Day Zero
Yellow Ribbons
The Cottage
The Dollhouse
A Democratic Table
The Three Tasks
An Order and a Commission
The General Store
Doubtful Mittie’s Hat
Buttercream Cottage
A New Day Zero
Eight Days of School
The Sapphire Saloon
Layers of Memories
Filling a Drawer
A Murmuration of Starlings
Rough Ricky
One Eye Open
The Shrine
The Brewster Boy
For Want of a Penny
An Epidemic of Bells
The Valentine’s Card
A New Collar
Reading at School
Crowbars and Chisels
Grandmother’s House
The Dark Moon
In Plain Sight
Acknowledgments
A DAGGER IS MEANT FOR STABBING. It is meant for killing. A dagger has two sharp edges and goes down to a point. If you have a good dagger, the blade is made of iron mixed with carbon. If there’s no carbon, it will be too soft. If there’s too much carbon, it will be too brittle.
I had a good dagger. A robber girl needs a good dagger.
“I’m the best dagger,” said the dagger.
“You’re the best dagger,” I said.
We matched each other, my dagger and I. We were not too soft, we were not too brittle. I hadn’t stabbed anyone yet, but I would. The dagger had stabbed lots of people.
“More than you can count,” said the dagger.
“Not more.” I could count as high as there were numbers. I could count as low as there were numbers. I could count down to zero.
Yesterday had been Day One. Today was Day Zero. The important part of Day Zero had already started. We’d left the hideout and were riding through the ravine. The path tilted up, the cliffs leaned in on us. Here the horses had to walk in a single line. Later we would have to be quiet, but not yet. Stones went rattling down the path. Hoofbeats and stone falls echoed between the cliffs. The stone was gray, but later, when we had to be quiet, the stone would be pink. It was a long way up to the top of the world, where the stone turned pink.
Here the world was small, the stone walls pressing at us, breathing their damp ancient breath. First in line was Gentleman Jack. He was always first, the ribbons fluttering from his horse’s mane, the yellow gloves on his hands.
Primrose. That was the color of Gentleman Jack’s gloves.
I came next. Yellow ribbons fluttered from my pinto’s mane, but they were regular yellow, not primrose. Primrose was just for Gentleman Jack.
Then came Rough Ricky. No gloves, no ribbons. Just the web of scars on his hands and face. We always came first: Gentleman Jack, then me, then Rough Ricky. The rest of the Gentlemen came behind us, but the three of us were always first.
“And me,” said the dagger. “Don’t forget about me!”
I would never forget about the dagger.
“I have the sharpest point,” said the dagger. “I have two edges, sharp as death.”
The dagger was sharp, I was sharp. Together we were sharp, together we were wild.
Soon the ravine would end and the Plains would begin. In the middle of the Plains rose the Indigo Heart, where there would be gullies to leap and mountains to climb. There would be a thousand-thousand tons of pink stone. That’s what I’d been waiting for. Today I’d use the dagger. Today I’d get my name.
We threaded the horses through the three great stones that hid the ravine. Here the world burst upon us, a sea of yellowed grass poking through the snow, and in the distance, the earth shrugging its shoulders into the mountains of the Indigo Heart. When you stay in the ravine all winter, you begin to think that’s all there is—the cliffs, the cave, the river. It’s easy to forget that the ravine is buried in the Plains, like a hollow egg.
Today I’d get a house.
“It’s not really your house,” said the dagger.
Today I’d get a grandmother.
“She’s not really your grandmother,” said the dagger.
Gentleman Jack, Rough Ricky, and I still rode first, but now we had enough room to fan ourselves into an arrowhead, with Gentleman Jack making the point. The rest of the Gentlemen rode single file behind. They made the shaft of the arrow.
The wind shrieked across the Plains. It smelled of cold and snow. The wind was fast, and we were fast, but we didn’t shriek. We were practicing to be quiet. Ahead rose the mountains, pink above the tree line but dark with indigo trees below.
Nothing could go wrong, not on Day Zero. Day Zero was Now. At last I’d arrived at Now. Now was a yellow ribbon in a pony’s mane. Now was a cascade of lace at Gentleman Jack’s wrists. Now was a pair of primrose gloves, with the letters GJR embroidered on the cuffs. Now was the glint of a ruby in Gentleman Jack’s ear.
Nothing could go wrong, not when Gentleman Jack, Rough Ricky, and I made the head of the arrow.
I knew we were close when we reached the railroad tracks. It was funny how you couldn’t see the Indigo Heart as well when you got close. You couldn’t see the mountains, pink against the sky. All you could see were the indigo trees and, minutes later, the red clay road that circled the Heart.
“There’s iron in the clay.” The dagger knew everything about metal. “That’s why it’s red.”
The Indigo Heart was just the way Gentleman Jack had described.
“Iron is magnetic,” said the dagger.
The dagger was magnetic, too, which meant it would feel the pull of the road. I wasn’t expecting to feel it, but I did, just a little tug when we leapt upon the clay.
“There’s a bit of iron in blood,” said the dagger.
It was like the tug of sleep when it was time to wake up. You could break the tug but you didn’t want to.
“Magnets are not like sleep,” said the dagger.
It would be faster and easier to take the road that went winging up the mountain, but it wasn’t safe: someone might see us.
We leapt up the embankment, onto the mountainside. Here, among the indigo trees, the horses slowed, crunching over indigo needles and aspen leaves and pockets of snow. It was winter in the Indigo Heart. The birds were silent; there was just the sound of crunching. The horses wound through the indigos, sidestepped jabs of rock punching through the earth. Above, a hawk sailed in descending spires.
“Watch where we’re going!” said the dagger.
The dagger meant both of us had to watch. The dagger was in the sheath at my waist, and it was also in my head. But it could only see what I saw, so if I wasn’t watching, it couldn’t watch, either.
“We have to remember where we’re going,” said the dagger. “If something goes wrong, we have to get back to the hideout.”
I couldn’t remember a time the dagger wasn’t in my head, six inches of carbon and iron, reminding me to be wild. If I ever wished for taming things, like more food or a heavier coat, it would press at my thoughts, cool and sharp. Together we had a blade that cut on both sides. Together we had a spear-point tip.
Together we were wild.
The slopes grew steeper and rockier; we crested a rise, and now we had to take the road. That was the dangerous part. Someone might see us.
The road wound up and up, around rocky outcroppings. We went faster now. There was less snow on the road, and fewer rocks and roots to trip us.
“This is the road,” said Gentleman Jack.
I knew what he meant. This was the road where he’d found me, abandoned and left to die.
“I don’t calculate the coach will be late,” said Rough Ricky.
“Road’
s not too soft,” said Gentleman Jack. Sometimes you couldn’t drive on the roads in the Indigo Heart because they were too deep with mud. “Just a little sticky.”
We swung around the folds and bends of the cliffs. The sky was low and white, like an overturned eggshell. The land dropped away on the downhill side. We rode between a wall of rock to the left and a plunge into nothing on the right. Sometimes the road narrowed into a lip, pouting round the cliff. It would be easy to swing too far and tumble into the dark.
Gentleman Jack tugged at the reins; our horses slowed. The other Gentlemen passed us. They were a mass of brown except for the scarlet feather in Doubtful Mittie’s hat.
“Fool!” said the dagger, and I agreed. We’d all warned Doubtful Mittie, but because he wasn’t from the Territories, he didn’t believe us: he didn’t believe that if you wear a dead man’s hat, you’ll die, too.
“Not exactly that,” said the dagger, which was always precise. “The man has to have died wearing the hat.”
That’s what I’d meant, but there was no point saying so. You couldn’t argue with the dagger. It was too un-bendy. You can’t argue with iron and carbon.
The Gentlemen vanished up the road, and now it was just the three of us, Gentleman Jack, Rough Ricky, and me.
“And me,” said the dagger.
Gentleman Jack had told me about the place I was to hide. He’d told me again and again, and I’d imagined it, but it was different to see it in real life, to see the almost invisible crevice in the cliff. None of the Gentlemen would be able to fit there, but I could. A ten-year-old girl could fit.
“Maybe ten,” said the dagger. “Maybe nine.”
“Maybe ten,” I said. “Maybe eleven.”
We slid off our horses, past blue ribbons, past yellow ribbons. Lace flowed over Gentleman Jack’s collar. Lace ruffled over the embroidery on his gloves. Gentleman Jack was in motion, his lace blowing in the wind. Rough Ricky was stiff and slow, bound by a webbing of scars. He’d played with fire, which a person should never do. The scars were his Affliction.
“Tell me the plan.” Rough Ricky’s voice was low and whispery, like ash. He’d wrecked his voice in one of the fires he’d set. “Be careful of smoke and lye,” he sometimes said. Lye was something that made fires burn faster.
“I slide myself into that crevice,” I said. “I wait until I hear the stagecoach.”
“What if they realize you’re a girl?” Gentleman Jack reached for the bag of sweets he carried with him always. He had no Affliction—unless, he sometimes said, you counted his sweet tooth. He said it was his one vice, but he meant it as a joke.
“They won’t realize,” I said. I wore britches; I had stuffed my hair into my hat.
“What if they catch you?” said Gentleman Jack.
“They won’t catch me,” I said.
“What if they ask your name?” said Gentleman Jack.
“I’ll say I have no name,” I said.
“What if they ask about the hideout?” said Gentleman Jack.
“I’ll say there is no hideout,” I said.
“What if she can’t speak?” Rough Ricky was talking about my Affliction. I couldn’t speak until someone spoke to me first. I could whistle, which got people’s attention, but Gentleman Jack wouldn’t let me. It was bad luck to whistle.
Rough Ricky was worried the outriders on the stagecoach wouldn’t speak to me. That would mean I couldn’t speak to them.
Gentleman Jack reached for his strike lighter. It was for lighting cigars, but Gentleman Jack didn’t smoke. He made the flame dance on and off, on and off. He said it helped him think.
“They’re bound to say something,” said Gentleman Jack. “To a kid, alone on the road?” But Gentleman Jack didn’t know how easy it was to ignore a plain, scrawny kid.
“I guess,” said Rough Ricky.
We both had an Affliction, but Rough Ricky knew what he’d done to get his, and I didn’t know what I’d done to get mine.
“Show me the dagger,” said Gentleman Jack. He’d taught me to draw it straight and fast. In a second it lay gleaming in my hand. There were its two sharp edges, there was the deadly tip.
“You have kept it clean.” Gentleman Jack smiled his best smile. It was the one where you couldn’t see his teeth.
I had kept it clean.
“You have kept it dry,” said Gentleman Jack.
I had kept it dry.
“You have kept it sharp.”
I had kept it sharp.
“It will do,” said Gentleman Jack.
I squeezed myself sideways into the crevice. Gentleman Jack and Rough Ricky looked in, blocking the sunlight. Then Gentleman Jack nodded, and they stepped back. Now the sun could enter, but it had to pull in its stomach to fit.
Gentleman Jack and Rough Ricky didn’t say goodbye. They simply left; I was alone. Now came the soft thud of horses’ hooves in the squish of the road. They were heading uphill to the hiding place. They were leading my pinto. I remembered the yellow ribbons in his mane, I remembered how they blew in the wind. The sunlight was cool; it kept its distance.
“What if they catch you?” said the dagger.
“I use you,” I said. “I hurt them.”
“How do you hurt them?” said the dagger.
“I cut a tendon,” I said. “Then they can’t move.”
It was good to talk to the dagger. I felt it leaning against my thoughts. It made my mind sharp, it made my thoughts wild.
The crevice was tall and thin, like a broken tooth. Twists and thrusts of indigo branches bristled from fingernail cracks. It was all fingernails and teeth. The wind rustled along the road, but it couldn’t enter here. The thick resin smell of indigo lay sticky in my mouth.
“How do you kill someone?” said the dagger.
“I make a sticking motion in the eye,” I said. “I make a slicing motion at the throat.”
“But will you want to kill them?” said the dagger.
“Only if I have to,” I said. “Killing is more sure, but it gets you in bigger trouble.”
Now came a rumbling of the stagecoach, faint but clear. Gentleman Jack had said I’d be able to hear it a mile away. The air in the Indigo Heart was good for listening. It was Day Zero, and the stagecoach would not be late.
“I will try not to kill them,” I said.
On top of the clatter of the wooden wheels came the thud of hooves. And on top of that came the jingling of harnesses and the whuffling of horse breath.
“Is it time?” I said.
“Almost!” said the dagger.
Day Zero had just begun. At the beginning of today, I had no name and no house and no grandmother. But at the end of today, Gentleman Jack would give me a name. Today we’d go live with Grandmother.
I knew the number for zero had a hole in its middle. But today I’d fill in all the holes.
“It’s time!” said the dagger.
I jumped.
I JUMPED INTO A CONFUSION OF HORSES, huge white legs, shrill whinnies. There were too many legs, plunging and punching the road. I pressed myself against the cliff.
“You have to go forward!” said the dagger, which is easy to say when you’re made of carbon and iron and can’t get trampled.
“Whoa!” cried a great voice.
There was a dreadful space of time in which everything was quiet, save for the scraping of hooves and the jingle of harnesses.
The driver was as big and bright as the horses. I had to talk to him, to this man in the white coat with the long fringes, to this man in the big white hat. He was big, and his mustache was big, and even though there were lots of reins, his hands could hold them all.
“What is it?” he said. Gentleman Jack had been right. The driver would speak to a kid alone on the road. Now I could speak to him—no, to them. There were two of them, the driver and, perched beside him, a man like a little brown mouse. The horses shifted in their traces. Their harnesses shone with silver rings and rivets.
“Tell him
about the outlaws!” said the dagger.
Gentleman Jack had told me what to say. He said I wouldn’t need to say much, he said anyone would rescue a child from outlaws. But I hated talking to people for the first time. They always looked at me funny when they heard my ugly voice.
I said the word “Outlaws.” My voice was a closed door. I said, “Stopped our wagon.” The pawing and snorting of the horses stomped my voice flat, the bright harness bells rang it out of existence.
“Right on schedule.” The mouse man turned to the driver. A silver star shone from his coat. I didn’t realize what the star meant. But the dagger did. Something made of iron and carbon would know about metal stars.
“The Sheriff!” said the dagger. “Yell! Warn the Gentlemen!”
But I didn’t have a yelling voice. I could whistle, loud as anything, but that would bring bad luck, which we were having already.
Now there came a click, and now it was too late. Rifles and revolvers clicked when they were getting ready to shoot. Click! It was the mouse man—the Sheriff. He leapt from his perch and twisted with a lithe slimness. A rifle glinted as he threw himself across the stagecoach roof.
The Gentlemen pounded down the road, toward the back of the coach. The mouse man lay on top, looking over the rifle.
Everything happened at once. The rifle cracked. The six white horses whinnied and reared. Crack went the rifle again, bright as lightning.
It was a repeating rifle. The Sheriff could shoot and shoot without pausing to reload.
Now again, sharp enough to crack the eggshell sky. The horses were all jingle and churn, all plunge and whinny. I backed into the cliff, but the horses were still too close. They’d churn and plunge me. They’d jingle and grind me.
I kept my back to the cliff and scuttled downhill, away from the Gentlemen, and the stagecoach, and the horses.
The downhill road was clear. The horses were uphill; everything was uphill. I darted across the road, to where it stumbled over some rocks and fell into the gorge.
So many guns now, so much shooting, you couldn’t hear the clicks. The driver held the horses steady. The Gentlemen were firing, the mouse man was firing, and someone else was firing from the gorge side of the coach. The stagecoach door was open. A man used it like a shield, crouching behind it, firing around it.
The Robber Girl Page 1