Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
For the first time since that carriage had whisked her and Grace away, Emmy stood in front of a tenement house in lower Manhattan,
her hands fisted at her sides. Not her tenement house, but from the outside, there was hardly any difference.
There was little light in the corridor, save the sun streaming between the wrought iron bars on the door. There was little
air, too, and Jack kept his nose scrunched at the stench. Though she’d transformed his face to a wildly unattractive one—an
effective deterrent during the long trek to the city—his discomfort was evident from the moment they’d entered the dingy building.
“There’s no railing,” Jack murmured as they made their way up the stairwell. “Or lamps.”
“Why don’t you file a complaint with the landlord? He’s probably a friend of yours.”
Jack was wise enough to hold his tongue, but he still walked stiffly, as if he’d contract a venereal disease by bumping into
a wall. She should have come alone. But it was too late. They were here, and they needed to find the truth wielder.
Emmy had mapped their route, working clockwise from the Hudson River toward Little Germany before finishing in her old neighborhood.
Part of her longed to walk those familiar roads, to stand where she’d stood when her life was right side up instead of upside
down. But with fifty-seven addresses to cover, she couldn’t afford any distractions.
Jack knocked on the door at the first address, but no one answered. “Should we wait?”
“We’ll come back later, if we don’t have any luck elsewhere.” Swallowing her sigh, Emmy drew a question mark next to the address before turning away.
Emmy led the way through the crowded streets, Jack falling into step beside her. The passersby kept their distance, as if
they sensed his silent judgment. Or perhaps the face Emmy had conjured for him was a tad too grotesque, with his eyes different
sizes and his nose and chin much too large. More than once, she glimpsed children pointing and whispering.
It mattered not; Emmy did the talking, holding up a replica of the inhibition-lowering bracelet to whomever answered the door—usually
mothers with curious children peering behind them—and gauged their truthfulness when they said it didn’t look familiar.
“This may be a wild-goose chase,” Emmy muttered as they made their way through the bustling streets, trekking to the next
address.
“If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”
But a better idea required time, and with the final ball in two days, they were nearly out of it.
Dark had fallen by the time Emmy admitted that visiting fifty-seven addresses was a tad too ambitious for one day. With a
gnawing sense of foreboding, she followed Jack to the ferry dock, careful not to lean against him, though her tired limbs
ached to do so.
“We’ll take the first train in the morning.” Jack’s confidence was undercut by the exhaustion in his voice. “That’ll give
us all day to get through the rest.”
Emmy could have screamed in frustration.
It was too risky, leaving Avalon-on-Hudson for two straight days, especially when the Society had to be reeling from the chancellor’s death.
They ought to have been receiving visitors—or at the hospital with Caleb.
But abandoning their search meant forfeiting their chance at having a truth conjurer present when they confronted Grace.
And as much as Emmy longed to see Caleb in one piece, she had to stay focused on the ultimate goal.
Revenge.
The next morning, they continued their search from flat to flat. How Emmy longed to ask the people who lived at these addresses
if they possessed magic—or if a pretty blonde girl had taken it away.
“After tomorrow’s ball,” Jack murmured, “we’ll figure out some way to unblock these people’s conjury, assuming Grace and the
Strattons have already gotten to them. But first, we find the truth conjurer.”
Emmy did not point out that the Strattons might have already conjure-bound the truth wielder, and their search might be for
naught.
By midafternoon, the only addresses left were in Five Points, where the streets bent and twisted in open rebellion of any
semblance of organization. The buildings leaned in every direction, clotheslines and telegraph wires scratching out the punishing
summer sun. Crowds of people hurried past Emmy, speaking Yiddish and German and Italian and a dozen tongues she couldn’t place.
She stole a glance at Jack, then wished she hadn’t, for even in his unsightly disguise, he was completely alert, reacting
to the inherent threat of the only home she’d known.
Swallowing her frustration, Emmy led the way to the second-story flat and knocked.
The door cracked open, and a hollow-faced teenage girl peered out at them from behind the chain. “What do you want?”
“We were hoping you’d seen this before.” Emmy held the replica of the bangle in her palm.
The girl’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly before darting back to Emmy’s, then narrowed. “Where did you get that?”
Hope trickled through Emmy’s veins. “If you let us in, I’ll tell you all about it and pay you for your time.”
The door slammed shut. Jack let out a groan, but Emmy kept her gaze trained on the door. That girl had been frighteningly thin. She would not turn away money so easily.
The door swung open, this time without the chain, and a little boy with a cherub’s smile took Emmy by the hand and led her
inside.
“Have a seat.” The girl motioned to the round kitchen table, big enough for two chairs. As Emmy slid into one, Jack held out
the other for the girl, who shot him a look so scathing, he retreated to Emmy’s side, his gray eyes darting about the small
space.
And small it was. The setup was nearly identical to her old home: the charcoal stove next to a counter with the dish basin
to its right, and the kitchen table just beside the stove. In the only other room, Emmy knew she’d find a small fireplace
and maybe a sofa, or a bed, depending on how many people lived here. And Emmy had a feeling that if she opened the closet
behind her, she’d find a cot, one that stayed nice and warm all winter long, courtesy of the stove.
It had felt so grand, having a cozy space all to herself. But now such quarters felt terribly cramped. And Emmy hated it,
because the typical flat layout hadn’t changed. She had.
“Oh!” Emmy went stiff as the little boy climbed into her lap, then turned to face his sister.
“Well?” Now that they were in better lighting, his sister looked older, perhaps even the same age as Emmy, though with her
rail-thin figure, it was hard to tell.
Jack cleared his throat. “My name is Michael—”
“Not you.” She pointed to Emmy. “Only she talks.”
Jack exchanged a look with Emmy. At her nod, he leaned against the wall.
“My name is Bernadette Higgins,” Emmy tried to begin, just as they’d rehearsed earlier this morning, but instead of her pseudonym,
she uttered, “Emilia Vallillo.”
She stiffened. The girl’s flat mouth curved into the slightest smile.
“You have truth conjury.” Of course, the girl’s face revealed nothing, but Emmy was all too familiar with this particular
gift and its strange loosening of her thoughts.
Her conjury was not cold, like Grace’s, but a tingling sensation settled over Emmy as the girl studied her. “Tell me why you’ve
come here.”
“Because I need your help.” Emmy tried to slow the stream of words racing from her lips, but she was powerless against them.
“Because Grace Montgomery ruined my life. She does terrible thing after terrible thing, but she always gets away with it.”
“And you want me to make her tell the truth.”
“Yes.” It was an effort not to wrestle against the strange urge to speak the truth. As if sensing her discomfort, the little
boy nestled against her.
“And why should I?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“They’re taking away magic, you know. Following any rumors of people with out-of-the-ordinary abilities, then hunting us down.”
With narrowed eyes, the girl studied Emmy. “Miss Montgomery has worked out a deal so I can keep mine.”
“As long as you let her bridge some of it.” Emmy could not keep her frustration from her voice. The girl didn’t deny it, at
least. “She isn’t helping you; she’s helping the people who are doing the hunting. We found a list of people whose magic she’s
already taken away. The only reason she hasn’t done it to you is because she wants your gift. She’s using you.”
“What does it matter to me?” The truth conjurer shrugged. “I get to keep my magic, and the people she works for are none the
wiser.”
“The people she works for are dead.” Jack’s jaw was set. “A recent development.”
“Can you guarantee that no one will take their place? That I’ll truly be left alone? Not you,” she added sharply as Jack tried to answer. “Only her.”
“No.” Emmy’s stomach sank as the truth continued to spill from her. “There’s a lot of prejudice in the Society, and they’ll
likely elect more people who will come after you and other people like you. They’re afraid of magic’s secret getting out and
causing another witch hunt.”
“So they’re hunting down witches themselves,” the truth conjurer said bitterly. She must have seen something in her brother’s
face, for hers softened as she smiled at him. “We’re plenty safe, muffin. These two were just leaving.”
Jack groaned. “Please. We’re trying to do the right thing here.”
“No.” The girl stalked to the door and opened it, her expression tense. “Now go.”
Emmy and Jack exchanged a look. Emmy hadn’t the faintest idea if this girl would see Grace again in a day or a year, but—she
knew Emmy’s true name. And perhaps even more pressing, they could not leave without her help.
As Emmy rose, she grabbed an old newspaper off the ground. By now, she’d conjured so much money, she hardly had to focus,
instead keeping her eyes on the girl. One moment, Emmy held the yellowing paper, and the next, fifty-dollar bills rained from