Evie made a face. “It’s no one’s favorite book.”
“It’s mine,” Will said on a laugh. “It reminds us that even in the midst of chaos and terror, there is the capacity for change. For a new and better society. For selflessness. I admire Sydney Carton tremendously.”
“Because you fancy yourself a hero?” Evie said. She hadn’t meant it to sound so sneering.
Will’s smile vanished. “Because I know that I’m not.”
Already, the conversation was making Evie uncomfortable. She lifted the book’s cover. The first page was inscribed, To Will with love from Rotke, Christmas 1916.
Will cleared his throat. “Do you mind?”
Evie snapped the book shut and returned it to its spot before resuming her slow circle of the room. “I wanted to talk to you about something. Do you remember a few weeks ago I had an incident on my radio show?”
“I don’t listen to the radio much,” Will said.
Evie stared in disbelief. “How can you not listen to the radio, Uncle Will? It’s 1927! Everyone listens to the radio. It’s how we live.”
Will fought another smile. “I’m as much of an artifact as everything in here. But I’m guessing you had something else to tell me.”
For the past few months, Evie had gotten used to thinking of Will as the enemy. But he was family, too. And Will knew things. Things that could be helpful. She was just going to have to risk trusting him a little bit.
“A curious thing happened,” Evie said, finally coming to rest in a button-back leather club chair that she wished she could steal for her own room at the Winthrop. “A fellow named Bob Bateman came on the show and asked me to read his friend’s comb. He said his friend had died in the war. While I was under, I did see soldiers. They were on a train. I saw the soldier who tried to shoot me—Luther Clayton? He wasn’t much older than I am now. He still had his legs and his mind was unbroken. And then I saw James on that train. Will, that comb belonged to James.”
“You’re sure?” Will asked, his face grave.
“Positive.”
Her uncle reached for his ever-present cigarette case, selecting one from inside its sardine-like hold and tamping the end against the top of his desk till the loose tobacco conformed. “How did this Bateman fellow get James’s comb?”
“Here’s where it gets stranger. I chased Bob Bateman down the street and demanded to know where he’d gotten the comb. He told me he’d been paid to say that by some men in dark suits.”
“That’s not particularly helpful. You might as well say, ‘I was paid by a man with a mustache,’ ” Will said, reaching for his lighter.
“I know.” Evie pushed the words out on a heavy sigh. She snapped her fingers. “Adams! That was the man’s name.”
Will fumbled with his cigarette lighter. He raked his thumb against the little wheel until the flame caught.
“Does that name mean something to you? Do you know who that is?” Evie asked.
“No.” Will drew on his cigarette.
Evie leaned into the chair, letting its comfort cradle her. “The comb showed me the soldiers playing a guessing game with cards. James knew the card one of the soldiers held. He knew it was the Ace of Spades without even seeing it.”
Will blew out a thick cloud of smoke. “Could’ve been a lucky guess. Or he could’ve seen the card beforehand and not told.”
“I suppose so. Except …”
“Except?”
“When he guessed it, one of the other soldiers said, ‘Right again.’ That suggests James had done it before. Doesn’t it?”
“Evie, where are you leading with this?”
Evie sat forward. “Do you think it’s possible that James had special powers, too? I was so young when he died, I can’t remember him doing anything, well, Diviners-like. Do you?”
“Mostly, I remember that he loved baseball, especially the Chicago White Sox. I don’t think that makes him exceptional. I think that made him an American kid,” Will said, tapping ash into an overflowing brass tray.
Evie liked hearing stories about her brother. Why had they never talked about James before? “What else?”
Will pulled on his cigarette again, smiling at some private memory. “He once stole a pie your neighbor had baked from off her kitchen windowsill, where she’d set it to cool. He took it into the woods and ate the entire thing with his hands.”
“His hands?”
“Indeed. And then he vomited all night. Your mother told him it served him right.”
“She would.” Evie laughed. “I can’t believe he didn’t share any with me.”
“You were only two or three, if memory serves.”
The record spun out. It wasn’t jazz, but it was pretty. She wondered what James would think of the Hotsy Totsy, how fun it would be to take him there. How she wished he could’ve seen the girl she’d grown up to be. Would he be proud of her? Disappointed?
“I dream about him all the time,” Evie said, her smile fading.
“I understand.”
Almost automatically, it seemed to Evie, Will looked over at the framed photograph of his dead fiancée that he kept on his desk. Evie had caught glimpses of Rotke when reading over Sam’s mother’s mementos, so she’d picked up bits here and there—Rotke seemed warm and happy. “What was she like?”
“She was clever,” Will said after a long pause. “So very smart. And a Diviner.”
“She was?”
“Her powers weren’t as strong as all of yours. But she could read people. She could read me. And I suppose I needed reading. I didn’t even understand myself. Not as well as Rotke did.”
“You never really said. How did she die?”
Will drew slowly on his cigarette, letting his answer out with the smoke. “It was an accident. In the lab. There was nothing that could be done.”
Evie wanted to know more, but she also didn’t want to pry into her uncle’s private pain. “About Bob Bateman’s comb,” she said, bringing the conversation around again. “I’ve been thinking: What if James is trying to send me a message from beyond?”
“Oh, Evie …” Will started.
“But what if he is? I dream of soldiers all the time—”
“That doesn’t mean anything—”
“The same dream. Over and over—”
“Evangeline. Don’t do this to yourself—”
“They’re in a forest. And James is trying to tell me something important. He’s trying to warn me and—”
“James is dead, Evangeline!” Will thundered, bringing his fist down on the desk, rattling his papers. “He is dead! And the dead. Must. Rest. Let him go and move on.”
Will’s words hit like a fist. Tears pricked at Evie’s eyes.
Will raked his fingers through his hair, his nervous habit, and took in a settling breath. “I’m … I’m sorry, Evie. I shouldn’t have shouted. I know what it is to lose someone. But when they’re gone, they’re gone,” he said quietly. “We learn to live without them. To let go. To move forward.”