It was back when my family had a whole houseful of servants. But one by one, all of them had left except for old Jeremy and young Mary. I had always assumed the other servants had found better jobs with more popular families, but perhaps it was merely better jobs with less crazy employers.
When Father’s business and city council campaign fell, his sanity fell too. Father claimed it was sabotage, that his enemies sought to destroy him; but I never knew if his paranoid ravings were true. Either way, a few months after Father was forced to withdraw from the election, he died.
But things would look up again. Soon. Somehow I’d make it right again—I just had to.
I huffed out a heavy breath and moved to the celery. When I finished dicing it and the stew pot had water bubbling, I gave Mary directions for the rest of the meal and then I dashed upstairs to my room.
It was late afternoon, and I had to use what remained of the day’s sunlight to read Elijah’s letters.
I settled onto my bed and started with the first letter. For the beginning of Elijah’s travels in 1873, he’d been in London. He had scoured ancient texts before traveling to a bookseller’s in Paris, and so his letters had focused mostly on these old books. Next, he’d explored sunny Egypt (sending few letters), and then in July of 1875, he’d traveled to New York City.
In each of his letters I underlined his scratchy words to note the parts I thought strange. Such as, the old man in the pyramid, Oliver, or Honorius. Who were they? Authors of the ancient texts, I supposed, but still no one familiar.
In France, Elijah kept referring to some soldier, but who he meant, I couldn’t even begin to guess. And in one of his letters from Egypt, Elijah had mentioned “missing pages,” but he never named the text or why it mattered.
And what the blazes was the Gas Ring? In a letter he’d sent from New York, he mentioned, “The Gas Ring will see its errors, and Father will be most proud.”
Except Father was dead—would be proud was what he’d meant. Elijah had never gotten used to referring to Father in the past tense.
I mopped my brow with a handkerchief and set the letter in the growing stack of marked pages. The moist summer heat was suffocating in the room. And reading these letters one after the other made all the strange references more obvious than when I’d read them with months in between.
I skimmed the next letter in my hand; it had been sent several months ago from New York.
… The missing pages from Cairo are in a museum here, but the curators are not cooperative. These are such exciting times, my dear sister! I have begun experiments that I believe will impress you. Unfortunately, they have impressed others as well, and they are not the sort of people I want around....
People. He’d attracted negative attention from people—plural. Necromancer … or necromancers.
Curious, and quite a coincidence, though, don’t you think? Mr. Peger had said to me only hours ago. These Spirit-Hunters leave New York, and the trouble ends. They show up here, and the trouble begins.
I swallowed over a tight lump in my throat, and with trembling hands I yanked up the next letter. It was dated May 20, 1876.
I am coming home on the train scheduled for next Friday (May 26). These people continue to harass me, and I feel my research will run more smoothly in Philadelphia....
Oh no. What had I done by overlooking these words? I had whooped with joy and tossed the letter in the air after the words I’m coming home.
It was the last letter in my stack, but there should be one more correspondence: a telegram we’d received that I had never read. Mary had relayed its message to me; and without a doubt, I knew, knew this telegram mattered.
I shot off the bed and scrambled to the door. My feet banged full speed down the stairs, and I raced to the back of the house. I burst into the kitchen to find Mary hunched over the stove and stew.
“Elijah’s telegram from a week and a half ago! Do you still have it?” In three long steps I crossed the old wooden floorboards to stand next to her. Salty steam billowed up from the pot, mixing with the sweat on my face. “Well, do you?”
“Maybe,” she said slowly, her gaze distant. “It’d be in the calling card bowl, if we—”
I didn’t wait for her answer. I rushed to the foyer and lunged at the bowl beside our front door. It held those rare cards left when we had callers. Beneath two elegant envelopes, I found a wispy scrap of paper.
It was a crumpled telegram dated May 25, 1876.
Delayed. Will arrive June 2. Much love. Elijah.
And in a scribbled mess on the Received From line was written: Philadelphia.
He’d already been in Philadelphia when he sent this. A fresh wave of heat washed over me.
Then another horrifying realization hit. I staggered to the front door and heaved it open, gasping for air and leaning against the frame for support.
May 25 was also the day the Spirit-Hunters had arrived in Philadelphia.
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning I rose at dawn to help Mary with breakfast. I worked quickly and snuck away again before Mama awoke. Simply because I had her tentative permission to wander the Exhibition alone did not mean I ought to tempt her.
I reached the Exhibition right as the gates opened and all the church bells rang nine o’clock. It turned out I could use my ticket from days before and the frazzled men at the turnstiles didn’t even notice, so I marched in, more determination in my posture than was actually in my heart. I reached the Spirit-Hunters’ door and hovered nervously outside.
Oh, don’t be a coward.
Sucking in a fortifying breath, I tapped my knuckles against the door.
It swung open a heartbeat later.
“Miss Fitt.” Daniel looked at me blankly. His sandy hair stood at all manner of bizarre angles, while his green eyes were sunken in.
“Mr. Sheridan.” I bobbed a curtsy. “I’ve come to see Mr.—”
“Me.” Joseph stepped in front of Daniel, his top hat on and his gloves in hand. “Bonjour, Miss Fitt. I am afraid you have come at a bad time. I must leave.” He spoke quickly and without meeting my eyes.
“Oh.” I swallowed. “I just wanted to know if you’d found my letter. I left it, and I wasn’t sure if you knew it was mine.”
“Naturèlman. We figured it out.” He slid on a glove and flexed his fingers. Daniel lounged behind him, his gaze darting from the clock to Joseph to me.
“Did you …” I swayed and swiveled my head, trying to connect Joseph’s eyes to mine. “Did you discover anything?”
“Some, but we have not yet had time to examine it properly.” He pulled on the second glove.
“And what of the spirit my mother—”
“Come back later,” Joseph interrupted. “This evening perhaps.”
This evening, when there were fewer people. I winced and tried to pump some assertion into my voice. “I don’t see why you can’t discuss it now. I’d like to have my letter back.”
His nostrils twitched, and he finally stared at me full-on. “We need more time to inspect it, Mamzèi, and I haven’t the time to talk. I must go.” He glanced back at Daniel. “You have your orders.”
“Best hurry,” Daniel said, tipping his head toward the clock. “Jie’s probably already there.”
Joseph nodded once, and then in a rush, he stepped from the lab and flew past me. I turned to Daniel to plead my cause, but the door swung at my face. I jumped back as it banged to a close.
What excuse did they give you? Those had been Mr. Peger’s words, and now here I stood in a cramped hallway after the Spirit-Hunters had yet again fobbed me off with an excuse.
My eyes widened. Maybe they were the necromancers, and they’d taken my letter to destroy the only evidence I had of Elijah’s disappearance.
I shook my head, and my curls bounced against my neck. I had to stop this foolish paranoia. I had no evidence of anything. Yet.
I pushed my feet into action. My hand automatically reached for the amethysts at my ears,
to feel their delicate shapes. I still needed to go to the market—Mama had complained about last night’s bland stew, and I’d promised to splurge on pork cheeks.
I reached the end of the aisle where it intersected with Machinery Hall’s main transept and lifted my skirt to join the flow of visitors.
But something whispered in the back of my mind. The nagging sense of eyes watching me from behind.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Daniel, his face now shaded by a gray flat cap, and a full, lumpy satchel leaned against his legs. When our eyes met, he spun his face away and focused intently on locking the laboratory door. I whisked my head around, scurried into the crowd, and moved from his view.
That had been an enormous bag—it had practically reached his thighs. What was in it? And where was he going with it?
I can follow him. I can find out.
I swerved from the throng of visitors and pressed myself against the nearest exhibit: a sleek locomotive. It gleamed in the morning sun and bathed me in ethereal light. A boiling thrill at my decision tingled over me. Sweat beaded on my skin.
I slunk left along the locomotive and craned my neck to peer around the shiny engine. Daniel marched into my view, hunched over with the sack hoisted on his back. And something poked from the sack—something that made my heart slam into my ribs.
It was the tip of a boot.
I lurched back. A boot. A heavy bag. I pressed my hands to my face and tried to breathe over my heart. It felt as if it rammed against my lungs with each beat. Oh God—what did I just see?
I inched around the engine once more, and this time Daniel was at the exit. He trudged through the building’s eastern door while people parted and streamed around him. It was now or never. I had to go while I still held a chance for pursuit.
I steeled myself and then surged through the oncoming people. They weren’t as willing to move from my path as they’d been for Daniel, but soon enough I reached the entrance and scrambled into the bright sun. I saw no sign of the sandy-haired boy in the crowded plaza. I scanned for the bulky sack and his gray flat cap. Nothing.
Then the satchel bounced at the edge of my vision. The Bartholdi Fountain had hidden him from view. He was already on the other side of the exit gates! How could he move so fast with such a … such a … I refused to think the word.
I scooted after him, but by the time I entered the mass of people outside the Exhibition, he was boarding a black hackney. I shoved toward the lines of waiting carriages, all the while keeping my eyes locked on the one that now carried Daniel.
I had a handful of coins in my pocket, so when I arrived at the first hackney for hire, I waved for the driver’s attention and darted into the concourse. Before the driver could climb down from his seat, I shouted, “Stay there! I can get in alone.”
A frantic search showed Daniel’s carriage leaving the concourse. I clambered into the buggy and pointed. “That way. I’ll tell you where to go once we’re out.”
He nodded, and with a flick of the reins, jolted the horse into a rattling chase. I plopped down and shaded my eyes. My heart throbbed in my throat, and the tip of the boot flashed in my mind.
Then I spotted the black hackney. “Turn right at Girard,” I yelled up.
“Yes’m.”
We clopped down the avenue and onto the Girard Avenue Bridge. It was packed with carriages, and I lost sight of Daniel’s hackney.
I stood in my seat, my knees wobbling with the movement of the wheels. Though the breeze of the river whipped at the ribbons of my bonnet, it offered no relief to the scorching sweat that dripped down my back.
“Oi, miss!” snapped the driver. “Sit down!”
I glanced behind. “Do you see a black hackney?” I pointed ahead of us.
“Yeah—about twenty. Sit down. It’s not safe if you want to go fast.” As if to prove his point, we suddenly veered right, and I tumbled sideways. I clutched at the edge of the cab and slid to the end of my seat. I tried to peek around the powerful horse before me, but my view was only obstructed by other horses.
Oh, please don’t tell me I’ve lost him already. Oh, please, please.
We crossed the river, and the end of the bridge came into sight—but no black hackney. Daniel could go anywhere in the city now, and I wouldn’t be able to see. I puffed out a breath of frustration. I was so sure I’d almost uncovered something about the Spirit-Hunters. Something significant.
And then there it was, below the bridge! Daniel’s tanned face was focused straight ahead as his hackney trotted by—in the opposite direction. It traveled along a tree-lined leisure path parallel to Girard Avenue. How had it gotten there so fast?
“There!” I bolted up and pointed wildly below. “There—we must go there!”
“Then sit down. Now!”
We jerked left, and I fell sideways into the seat. As we catapulted through the oncoming traffic, drivers shouted their fury and horses whinnied. Then, in a bone-jarring bounce, we clattered off the bridge and onto the dirt path.
The reins pulled back and we slowed to a steady trot. I jumped up once more.
“This is too slow,” I declared. Bonnet ribbons slapped my face. “You must go faster.”
“I can’t, miss.” He wiped his brow and glared down at me. “This is for slow traffic only.”
“B-but …”
“But nothin’.” He scowled and stroked his beard. “You know, Miss, followin’ someone costs double fare.”
“Oh.” I gulped. Of course he was lying, but what choice did I have? I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t pursuing the other hackney, and I couldn’t hope to find another driver this far into the chase. I just had to hope I had enough money. “All right then. Double fare.”
“In that case,” he said with a twist in his lips, “is that your hackney there?” He pointed, and I scanned ahead until I too saw the familiar gleam of black. It was disappearing around a bend ahead.
“Yes! That’s it!”
“Then I’ll keep my eyes on it,” he answered. “Now sit down.”
I tumbled back in my seat. My heart had begun to ache from overuse, and the morning heat was suffocating beneath my gown. Later—I could relax later.
The horse trotted my cab north with the river at our left and a forest at our right. The carriages, riders, and passers-by had thinned out, and now my cab and Daniel’s were the only two still on the dirt road. Fortunately, Daniel remained far ahead.
“We’ll have to be stoppin’ right soon,” the driver announced.
I leaned forward and tilted my head up to look at him. “What do you mean? Why?”
“Because,” he said with a meaningful jump of his eyebrows. “No one’s allowed past East Fairmount Park no more—that’s where Laurel Hill is.”
My eyes widened. Of course. Laurel Hill Cemetery. In the blur of the carriage chase, I’d paid no heed to what direction we traveled.
“S’past that landing there.” The driver gestured with his whip to a small dock to the left of the road that extended into the Schuylkill. Ferries carting cemetery and park visitors usually landed there, but today the dock was abandoned. Though the occasional vessel still moved up and down the river, now that I observed it closely, I could see that each one hugged the opposite bank. Clarence had said he could see the Dead from the river.
Daniel’s hackney slowed, and my driver tightened the reins on our horse.
“Here, Miss?” he asked.
“Y-yes, please.” My throat suddenly felt tight. You can do this, I told myself. Elijah would do no less for you.
I rose and offered the man my coins—seventy-five cents worth of change. I shoved it into his expectant hand. “Will this cover it?”
He smacked his lips. “Is that a dollar?”
I stepped unsteadily from the cab and then stared up at him, my jaw set. “No, it’s not a dollar, but it’s all I have, so take it.”
He protested, but I didn’t listen. He was cheating me, after all. Before he had time to stop me, I gathered my
skirts in one hand and my parasol in the other and hustled after Daniel.
He was already plodding down the path toward Laurel Hill, and I picked up my pace to a brisk clip.
The dust of the path muffled my footsteps and rose up to cling at my petticoats. The woods at my right were part of East Fairmount Park, and though the road stayed flat, the ground on which the woods stood grew gradually steeper—so much so that in the distance, the road along the river was lined with rocky bluffs.
Daniel trekked before me on his long limbs, and my own short ones had trouble keeping up. Yet having him so far ahead meant he couldn’t see me stalking behind. Besides, the quick pace calmed my nerves.
As I passed the vacant dock, Daniel rounded a bend in the path, and the forests and hills blocked him from view. When I reached the trees, I slowed to a hesitant creep. I inched toward the road’s curve and peered around.
The iron bars of Laurel Hill and a gate, chained firmly shut, were directly before me. The fence took a sharp turn up, following the curve of the land.
But there was no sign of the lanky blond.
He must have left the path, moved onto the hill and into the trees beside me. I stepped forward, flicking my gaze around as I went. Where was he?
Branches from a wide-trunked sycamore floated above, shading this portion of the path. These woods were still part of East Fairmount Park, so had Daniel entered the park or had he gone into the cemetery?
I wiped my hands on my skirt, hoping my gloves would soak up the sweat on my palms, and I tried to moisten my dusty mouth. The cemetery loomed before me, and the emptiness around was silent—too silent. With each passing moment, my certainty grew: I had made a dangerous mistake by coming here.
Suddenly, something fell on the path before me, thudding to the road, and yellow dust puffed up around it.
A boot!
My heart exploded into my throat. I glanced wildly about and spun, clutching my parasol to my chest. All I could see were shadows and leaves and dust, yet I knew it must be Daniel—he was here, somewhere, watching me.