Something shifted in his expression. “I’m not sure that’s a title you want to be claiming.”
“You’re not still worried about the people in the ballroom, are you?” she asked, remembering the thrill she’d felt at the sight of them—their masked faces and billowing skirts. Most of all, she remembered the way the mood in the ballroom had transformed from festive to fearful as the men surrounding them scurried like roaches to escape.
“If those were the Antistasi, we need to steer clear of them,” Harte said. Then he told her what Julien had relayed to him, about the attacks on the Exposition and other places around town.
“They’ve hurt people?” Esta asked, feeling a tremor of unease—and, oddly, disappointment.
“And they’ve done it using the name of the Devil’s Thief,” Harte said darkly.
“Because of the train,” she said, her mood falling. “Because I started this.”
Harte’s brows drew together. “You didn’t blow up that train, Esta.”
“Maybe not intentionally,” she said. “But something happened to it. I slipped through time, and people died.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you had nothing to do with it,” Harte argued.
She shook her head. “You don’t really believe that. Look what happened in the hotel, and in the station. Even on the bridge, when we were crossing the Brink. Something happens to me when I use my affinity around you. There’s something about the power of the Book that changes it. Whenever I try to hold on to time, I see this darkness I can’t explain.”
“Darkness?” Harte asked. He’d gone very still.
“When I use my affinity, I can see the spaces between time, but when I’m touching you, it’s like those spaces become nothing. Like time itself is disappearing. Didn’t you hear those elevator cables? It sounded like they were about to snap.” She licked her lips, forcing herself to go on. “What if that’s what happened to the train?”
He was frowning at her again, and when he finally spoke, it sounded as though he was choosing his words carefully. “You don’t know that. What we do know is that you didn’t intend to do anything to that train. If these Antistasi are using whatever happened for their own benefit, they’re nothing but opportunists.”
“Or maybe they’re just trying to make some good come of a tragedy,” she argued. “You heard Julien. Jack used the derailment to drive fear and anger against Mageus. Maybe the Antistasi are just answering those lies.” Because someone had to. “These Antistasi might be opportunists, but they helped us escape tonight. Maybe that makes them our allies.”
“We don’t need allies,” Harte argued. “We need to get the necklace and get out of town as quickly as possible. The sooner we get the necklace, the sooner we can collect the rest of the artifacts and get back to the city to help Jianyu.”
“Fast might not be possible. We had a whole team going into Khafre Hall,” she told him. “If there are a group of Mageus here in St. Louis who are actively working against the Guard, maybe we could use them.”
“To do that we’d have to find them and convince them to trust us. And we’d have to figure out if we could trust them,” Harte told her. “The police and the Guard already know you’re here. The Order will know soon too. The faster we’re out of this town, the better.”
Esta couldn’t disagree with that. Even though she was less recognizable with her new haircut and wearing a man’s suit, the longer they stayed, the more dangerous it became. Finding the Antistasi would take time, but she wasn’t sure that Harte was right about his reluctance to at least look into them.
By then the pianist was playing the final chords of his song and the people on the dance floor had started to thin. “We should go,” he said, but she didn’t miss the tightness in his voice or the way the muscle in his jaw ticked with frustration.
Fine. He could sulk all he wanted as far as she was concerned. What he couldn’t do anymore was leave her out.
POPPIES
1902—New York
After Delmonico’s, Viola knew she was being watched even more closely than before. She had not exactly failed Paul’s little test, but her hesitation to kill the reporter had made her suspect. Her brother still didn’t fully trust her—rightfully so, since her submissiveness was nothing more than a ploy. But his suspicions made things uncomfortable and inconvenient. Especially since he seemed to be working with Nibsy Lorcan, the rat.
She would have killed Nibsy already for his treachery, but she couldn’t risk crossing her brother. Not until she discovered what he was doing with the boy. Paul was powerful enough and his Five Pointers were vicious enough that they could have crushed Nibsy and the remaining Devil’s Own before now. Which meant that Nibsy had something Paul needed. Perhaps Nibsy was simply holding Paul at bay with the secrets Dolph had collected about the Five Pointers over the years, but from what Viola had seen, their interactions were more cordial than blackmail would suggest.
Staying under her brother’s watchful eye meant subjecting herself to Nibsy and to the Order. Both were repugnant. Unthinkable. But staying where she was meant that neither Nibsy nor the Order were likely to touch her. She would bide her time and learn their weaknesses. She would use Paul against Nibsy, and she would get her knife back.
And when the moment was right, she would destroy the Order from the inside.
Unfortunately, biding her time meant pretending a meekness that was contrary to everything she was. In the days after Delmonico’s, her hands had become dried and pruned from scrubbing dishes, and the only blade she’d been able to get close to was the small paring knife that she had tucked in her skirts. It was a pathetic thing—only about four inches long, made of flimsy steel that had long ago bent at the tip. In a fight, it would be of little use at all, but then, she had no opportunity to fight. She’d offered to be his weapon, but he’d made her into nothing more than a kitchen maid. Already, she could feel herself dulling, like a knife tossed into a drawer and forgotten, and she worried that the razor edge of what she had once been was starting to wear away.
The kitchen door of the Little Naples Cafe opened behind her, and Viola turned, her hand already reaching for her insignificant knife. But it was only her mother, coming to look over the pot that Viola was tending.
“ ’Giorno, Mamma,” Viola said, her eyes cast down at the floor as she stepped back to give her mother access.
Her mother’s expression was serious, her eyes appraising, as she took the spoon from Viola and gave the pot of lentils a stir. She made a noncommittal sound as she brought the spoon to her mouth and tasted, but then her mouth turned down. “Not enough salt. Did you use the guanciale, like I told you?”
“Yes, Mamma,” Viola answered, her eyes still trained on the floor so that her mother would not see the frustration in them. “Sliced thin, like you said.”
“And you rendered it enough before you put in the beans?”
“Yes, Mamma.” She clenched her teeth to keep from saying more.
“Well, I guess it will have to do, then,” her mother said with a sigh. It was the same sigh Viola had heard nearly every day of her childhood. “For today . . . You’ll do better tomorrow.”