No, Esta had seen the mood in the building when Ruth talked, and she’d heard the fear in Frank’s voice when Ruth accused him of cowardice. The Antistasi might follow Ruth, but that didn’t mean that they liked her or trusted her. Which gave Esta an opening. But to gain their trust, she had to start by proving that she was one of them—beginning with North. Which meant that she had to go through with this.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” she told North. “Who’s my mark?”
He studied her for a second or two, as if trying to figure out whether this was just another trick. “Just remember, you’re not the only one who can pull a disappearing act. If you try anything, your friend dies.”
“I’m aware.” She gave him a bored look. “Are we going to sit here all night,” she asked when he continued to stare at her, “or are you going to tell me who this package is meant for?”
“Just making sure we’re clear,” he said. “You’re looking for Caleb Lipscomb. You can find him at number four thirty-two. It’s just down this row of warehouses and then to the right. Once you’re inside, go up to the second floor.”
Caleb Lipscomb. She’d never heard of him, but that didn’t necessarily mean much. “How will I find him?”
North’s strange eyes flashed with amusement. “You’ll know him when you see him. He likes to be in the center of things. Off you go now,” he said, unlatching the door.
Outside the carriage, the air was cooler, but it carried the scent of the river, a muddy, earthy smell layered over with the heaviness of machine oil and coal from the factories that lined its banks. Esta readjusted the parcel under her arm, making sure to keep it steady and the pages tightly closed. They’d told her that the fuse inside would activate when she pulled a loose sheet out of the center, and she didn’t need that happening before she found the person it was intended for.
Her chest felt tight. She didn’t believe North’s claim that it wasn’t a bomb, and even as she walked toward her destination, she had her doubts about whether she could go through with it. It was one thing in theory, but it was another when her feet were steadily moving her toward the moment she’d have to decide.
True, she’s been ready to kill Jack back at the station. She’d had the gun in her hands and the resolve to end him—because he’d deserved it. Because she knew that he would hurt countless people if she’d let him live. And she’d been right. From what she’d learned, Jack had been one of the proponents of the Act. He was the reason that magic was now illegal and that Mageus could be hunted openly, oppressed legally. But this felt different somehow. Esta didn’t know this Caleb Lipscomb, whoever he was. He was a faceless name, an unknown who had done nothing to her.
Still, she couldn’t see a way out of the situation, not unless she wanted the Antistasi as another enemy. And not unless she was willing to risk Harte’s life.
The building labeled 432 was a long warehouse that ran the length of a block—a factory or machine shop of some sort. A single dull yellow bulb lit the door. Everything about it felt like a trap. She looked back, considering her options, and saw that North was still watching her.
He gave a nod. Go on, the motion seemed to say, and she took the final steps into the sallow light of the bulb. Opening the door of the building as silently as she could, she stepped inside.
THE BETHESDA FOUNTAIN
1902—New York
Viola pulled the shawl up over her head and tucked it around her chin, keeping her face turned away from the other people riding the streetcar as it traveled north, toward Central Park. Paul thought she was going to the fish market over on Fulton Street, so she’d have to be sure to stop there—or somewhere—before she returned. She couldn’t chance him becoming any more suspicious than he already was. Not when she was getting so close to the information she needed.
She got off the streetcar near Madison Avenue and walked along East Drive through the park until she came to the large open piazza where the enormous fountain stood, topped by a winged angel. She didn’t come to the park much on her own—there wasn’t really a need to. Most days, seeing people lounging about in the grass and enjoying a stroll through the wooded pathways only served to remind her of what she would never have. But on the occasions that she did pass through it, she made sure to take a path that would bring her past this fountain. It depicted the story in the Bible of an angel healing people with the waters of Bethesda.
In a family of Sundren, Viola had been an anomaly. The magic she’d been born with had felt like a mark that meant her life had been damned from the very beginning. So the story of the angel who healed with nothing but some water had always struck something inside of her, as though there were a chance her own soul might be cleaned someday, just the same.
But Viola was not a dreamer. She’d learned long ago that fairy tales were for other people. She lived in the body she’d been given and was gratified with the life she’d made for herself. She didn’t imagine other lives, and she didn’t yearn for impossible things, so it was doubly troubling when her chest felt tight at the sight of the pink muslin and ivory lace on the girl sitting by the fountain.
Ruby was waiting where her note had promised she would be. Next to her was a pile of packages all tied up with string and her fiancé, Theo. He was leaning back on the bench, his hands cradling his head as though he owned the world, and Ruby was writing in a small tablet, her face bunched in concentration. Gone were the sleek dark skirt and high-buttoned shirt finished with a tie, as she’d worn the day Viola had taken the pointless ride in their carriage. Today Ruby’s gown looked like something designed for an innocent debutante. It was the palest pink, with softly puffed sleeves and a delicate flounce of lace at her throat. She looked like a picture, sitting there by the water. She looked untouchable. Impossible.
Some days it seemed as though the pearls Ruby had been wearing the night of Delmonico’s—the delicate strand of ivory beads, and the way they had lain perfectly against the dip at the base of her throat—were seared into Viola’s memory. She had a feeling that this moment would join that memory.
Bah! She shook off the thought and the heat she felt. The weather was changing—that was all. The sun was high and bright, and the warmth she felt brushing against the skin beneath her blouse had nothing to do with the stupid, stupid little rich girl who had been brainless enough to send a note by messenger to the New Brighton—right under Paul’s nose. Ruby was going to get them both killed, but then, what did the rich care about a little thing like dying? They probably thought they could give the angel of death a few dollars and send a servant instead.
Theo saw Viola first and nudged Ruby, who looked up from her writing and squinted across the piazza. The girl’s entire expression brightened the moment she saw Viola coming toward them, and she put the tablet of paper and pencil back into the embroidered clutch hanging from her wrist.
“You came!” Ruby said, and before Viola knew what was happening, she found herself enveloped in the rich girl’s arms and in a cloud of flowers and amber and warmth.
When Ruby released her, Viola’s legs felt weak, and she stumbled backward, her shawl falling from her head as she caught herself. At the sound of Ruby’s gasp, she pulled the fabric back up, covering her head and the side of her face. But Ruby wouldn’t let well enough alone. Silently, her delicate features twisting in concern, she reached up to move it away from Viola’s face.