But then, there magic had been different. There was no Order, no Brink. His affinity had not been a liability as it was here.
He was not sure when the exhaustion of nearly two days finally dragged him under, but it was growing dark by the time he was jolted awake by the toe of a policeman’s boot. After producing the required identity papers—falsified documents that served as protection when he could not use his affinity—Jianyu pretended to move along as instructed. When the policeman had moved on, he drew his affinity close and returned to wait until the crowd from the last show had poured out of the front and the performers had finally stopped trickling out of the stage door.
Jianyu waited longer still, until he saw the woman from earlier leave, her hair a bright flame beneath the glow of the evening’s marquee. Once she had turned the corner and was out of sight, Jianyu pulled the light around himself again and made his way back into the theater. Inside, he released his affinity, just in case there was anyone else left behind who could sense magic, and allowed his eyes to adjust. Again he began his search for some sign of Cela, hoping all the while that he had not missed her when he had failed to stay awake.
There hadn’t been any sign of a costumer’s shop backstage, so he went back to the cellar, where the woman had stopped his earlier search. Even if Cela herself wasn’t below, perhaps her workroom would give him some clue to where she had gone or where she might be.
It was too dark to search properly without any light, so Jianyu took the chance of using the bronze mirrors in the pocket of his tunic. Focusing his affinity through them, he amplified the minuscule threads of light that surrounded him and wrapped them around the disk until it glowed. The soft halo of light guided him through the dusty space as he searched, looking for some sign that he had been correct—that Cela Johnson was, indeed, there.
Finally, he came to a room at the back of the cellar. The door was closed tight and locked, but he picked the lock cleanly and opened the door to find a workroom. The glow of his mirrors showed it to be a small space, but neat and tidy. Rolls of silks and bolts of fabric were piled all around. He ran his finger along the cool metal of the heavy sewing machine that stood in the corner and it came away clean. No dust had accumulated there or anywhere. It felt as though the room had been used . . . and recently.
“Cela?” he called softly into the emptiness. “Cela Johnson? Are you there?”
He listened, knowing that silence would be the only answer, before he tried once more. “My name is Jianyu Lee, and I’ve come to help you.” He paused again, weighing the risks of divulging too much if someone else were listening, and then he decided to take the chance. “Harte Darrigan sent me to protect you.”
He stood for a long time, his ears open and his focus sharp for any sign of life, any indication that Cela was still there. In the corner, he heard a rustling. . . .
But when he lifted his disk, the glowing light revealed the tail of some rodent just before it scurried away.
Cela Johnson had been there not long before. Jianyu was sure of it. But she wasn’t there any longer. Only one question loomed larger than all the others—had she left this place of her own free will, or had someone else gotten to her first?
A HEARTFUL OF TROUBLE
1902—New York
Cela hated the darkness. She’d hated it ever since she’d been a little girl and Abel had locked her down in Old Man Robertson’s coal cellar to punish her for eating the last of his peppermints. By the time he finally let her out, she’d cried so hard that snot was dripping out of her nose, her face was blotchy, and her voice was ragged. Trying to settle her down, he’d given her an awkward hug, the only kind that on-the-verge-of-manhood boys knew how to give, and he promised her he’d never do it again.
He’d kept that promise for as long as he could.
But Abel is gone.
Again, grief twisted around her heart so tightly that she thought it might stop altogether. She had to pause for a second just to force herself to breathe. But she couldn’t stay there. It was up to Cela herself to make do, darkness or not.
She heard the man’s voice calling her name again, and then she heard him say that Harte Darrigan had sent him. To protect her, of all things. Well, considering that Harte Darrigan had sent her nothing but a heartful of trouble, whoever was out there could just keep his help. She certainly didn’t want anyone else’s protection, either. She already had two lives on her conscience who had tried to protect her, and she’d carry those two souls with her for the rest of her days.
Even after she thought he was gone, she waited, just to be sure, before she unlatched the panel of the wall she’d been hiding behind and came out. She’d built herself the little hidey-hole to keep her sewing things safe when she needed to. Didn’t matter that everyone at Wallack’s got the costumes they needed. One person or another always had sticky fingers, wanting the best bits for themselves.
She’d never intended to hide herself there, but it worked just as well.
Her eyes were already used to the darkness, so she didn’t have much trouble navigating the small area of her workroom. She was pleased when she discovered that her visitor had left the door open for her.
Cela didn’t bother to gather anything with her but a scrap of fabric to use as a wrap. She closed the door to her workshop and locked that part of her life up behind her—she wasn’t coming back. Not ever. Then on quick, sure feet, she followed the soft padding of the man’s footsteps, up the steps, through the back halls to the stage door, and out into the night.
EMPTY STREETS
1902—New York
After his failure to find Cela at the theater, Jianyu had reached an impasse. He had no idea where to look for her next, but if the woman at the theater had her—or if someone else did—he would require help. He had to find Viola, which meant that he had to return to the Bowery.
The Bowery, he knew, was in chaos. And with Nibsy Lorcan in control of the Devil’s Own, the streets around the Strega would no longer be safe for him, as they once had been.
There was one place in the city where Jianyu’s countrymen were welcomed without hesitation—the blocks close to Mott Street known as the Chinese quarter. He might go there, but Jianyu had worn out his welcome more than two years before, when he’d broken his oath of loyalty to Tom Lee and the On Leong Tong by defecting to the Devil’s Own.
If Jianyu was caught by the On Leongs now, he would be made to pay for his transgressions. The question was what the price would be. Tom Lee might use simple violence, or he might do more. Jianyu was Lee’s nephew only on paper, after all. While Dolph was alive, the secrets he had collected had assured Jianyu’s safety from Tom Lee, but the power of those secrets had died with Dolph. If Lee chose, he could alert the authorities to Jianyu’s precarious position in the city—and to the falseness of his documents. If Jianyu were deported, it would be tantamount to a death sentence, because being removed from the city would mean passing through the Brink.
It did not seem worth the risk to attempt navigating those dangers in the dead of night, when it would be harder to pull on his affinity for concealment. Instead, he ventured east to Twenty-Fourth Street, just a few blocks from where the newest skyscraper was nearly complete. There, a friend from Jianyu’s first days in the city had a small laundry he ran with his wife, a sturdy Irish girl with kind eyes and ruddy cheeks. Since it had been years, Ho Lai Ying was surprised to see him, but understood the reach of the tongs. Though he did not wake his wife or family, Lai Ying gave Jianyu a bowl of the family’s leftover meal and a warm place to rest for the night. But Jianyu barely slept, and he was gone before daybreak, so as not to put his old friend in any danger.