clings to Theo’s arm, knowing her friend will not let her and the baby fall.
Necco smells the fire, fried food, something sweet and sugary that makes her mouth water. Circus smells. And from down below, they hear voices, laughter, applause. They pass a hand-painted sign: THIS WAY TO THE CIRCUS. Another says: COME SEE PRISCILLA, THE GOLDEN ELEPHANT. MARVEL AT THE FIRE EATERS; ASK THEM TO TELL YOUR FUTURE IF YOU DARE.
At last, they reach level ground, and Theo takes Necco’s hand, leading her along the path. When they get to the clearing under the bridge, they have to push their way through a small crowd. There are college kids, young couples, families with little kids who are clinging to their parents’ hands and watching, wide-eyed.
“Make way,” Theo says, tapping people’s shoulders. “VIP with a baby coming through.”
Some people turn to look at them, but their gazes don’t linger long—they don’t want to miss what’s happening up front, by the river.
The center ring is there, all lit up with oil lamps and candle lanterns that hang from the trees. But the lights are nothing compared with what’s happening in the ring itself.
There, in the center, stands an enormous elephant: Pru’s greatest creation. A life-size model of Priscilla, made of wood and wire and papier-mâché. She is painted metallic gold, and because this wasn’t enough, Pru covered her in a mosaic of tiny pieces of broken mirror. She shines, she glitters and flickers in the firelight, and sends pinpricks of light out into the crowd like a giant disco ball. On top of this huge elephant is Pru, dressed from head to toe in purple and black: tights and a ruffled dress covered with little mirrors just like the elephant she rides upon. She is waving to the crowd. And just when people think they understand, think the elephant is a simple statue, the great beast turns her head. Pru controls it with the golden cord she clings to, fastened to a pulley system rigged up in the elephant’s neck.
The crowd goes wild. A little girl squeals, “Mommy! It moved! The elephant moved!”
Pru is glowing, smiling, her face sparkling with a gold powder, her lips a perfect painted red bow, her eyelids purple to match her dress, her hair in curls, woven with purple ribbons. She is stunning, and she and Priscilla have the crowd’s total focus.
“Imagine, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” Pru commands. “Imagine that you have the power to bring your dreams to life. To have your greatest wish come true. What would it be? Where would your dreams take you? That’s what tonight is all about. To help you remember. To help you believe.”
As she says these last words, the Fire Eaters come out and encircle the elephant, swinging burning wands through the air, playing with the fire, stretching it with their fingers, making it jump from one torch to another. They are spectacular in flame-colored dresses Pru has made them—orange, yellow, and red—and as they move and sway, the flames of the fabric flicker and bend, mimicking the flames in the torches they hold.
“Fire is life,” says Miss Coral, and swallows her ball of fire. Her hair is back in its usual bun, but it’s surrounded by a spray of bright red, yellow, and orange feathers. Her lips are painted red, her eyelids covered with sparkling gold eye shadow.
“Fire is breath,” says Miss Stella, taking the flaming tip of her own torch into her mouth. She has orange and yellow ribbons braided into the dark hair on the left side of her head; her right side has its usual buzz cut.
“Fire redeems us,” says Miss F, gulping hers down.
“Fire, show us the w
ay,” says Miss Abigail, eating hers.
“The things that scare us most, the things we think might hurt us,” Pru says, waving a torch Miss Abigail has passed her through the air, “they’re the things that make us whole.” And with this, she opens her mouth and chomps down on the fire, putting it out, releasing the smoke through her nostrils.
There is music now; some woman Necco doesn’t recognize comes out playing the accordion. Another woman joins her with a violin. It sounds like Gypsy music, sad and happy at the same time. Pru is on the elephant, swaying, turning Priscilla’s head this way, then that, bobbing in time with the tune.
Behind her, Mr. Marcelle, Pru’s strongman, comes out, wheeling a large box covered in a red velvet cloth. He’s dressed in red pants and boots, a red-and-white-striped shirt. His head is polished to a shine, and his mustache is waxed and curled.
“In the circus,” Pru is saying, “just like in your life, anything is possible. You just have to believe.”
Mr. Marcelle pulls off the red cloth, revealing a golden cage full of white birds with crests. He opens the cage, and the birds flutter out, landing on his shoulders and arms. It’s an absurd sight: this muscle-bound man covered with delicate white birds. Then he reaches up to Pru, and she takes his hand. Their arms form a bridge and the birds walk along it, climbing from him to her, flapping their wings—one bird, two, three, then all six birds are on Pru, on her shoulders and arms; she even has one on her head. The one perched on top of her head takes flight, but it doesn’t go far. It circles her head once, twice, three times, a living halo, and Pru is smiling, smiling like she’s never been happier.
Theo takes Necco’s hand, leans over, whispers in her ear, “Isn’t it amazing?”
Yes, Necco nods. Yes. Amazing. The circus. Pru and her elephant. The strongman and his birds.
Little Lily Elizabeth is awake now, eyes wide open. She’s watching the circus, the birds and giant sparkling elephant. Necco strokes her soft hair, kisses the top of her head. Her feet stick out from the bottom of the carrier, clad in the striped rainbow booties Theo knit her.
The police, after hearing Errol’s story and Mr. Marcelle’s backup of Lloyd’s confession, did their own investigation. They found the arrow Miles shot at the Chicken Man all those years ago, and information Lloyd had been gathering on Necco and Hermes. Necco was no longer a suspect. Errol confessed to helping Lloyd, saying Lloyd had left him no choice, that Lloyd would have killed Necco, then Errol himself, if he didn’t assist him. Errol cooperated fully with the investigation and was sentenced to ten years in prison. His lawyer thinks he’ll get out in much less time.
Necco will tell little Lily Elizabeth about Hermes. She’s already started. She tells her all about her daddy, how clever he was. How once, when he was a boy, he was thrown from a horse and it gave him a scar down the lip so that he looked like a rabbit. Her Bunny Boy. Her Hermes. Her God of Thieves, bringer of dreams, most cunning trickster.
She loves telling stories to Lily Elizabeth, stories that often begin with the beginning of it all: “Once upon a time, the Great Mother laid an egg and that egg became our world.” She tells Lily all about her grandmother the Fire Eater; how they lived together under the bridge in a city called Burntown. How her grandmother saw visions, told stories about a Great Flood. “You’re named for her,” she says. “And for your great-grandmother, who was the most beautiful woman in the world.”
She tells Lily about her grandfather the inventor, who populated his workshop with mechanical animals and talking dolls. How very clever he was. And how once, he built a machine so special, so magical, that it could reach through the veil between the living and the dead.
Necco has locked the plans away for now. Put them someplace safe where no one will ever find them. One day, she’ll show Lily.
The audience applauds as the circus act concludes. Pru waves and blows kisses right to Necco and Lily from the top of her large golden elephant, which turns its great head to look at them. Little Lily squirms in the pouch, reaches up with her tiny starfish hand. Necco knows what she’s going for: the little brass elephant, now on a sturdy leather cord Necco wears around her neck. The baby wraps her fingers around it, makes a contented cooing sound, and drifts back to sleep.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to…
Leslie Roth, knitter extraordinaire, for talking knitting with me, and for remaining calm when I asked what sort of knitting needle would make the best murder weapon.
Dan Lazar, the best agent in the world, who always finds a way to push me to be a better writer.
Anne Messitte, Andrea Robinson, and the whole team at Doubleday for the thousands of things they do expertly that make it possible for me to get my stories out into the world.
Drea and Zella, for accompanying me on research trips to old mill towns and being very patient while I spent hours in museums, took endless photographs of old buildings, scrambled around under bridges and in vacant lots, and nearly fell into rivers and canals.
And also…
Pru’s tiny circus was based on the amazing work of Alexander Calder—there’s a film out there of him performing it and you just can’t watch it without smiling.
Many years ago, I worked at a homeless shelter in Portland, Oregon. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to each and every person I met there who shattered my stereotypes of homelessness and shared their stories with me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jennifer McMahon is the New York Times bestselling author of eight suspense novels, including Promise Not to Tell, The Winter People, and The Night Sister. She lives in Vermont with her partner, Drea, and their daughter, Zella.
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