by Rae Carson
Or I could push it all away. It would be a relief.
I close my eyes. Sweat rolls down my forehead. My hands shake.
Maybe, with one burst of power, I could send every gold coin, every lucky nugget and pin and button in this room flying.
“Lee,” Henry whispers. “Lee? Are you all right?”
“I’m . . . not sure.”
“People are staring. Let’s keep moving.”
The size of the crowd makes it hard to see the players at each table, so we circle the room once, and then twice, looking for Hardwick and Russell. Henry pauses to talk to a number of people he recognizes, and then gets distracted by one of the games. A cherub-faced miner is on a winning streak, and the crowd cheers as he keeps doubling his bet and winning.
“He started the night with a fifty-dollar coin,” explains a redheaded man standing beside us. “And now he has more than three thousand dollars.”
“Maybe he should quit while he’s ahead,” I say.
“He should keep going while he’s lucky!” Henry says, exchanging a grin with the redheaded man.
Two hands later, the miner has doubled his money again. On the third hand, the cards fall against him, and he loses everything. A collective groan of disappointment sweeps around the table on his behalf. Several bystanders offer to buy him drinks.
But he looks crushed. He’s a boy barely old enough grow a beard, not even Jefferson’s age. Tears roll down his sunburned cheeks.
Under the nearest table, trapped beneath the shoe of a man who’s doubling down on a losing streak, I sense a small coin, dropped and lost. I bend down to pretend to adjust my boot, focus my energy very carefully, and call the coin.
The coin skitters across the floor and into my hand. But my control isn’t as focused as I would like; on the table, the loser’s stack of gold coins topples over.
I rise and turn to the young boy being consoled by his friends. I press the coin into his hand and say, “So you won’t leave broke tonight. Here’s a second chance.”
His jaw hangs open. I expect, sooner or later, a thank you will emerge.
Instead he spins around and shoulders his way back to the table. “I’m in the game,” he says. “I’m back in the game!”
“That was very kind of you,” says Henry.
The boy sits down and scrubs away the tears with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m not so sure,” I say. “Where’s Hardwick? I don’t see him anywhere.”
“Oh, he’s almost certainly in the private rooms in the back.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Because we won’t be able to get in, at least not until much later in the night, when they start to relax the rules. In the meantime, we should just enjoy the entertainment, and if Hardwick leaves, we’ll follow him to the next place.”
“Why can’t we get into the private rooms?” I ask.
“It’s high stakes. You need at least a thousand dollars just to walk through the door.”
When we came into San Francisco, with my saddlebags full of gold, I had thought I was the richest woman in the world. Now my resources are rapidly dwindling before we’ve even put a dent in Hardwick’s enterprises.
But I came here to see him in action. I need to know who he associates with, how he spends his leisure time, figure out what he cares about.
“What if I happened to have twenty gold pieces with me? The fifty-dollar gold pieces.”
He grabs my arm, then promptly lets it go again. “Are you teasing me?”
“Henry, am I a person who teases?”
“But you have a thousand dollars in gold on you?”
Slightly more than a thousand. The weight of it tugs at me, both physically and mentally, from the small purse hung over my shoulder and tucked inside my sweater. “I always carry gold with me now. Jefferson keeps some of my stake. A fair bit is with Peony. Even Mary has some, back in Glory. Never keep all your money in one place, right?”
“True enough.”
“So, where do we go?”
He stares at me, as if torn. I don’t get to ask him what he’s torn between, because he grabs my hand and leads me through the parlor and down a long hallway.
Two men in wool suits stand outside a door: my old friends, Large and Larger.
“There’s a thousand-dollar minimum,” Large says.
“Do I need to count out the coins for you, or will you take my word for it?” I ask.
The two behemoths glance at each other. Finally Large shrugs.
“We can take your word for it,” Larger says.
“Mr. Hardwick thought you might be coming tonight,” Large explains. “Told us to look for you.”
Unease fills me. We didn’t go to huge pains to keep our presence a secret, but even if he had noticed the carriage, how could he have known it was us inside? Maybe someone had spotted me peeking from the window.
Henry and I move to enter, and Larger places one of his huge, meaty hands on Henry’s chest. “But your thousand dollars, we’ll need to see.”
“Mr. Hardwick didn’t say anything about you visiting tonight,” says Large.
Henry’s eyes plead with me for a moment. I’m not carrying enough for both of us, and I doubt Henry has more than one or two coins left. “He doesn’t intend to gamble,” I say. “He’s my associate.”
Larger rolls his eyes. “Nice try.”
My heart sinks. It’s one thing to be brave when you’re with a friend; it’s another thing entirely to do something brave all by yourself. “I’m sorry, Henry.”
He squeezes my hand. “I’ll wait for you in the main parlor.”
My gold sense flutters my stomach as I enter the room. This parlor is much smaller. In one corner is a short bar manned by a single bartender. Even so, there’s a lot more gold in this room. Four tables play host to a number of distinguished-looking gentlemen who are sipping from glass tumblers, smoking fragrant cigars, laughing. Each one has a stack of gold coins at hand.
I feel like a fish in a tree, and everything in me wants to escape. But then I spot Hardwick, sitting at the farthest table from the door. He’s as impeccably dressed as ever, with a gold watch chain swooping across his left breast. His stark-white sideburns are combed flat over gaunt cheeks, and a cigar dangles from thin lips. Helena Russell stands beside him.
She notices me first and whispers in his ear. My heart rocks in my chest as Hardwick says something to everyone at the table. In response, the other gamblers gather their coins and stand. Staring quietly at me, they disperse to other tables.
One fellow pauses to smile. “A pleasure to see you again,” he says. “Still golden, I hope.”
It’s the governor of California, and the pleasure is all his. I met him once before, at the Christmas ball in Sacramento, when all the tall tales about the Golden Goddess were spinning around. If they’re still spinning, I’m in a heap of trouble.
But the governor tips his hat and moves on without another word. I breathe relief.
Hardwick beckons, and I stride over and sit like it’s the most natural, normal thing in the world. I open my purse and set my coins on the table while the dealer shuffles the cards.
Miss Russell seats herself on his left, slightly behind him, with one gloved hand slipped through his arm. Perfect for leaning forward to whisper in his ear.
Hardwick watches me the way a cat watches a bird’s nest in an apple tree. “How would you like to come work for me, Miss Westfall?”
My heart hammers in my throat, and the air suddenly seems a bit thin because all I can think is He knows. He knows what I can do.
After too long a pause, I manage to say, “Doing what?”
He takes a sip of whiskey, then wipes his mustache with a handkerchief. “I’m not sure. I admit, I don’t quite have you figured out.”
Well, that’s a mercy.
“But you keep showing up in the most interesting places,” he continues, “and it’s clear that you have some ability for accumulating resources.”
&nbs
p; So maybe he doesn’t know after all. I try to keep the relief from my face. “In other words, you’ve determined that I have some gold, and you’d like to take a portion of it.”
His sudden laugh is surprising for how genuine it seems. “No one acquires gold by accident,” he says, eyes twinkling. “I have gold, you have gold. There’s a chance that both of us could acquire a lot more gold by working together. How do you want to bet?”
The dealer has turned up a pair of cards. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to play. You’ll have to teach me.”
Hardwick makes a small circular motion with his finger, and the dealer reshuffles the cards. “This game is called Spanish monte,” Hardwick says. “The rules are simple, and it’s almost impossible to cheat.”
I only half listen to Hardwick’s instructions, because Miss Russell is peering at me in the most peculiar way, like she’s seeing through me, or beyond me, and—most disconcerting of all—her irises are saturated with a deep shade of violet.
I could have sworn her eyes were blue.
The dealer lays down two cards, a two of hearts to his right and a jack of diamonds to his left. He places the remaining stack of cards between them.
“And now we bet,” Hardwick says, tossing a fifty-dollar coin onto the jack.
I toss a coin onto the deuce, determined to ignore Miss Russell’s violet gaze.
Hardwick makes the go-ahead motion again. The dealer turns over a seven of hearts. “The young lady wins,” he says.
“The odds change as he works his way through the deck,” Hardwick says. “Someone who pays close attention can increase their chances of winning after a few hands.”
The dealer deals, and again I choose the card that Hardwick doesn’t. This time I lose, but so does Hardwick, and both our coins get taken. “I should have quit while I was ahead.”
“That’s the trick, isn’t it?” Hardwick says. “To exit the game when you’re at your peak? But you’re young. You’re just learning how the game’s played, and you’ve barely started.”
I’m not sure we’re still talking about gambling. “What about all the people who never get ahead enough to quit?”
“That’s their problem, isn’t it?” he says. From behind him, Helena Russell reaches for his whiskey, takes a sip, sets the glass back on the table. Hardwick doesn’t seem to notice or care. “But that doesn’t apply to you or me. Your friend Tom is a very good lawyer.”
If he’s trying to throw me by changing the subject abruptly, it might be working, because I lose on the next hand, and Hardwick wins. “I’m not sure I would recommend him,” I say. “He only negotiated the one contract for me, and I thought it was airtight, but it turns out there’s no way to enforce it.”
“Sometimes that’s a temporary problem, with the system, not with the contract. I was just talking with the governor and with California’s new senator. They seem to think that when statehood becomes official—in a few more months, maybe a year at most—we’ll have the rule of law here, as strict as any state in the nation, with honest judges, and checks and balances, and all the other trappings of civilization.”
I can’t tell if he finds the prospect appealing or not. “I didn’t realize you had so much respect for the law.”
This draws another belly laugh. “I respect the laws so much I want to make them,” he says. “Your bet.”
Hearts come up again, and it’s been several deals since I saw them, so I toss two coins down, and this time I win. One hundred dollars, just like that.
Helena’s eyes widen. They’ve returned to their normal blue, which doesn’t make me feel the least bit better. She hasn’t said a word since I sat down, not to Hardwick or to me, but my skin prickles under her gaze.
Maybe it’s nothing. A trick of the light. But maybe it’s quite a bit of something. I know one other person whose eyes change color—me. And only when I’m sensing gold.
In the next round, I lose everything I’d won. I say, “One thing I can’t figure out is why you started gambling. Everything you do is so careful and planned, but this is a game of chance. You can’t help losing.”
He finishes his glass of whiskey and smiles. “Who owns this parlor?”
I think about Large and Larger watching the door. “You do.”
“So when I win, I win. And when I lose, I still win. Excuse me, I need to refill my glass. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He rises and heads toward the bar in the corner. As the dealer gathers up all the cards and starts shuffling, Helena scoots her chair closer to mine.
Something tingles at the back of my neck, and I freeze, like a ladybug caught in a spider’s web. Helena leans forward, avidly, hungrily, and places a hand on my knee. I open my mouth to ask her what in tarnation she’s doing, but a small bolt of lightning shoots through me. Her eyes are so dark now, the color of ripe plums.
“You have to tell me,” she says breathlessly. “Quick, before he comes back. How do you do it? How do you do that thing with the gold?”
My heart starts racing.
Her gaze is awful. Like she’s looking right through my skin and into my heart. Her nose is a tad too long, her skin a bit too world-weary, her lips pressed thin. But there’s a compelling wild energy about her that makes me shiver just as much as that violet glare.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re up to something, and I’m going to figure you out. You’re not going to get his money.”
I shoot to my feet and start gathering my coins.
Hardwick returns. “Quitting so soon?” he asks. “Sweet girl, the first rule of the game is you can’t quit before you’re ahead even once.”
I sway dizzily. There’s too much gold in this room for me to risk making abrupt moves, but I can’t help scrambling backward, away from the table and Helena’s horrible eyes. The backs of my knees knock the chair as I push it back. “Sometimes it’s better to know when to cut your losses,” I say, and I rush out the door before he can respond.
Chapter Twelve
I find Henry sharing drinks at the bar with the cherub-faced gambler. Henry babbles and sways, noticeably in his cups.
“We have to go, Henry. Now.”
Drunk or not, Henry doesn’t hesitate. He tosses a coin at the bartender and follows me out the front door.
Once inside the relative safety of the carriage, he asks, “You talked to Hardwick, yes? Did something go wrong?”
My heart still feels like a drumbeat in my throat. “I’m not sure what happened. I . . . I’m not quite ready to talk about it.”
He doesn’t press, but he says, “I got some good information tonight. Let me know when you’re ready to hear it.”
“All right. Thanks.” I’m grateful to be left with my own thoughts as we ride back to the Charlotte.
We pull up, and the sight of the ship ought to give me great comfort, because Melancthon’s handiwork is beautiful. A new door greets us, framed by a small porch and two lanterns that cast warm, buttery light onto the stoop. But all the hominess just reminds me that I’m not home, that my real home was taken from me, and all our efforts to establish a new one depend on making sure Hardwick is no longer a threat.
Melancthon and a man I’ve never seen before are sitting on their heels, huddled in front of the door. As we exit the carriage, Melancthon rises and greets us with a wave.
“Just putting the final touches on this great big hole. How many keys do you want?”
The fellow with him stands, wiping his hands on something that looks a lot like Wilhelm’s blacksmith’s apron, but with a lot more pockets. “Name’s Adams,” he says. “Locksmith.” He’s tall and angular with a long, narrow nose and a meticulous black mustache.
“Nice to meet you Mr. Adams,” I reply. “How many keys can you make?”
“As many as you need, ma’am.”
“In that case . . .” I count companions in my head. “I need
eight keys.”
His eyes widen slightly, but he says, “No trouble at all.”
Adams pulls a flat tray the size of a writing slate from a bag. From his pocket, he withdraws a large iron key. He presses the key into the tray; I peer closer and see it’s filled with milky wax.
When he lifts the key out, a perfect impression remains in the wax. Adams wipes the key on his apron and hands it to me. “This will have to do for now. I’ll deliver seven copies tomorrow.”
I look back and forth between the key in my hand and the wax tray in his.
Melancthon hands a few coins to the locksmith, who takes his leave. I stand back, admiring my new porch.
“Nice work, Jones,” Henry says, admiration in his voice.
“It’s beautiful,” I agree. “Thank you.”
Melancthon beams.
We step through the doorway, and voices echo up from the galley. Henry goes off to join them, but I’m not ready to be around anyone yet. I’ve learned too much today—about Mama, about Hardwick’s associate—and I need time for things to settle. So I head up to the deck and climb the stairs to the stern—the poop deck, as Olive and Andy inform me every single time.
My intention is to sit and gaze at the stars over the hilltops and pretend I’m someplace far away. But someone else has gotten there first, and I recognize his lanky, perfect shape even in the dark.
Suddenly, having company doesn’t seem so bad. I sit beside him, my back against the railing. The sky is covered with clouds, not a star to be seen.
After a while I reach over and squeeze his hand. He squeezes back. We sit in darkness holding hands, not saying a word. I find I don’t miss the stars at all; the hills of the city are covered with lights.
“I’m scared I’m doing the wrong thing,” I say finally.
“We could leave. Go anywhere.”
“Is that what you want?”
“No.” I’m relieved to hear him say it. He adds, “But as long as I’m with you, I’ll be right as rain, no matter where we go.”
“We can’t leave. You promised Becky you’d wear a plum-colored suit for our wedding in Glory,” I say.