Evie stared down at her stockinged feet. “Mabel didn’t do that.”
“Now who doesn’t wanna see the truth?” Theta said gently.
Henry sat up again. “There is somebody who might know how to find Sam.”
“Who?” Evie said.
Henry cleared his throat. “Somebody you’re really close to. You might even be related.”
It took Evie a second to understand, but then she frowned. “No. I refuse to speak to him on principle.” She crossed the room and ducked behind Theta’s painted dressing screen, which had been liberated from a Ziegfeld Follies costume shop. The comment about Mabel had hit home, and Evie was afraid she might cry. She was always a little wobbly after a reading, and this hadn’t been any ordinary reading.
“He’s still your uncle,” Henry said. “And he used to be Jake’s best friend.”
“If it weren’t for Will and Sister Walker and Jake Marlowe, we wouldn’t be chasing ghosts and worried about the end of the world,” Evie called as she wiggled out of the borrowed pajamas and back into her dress. “If it weren’t for Uncle Will, my brother would be alive.”
“They’re still our best hope,” Henry said.
Evie came around the side of the dressing screen. She pushed a wayward curl out of her face.
“Do you suppose…” Evie choked back the lump in her throat, losing her battle. “Do you suppose she’s… at peace?”
Theta exchanged a quick glance with Henry. “If anybody’s got a right to rest in peace it’s Mabel Rose,” Theta said quietly.
Mabel did deserve to rest in peace, and Evie knew she was a terrible person, because if there was any ghost she longed to see, even for just a moment, it was Mabel’s. The tears threatened again. Evie would not cry before breakfast.
“Fine!” she said, throwing her hands upward. “Let’s go see Uncle Will. But don’t expect me to be polite.”
Henry grinned. “Well, if there’s going to be drama, I’m all in. Let me just get changed.”
Ling Chan doubted that anyone knew the streets of Chinatown like she did. Other people might know the best grocers for bok choy or which fishmonger had the day’s freshest catch. But Ling knew where the sidewalks were roughest, which cracks had to be carefully negotiated, and just how long it took to cross Canal Street if you had to be aware of the crush of people around you while also searching for a pebble-free spot on which to land your crutches.
The journey from her parents’ restaurant on Doyers Street to Staino’s Bakery on Mulberry was only a few blocks, but Ling felt every jolt up her spine. The heavy leather braces she wore chafed against the insides of her knees and her hands were calloused from the grip on her crutches. She was still adjusting to her new life, adjusting to the stares of people who thought that she was someone to be pitied or that she was bad luck. Usually, she kept her focus forward, refusing to look. Other times, though, she’d glare back at the rude ones until finally, red-cheeked, they’d look away. I’m just like you, she wanted to yell. For all your staring, why can’t you see that?
Ling had other things on her mind this morning, and they were all named Alma LaVoy. Alma Rene LaVoy was the most alive person Ling Chan had ever met. The pretty chorus girl was the light in the sky over Chinatown during a New Year’s celebration. When she entered a room, the room shifted. It took notice. No one took more notice than Ling. She was in love with Alma, she’d come to realize. Huh, she thought, smiling to herself. This is what love feels like. But Ling was worried, too. Someone as alive and fizzy as Alma had needs. Physical needs. Needs Ling wasn’t certain she could meet. For Ling, love—deep, passionate, intense—was real. But sex? So far, sex was a hypothesis her body didn’t seem interested in proving. Alma, on the other hand, seemed very comfortable with sex. And Ling couldn’t help wondering how long Alma would want to stick around without getting what every winking Tin Pan Alley or Follies song hinted at between the bars.
At the corner of Mott and Canal, Ling heard her name being called and saw her upstairs neighbor, Mim, hurrying toward her with an urgency that could only suggest the juiciest of neighborhood gossip. For once, Ling was grateful for the distraction. Still, she couldn’t help noticing that Mim never once had to look down as she ran.
Mim was breathless when she reached Ling. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?” Ling said, ignoring her mother’s admonition to Go to the bakery for bread and come right back, no dallying, lass.
“Ghosts! There were ghosts in Manhattan last night!”
“What? Where?”
“I heard it from Sallie, who heard it from May Wong, whose brother, John, works for a couple on the Upper East Side, the Ashtons. They are so rich, Ling! Four floors—all to themselves! Can you imagine?”
Ling had forgotten that getting coherent gossip out of Mim was like trying to put pajamas on a cat.
“What happened?” Ling said, cutting to the chase. It was her turn to cross, but she would wait for the next go-round.
“They were having a party. They were very drunk. May says they have their very own bootlegger who comes to the house by a secret entrance. Oh, and Mrs. Ashton has three mink coats. I’d settle for just one. It wouldn’t even have to be all mink.” Mim sighed.
“What about the ghosts?” Ling pressed.
“Oh! Well, they decided to bring in a Diviner for a séance.”
Ling snorted. “Probably a fake.”
“The Ashtons can afford the best,” Mim said, a slight dig at Ling. Everybody in Chinatown knew that Ling could walk in dreams and sometimes make contact with the spirit world.
“Anyway, during the séance, she conjured a real, live ghost!” Mim continued.
“Ghosts can’t be live. That’s why they’re ghosts,” Ling muttered, but Mim just kept going.
“And John told May, who told Sallie, who told me that Mrs. Ashton could be heard screaming from the library to open the doors right away and to call the police—”
“To arrest the ghost? Stupid,” Ling grumbled.
“—aaaand when they opened the doors, Ling, the chairs were overturned and the Diviner had fainted dead away on the floor. All those rich people came screaming out of the room and left without even taking their coats.”
“What did the ghost look like? Was it fresh? Did it say it was hungry?” Ling pressed. The cop on Canal Street looked to Ling but she shook her head. She’d have to wait for the next crossing.
Mim looked at Ling with distaste. “How should I know?”
“Because you seem to know everything else, but not the important things.”
Mim’s eyes gleamed. “I saved the best for last.” She pursed her lips, holding on to the information. She was clearly relishing doling it out in teaspoonfuls, and now Ling was going to miss her chance to cross Canal Street again. The traffic cop had given up on motioning to her.
“The ghost spoke to them. She said, ‘The Diviners did this.’”
All the air left Ling’s body. “What?”
“That’s what everybody’s saying, you know. Harriet Henderson even said in her column that Diviners are responsible for all of this—the ghosts, the sleeping sickness last year, the bombing, and the trouble with all these anarchists, these foreigners.”