The steps rattled in and out of view, falling over themselves for a few hundred feet, then disappearing into the indigo forest. They looked the same when I glanced over my shoulder, except they went up. They dove in and out of the indigo trees, and when they dove out, they went dashing up and down the pink stone. Everywhere you looked were steps. Behind us was west; that’s where the sun had set last night. Blue Roses was in front of us, so it was east.
Now came the bells that had startled me last night, but not so much this morning. And now I was so un-startled that I even remembered a bit of their tune. How the tune started low, then leapt high in a way that sounded sad, but the funny thing was that it made you happy to hear the sadness. It was more than just music, I thought. It was a song. If I listened to it hard enough, I’d remember the words.
“Don’t remember the words!” said the dagger.
The Judge had stopped walking. He turned away from me, and once the bells had played the tune once through, he started talk-singing the song. I understood some of his mutter-talk-singing.
“The bird sang like a star,” he said.
“The brightest Sister Seven,” he said.
“Don’t remember the words!” said the dagger.
It was so hard to know what to remember and what to forget. To know what belonged to the Before Time and what belonged to the regular time. That was because I was dull, but Gentleman Jack was pretty nice about it. “A little dull,” he’d often say. “But just you wait, we’ll sharpen you up.”
The Judge’s long legs kicked at his coat. It was a different coat from yesterday, long and heavy, with a cape at the shoulders. Why would a person have two coats?
A banister appeared. I didn’t need it, though. I was wild, which meant I was sure-footed. It was a good thing I didn’t need the banister, because it rocked back and forth when you touched it, and sometimes it disappeared. And just when it seemed gone forever, you curled round a twist of stone, into another patch of indigo, and it sprang back to life.
“It’s an unsteady character,” said the Judge.
I looked up. Was he joking? I saw only the angles and hollows of his face. You couldn’t tell anything from them, except for my tooth marks, which told a story. They said he’d picked a fight with the Robber Girl and come out bleeding.
“I want to ask you to rethink testifying against Gentleman Jack,” he said.
He could ask.
“Or rather,” he said, “to rethink not testifying. You saw him kill Federal Marshal Starling. That could not have been a pretty sight.”
“It was extremely pretty!” said the dagger.
But the Judge and the Sheriff had killed Doubtful Mittie. I remembered how Doubtful Mittie had lain facedown in the muck, one raw-meat hand grasping and gasping, and how I’d wished someone would turn him over.
“He was a fool to have worn the Marshal’s hat,” said the dagger.
Gentleman Jack had told him not to wear it, and so had Rough Ricky, but Doubtful Mittie hadn’t understood. He wasn’t from the Territories; he was from the place with the two-colored coin. He didn’t understand that if somebody had been killed wearing a hat, and then you wore it, you’d die, too.
It was twice a dead man’s hat. Federal Marshal Starling had worn it when he died. Doubtful Mittie had worn it when he died. It was extra unlucky.
“Dead is dead,” said the dagger. “You don’t get any unluckier than dead.”
The steps narrowed here and went all higgle-piggle, like rotten teeth. The banister drew into itself; now it lurched just above the ground. Now it disappeared.
“Off duty again,” said the Judge.
For the first time, I wondered about the gold mines. Where were they? I’d seen them in other places, and unless you were sifting for gold in a river, you had to construct an entrance to a gold mine. Sometimes the entrance had a wooden surround. Sometimes metal tracks went into the entrance so you could push a heavy cart. But I saw no openings in the earth, or wooden surrounds, or tracks, or carts. There were only gulches and gullies, which teetered us toward a river and a stone bridge. We went quickly after that. Now some huts sagging into the hillside, now the hills leveling off, now the huts becoming houses, now the spires of the town coming into view. There was a crazy array of roofs, slanted and tiled so snow and rain could slide off. The sun shone off the slants and spires.
“A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden,” said the Judge.
I saw what he meant. The town of Blue Roses was shining in plain sight, but that wasn’t all you could see. To the south rose a stretch of steep and twisty stairs. They skittered up and over, leapt pink needles of stone, somersaulted over chasms, and finally landed at what was probably the only flat bit in Blue Roses. On the flat bit rose a great pink building. It had a golden dome that held up the sky.
“Those are the star steps,” said the Judge. “On top of them you see the Shrine.”
I asked the Judge what a shrine was, and the Judge said it was a holy place dedicated to worshipping a certain sacred person. This particular Shrine was dedicated to the Blue Rose.
“We climb the star steps,” said the Judge, “to crave a boon of the Blue Rose.”
I glanced up at the Judge.
“It means to make a wish,” he said.
The stairs tipped over themselves and made a final downward dash. We tumbled into a confusion of people and oxen and horses.
A pig went squealing through the muck; a little boy ran after it, yelling and waving a stick. Three other boys came running and shouting.
“It’s Gentleman Jack’s little girl.”
“She calls herself the Robber Girl.”
“Hey, Robber Girl, I’ll give you two bits for one of Gentleman Jack’s gloves.”
“Back off, boys,” said the Judge.
“Hey, Robber Girl, just one glove.”
The Judge took my elbow and steered me onto a walkway made of boards. The walkway ran along the pink walls of the buildings, under an upper story that hung out and made a roof.
The Judge and I passed slabs of pink stone, glass doors with gold letters, and windows heaped with bolts of cloth and buckets of nails and baskets of spices.
Now another glass door with gold letters, and set above the letters was a five-pointed star. “The Sheriff’s office,” said the dagger.
The Judge looked down at me. “Shall we?” he said.
I was about to see Gentleman Jack and make him happy. I’d give him Doubtful Mittie’s hat. I’d tell him I’d never betray him.
“We shall,” I said.
THE FIRST SURPRISE was that the Sheriff’s office was so still. It was a stillness inside a busyness. It was a stillness inside the jangling, wanting street.
The second surprise was that there were no iron bars. I had expected to see the cell right away, and Gentleman Jack in the cell. Instead, there were piles of yellowed newspapers, half-drunk cups of coffee, ashtrays filled with cold ashes. It was a discouraging place, all leftovers and worn-out news.
I glanced at the wall and—
“Look!” I said.
“Look!” said the dagger.
On the wall hung a drawing of Gentleman Jack. Gentleman Jack, with the lace at his neck and the ruby in his ear. There were drawings of other people, too. Beneath their faces were words, and at the beginning of the words was an amount of money. I didn’t understand words, but I understood numbers. I understood dollar signs.
The amount of money was the reward you’d get for capturing the person in the drawing. Gentleman Jack’s number was five thousand dollars. It was higher than anyone else’s. He was the most valuable. The artist knew all about Gentleman Jack’s smile. He knew you never saw Gentleman Jack’s teeth.
Rough Ricky’s face was there, too, and so was Doubtful Mittie’s, but I was careful not to look at Doubtful Mittie. If the Sheriff or the Judge saw me look at him, they’d tell me he was a bad man. They’d tell me they were glad Doubtful Mittie was dead. They didn’t know that once he’d
bought me a skewer of pineapple; they didn’t know that once he’d given me a slice of muskrat pie. They just knew he smelled of rotting copper. It was the blood of the child he’d killed. Or maybe children.
It was blood that never really dried.
The Sheriff was younger than I remembered. Or maybe I’d only really seen his hands before—his hands on the rifle—and his hands were older than his face. He had small dark eyes and a black mustache, with a little side helping of mustache below his bottom lip. He was short, which might make you think he wasn’t dangerous. But he’d thrown himself over the stagecoach roof, and he’d shot Doubtful Mittie, and he’d captured Gentleman Jack and wrenched Gentleman Jack’s arms when he tried to escape.
I was short and I was dangerous, too.
I already knew I had to show the bag of lemon drops to the Sheriff. The Sheriff needed to make sure I wasn’t slipping a knife or a lock pick to Gentleman Jack. The Sheriff shook the bag, stirred the contents with his coffee spoon, then nodded.
He led me to a heavy door. The lock was long and puckered, as though it were screaming. He clicked it open, and now the door did scream as it scraped over stone. Gentleman Jack always said there was no jail that could hold him. But what about a jail with a stone floor? You couldn’t dig your way out.
We stepped into a little corridor; there, the smells were concentrated—sweat and damp and rust. I knew the smell of rust, from Doubtful Mittie’s hands. It lay heavy on my tongue. Water dripped from the ceiling into a metal pail. Plink, it said into the pail. Plink. Only seconds now until I saw Gentleman Jack. What would he say?
Plink, went the water. Plink, plink.
Would he say, “This is my girl, returned from the road”?
Would he say, “This is my girl, bright as a star”?
The cell block was made up of three cells in a row. Gentleman Jack was in the middle cell, sitting on the edge of a cot. There was the familiar foam of lace, the glint of ruby, but his gloves were soiled and one of his wrist frills was torn. He looked different, but he started with the familiar questions.
“Did you tell them your name?” Gentleman Jack spoke low so the Sheriff couldn’t hear.
“I said I have no name.” I spoke just as low.
It was good Gentleman Jack asked the same questions. I knew what to say when he asked the familiar questions. It was good his hair was still yellow and his eyes were still greenish-brown, even though he liked you to call them green, because that was the rarest eye color and things that were rare were valuable. He didn’t look the same, though, not dirty and torn, not in a cage. And the cage was so bare. Aside from the cot, there was only a chamber pot and a stand with a pitcher.
“Did you tell them about the hideout?” said Gentleman Jack.
“I said there is no hideout.”
No one had actually asked about the hideout, but that was all right. The important thing was that Gentleman Jack knew I’d followed the rules. It was the same conversation as always, but the words sounded different. The walls of the jail were too close; they crowded his words together. Gentleman Jack and his words were made for wide-open spaces, not for cells and bars and plinks in pails.
The Sheriff leaned against the opposite wall, probably making sure I wasn’t helping Gentleman Jack escape.
I gave Gentleman Jack the lemon drops. Gentleman Jack opened the bag, sniffed it, and closed it up again. ”Sour!” he said. “And speaking of sour, the Sheriff took away my Lucretia.” Lucretia was his knife. “He took Lucretia and all I got was a dirty penny.”
The Sheriff wasn’t a fool, not like Doubtful Mittie. He knew that if he took someone’s knife, he’d have to pay them a penny. Otherwise, the knife would leap out and hurt him.
“I wish the Sheriff would take me!” cried the dagger. “Then I’d bite him!”
“But he’d just give me a penny,” I said. The rule of knives and pennies would protect the Sheriff. Once I had the penny, the dagger couldn’t leap out and attack him.
“You could run away before he gave it to you,” said the dagger. That was an interesting thought. If the Sheriff couldn’t give me a penny, the rule of knives and pennies would make the dagger attack him.
They hadn’t taken away Gentleman Jack’s strike lighter, though. There was the scratching sound when he struck the flint with the wand, the smell of lighter fluid as the wick caught fire. The flame flickered like a tongue. On and off, on and off, to help him think.
That was Gentleman Jack through and through. He had only to say, “Let there be light!” and there was light. The lighter lit up his brain.
“I hesitate to ask, my dear,” he said, “and really, I’m sure there’s some simple explanation. But it has occurred to me to wonder why you didn’t warn us.”
I knew what he meant. Why hadn’t I warned them on Day Zero that there was a sheriff and a judge.
“Because of my Affliction,” I said.
“Ah,” said Gentleman Jack, as though he’d forgotten about it. But how could he? It was the biggest thing in my life.
“Not in his life,” said the dagger.
I spoke even lower, so that the Sheriff couldn’t possibly hear. “The Judge asked me to be a witness in your trial. To say you killed Marshal Starling.”
Part of me, though, was still thinking about knives and pennies. I wished I could give Gentleman Jack a knife. How happy he’d be if I gave him a knife.
“But I never would,” I said.
Gentleman Jack came close and wrapped his hands around the bars. “Go to the Sapphire Saloon, down Main Street.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Shrine, which was away from the direction of the cottage. “Ask for Flora. Flora will know what to tell the Judge.”
Relief wrung me out like a sponge. I liked it when Gentleman Jack gave me orders. I liked knowing what to do.
“Do you understand?”
I said I understood. I was standing in a pool of relief. Relief was like honey, slow and sweet.
“Show me you understand,” said Gentleman Jack.
This was how it always went when he gave me instructions. Gentleman Jack tested my memory. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust me, not exactly, but it was important to make absolutely sure.
I repeated his instructions, about the Sapphire Saloon, about Flora, about how Flora would tell me what to do.
“Don’t let the Judge know you’re going to the Sapphire,” said Gentleman Jack. “He’d say it’s not a fit place for you.”
I repeated that, too. I wished he’d ask about Netherby Scar so I could talk about Grandmother and her silken hands and velvet sofas, about the eleven chimneys that rose from her roof, about how her house was always warm.
He didn’t ask me about Netherby Scar, but he asked about rescuing me, which was almost as good. “Who rescued you in the wilderness?”
“You rescued me,” I said.
Plink, plink went the water into the metal pail. But pretty soon there’d be no plinks. Pretty soon everything would be frozen.
I unbuttoned my coat. “I have your hat.” It had become Gentleman Jack’s hat as soon as Doubtful Mittie died. Gentleman Jack would see how excellently I was following the rules.
“Oh, my dear child,” said Gentleman Jack. “What would I want with a hat? I want my gold. I want a wingless bird. I want my freedom.”
I’d been stupid to think Gentleman Jack would care about a hat when he was in jail, wanting gold. I hadn’t been exercising judgment. The door between my stomach and chest opened up. That’s what happened when I made mistakes. I felt the bitter stomach juice rush into my heart. It’s funny how embarrassment starts in your stomach but ends up in your chest.
“Tell me what I want.” Gentleman Jack spoke extra gently, which made it worse.
“You want to bring Grandmother five gold bricks,” I said.
“What are they worth?” said Gentleman Jack.
“One hundred twenty-eight thousand dollars,” I said.
“But who has the gold?” said Gentleman
Jack.
“The rich people in the Indigo Heart.” It occurred to me suddenly that the Judge probably had some gold, so it was funny that a moment later Gentleman Jack said the exact same thing.
“Like that Judge of yours,” said Gentleman Jack. “He has a substantial stake in a gold mine.”
Except the Judge wasn’t my Judge.
“What do I get if I bring the gold?” said Gentleman Jack.
“You’ll get Grandmother’s empire, and your no-account brother won’t get anything.” It was pretty stupid to think Gentleman Jack would want a hat when what he wanted was an empire.
“But only if I bring a wingless bird, too.”
Yes, only if he brought a wingless bird.
“Tell me all the things we need to bring Grandmother,” said Gentleman Jack. He was testing my memory to help me exercise judgment. It was easy to remember what Grandmother wanted. It’s easy to remember things that are in a rhyme.
“Fetch unto me the mountain’s gold,
To build our city fair.
Fetch unto me the wingless bird,
And I will make you my heir.”
Gentleman Jack wanted to bring Grandmother both things from the poem. There were two things, which was the right number of things.
“Flora and I will make a plan,” I said. “Flora and I will get you out of jail and get your gold.”
“And the Songbird,” said Gentleman Jack. “Ask Flora about the Songbird.” Songbird was another name for a wingless bird. “And ask her about getting me an opal. I could use some good luck right about now.”
Now the door screeched over stone. It was the Judge, coming in to say we had to leave. There was no time for Gentleman Jack to say, “Show me you understand.” No time for him to test my memory.
“Come back as soon as possible,” said Gentleman Jack, very low. “Tell me all about Flora. Tell me all about the plan. In the meantime, I suppose I can get used to lemon drops. I appreciate the effort.”
The Sheriff rose and led the way. I followed the Sheriff and the Judge through the door with the screaming ghost-mouth. I followed them over the stone floor. I had the same thought as before. Gentleman Jack wouldn’t be able to dig his way out of this jail, even though there was no jail that could hold him.
The Robber Girl Page 6