Chapter Two
My stomach grumbles as I watch Snuff lick a tin of sardines in the alley. Pathetic, me even considering snatching it from him. Is there food nearby? I ask Spirit.
Spirit doesn’t answer.
Spirit never answers my direct questions.
It is the rule I hate the most, and not only because it took me most of my eighteen years to finally figure that out.
Do you know how much conversation takes place in the form of a question?
No, Spirit only talks when Spirit wants to talk.
Which is infuriating, this one-sided conversation.
Rather like chatting with a toddler. One who demands candy. And who has a load in his pants.
Spirit lays the taste of liver and onions on my tongue. I scowl—I hate liver and onions. This is the sensation they give me when they think I’m being obstinate.
Pathetic or no, I kick the sardine tin away from Snuff, thinking I might salvage the rest for me. The cat looks up at me with such huge, sad eyes that I immediately regret this choice.
I sigh. Retrieve the tin. Place it gently at the cat’s paws. “Here you are, fellow. Sorry for my greed.”
Snuff narrows his gaze. He does not accept this paltry apology. I wouldn’t either, were I him.
I don’t normally have to scrounge for food like this; scamming my customers pays fairly well. But my purse is back at the boardinghouse, so at the moment I’m penniless. Hasty exits always lead to regrets, in my experience.
I am well-versed in regrets.
The sun is setting, and the shadowy alleys are getting cool. Cobblestone pathways wind back to the boardinghouse where I’m staying. Alone. Always alone. That thought somehow pulls me to the mysterious gentleman with the pocket watch. Is he alone? Lonely?
I’ve never wondered such things about a client before. I don’t care for the line of thought.
I peek around the corner, out of the alley. A crowd has gathered on the sidewalk in front of the crumbling Victorian house that is my home this week.
The zealots have found me again.
Chills snake to my core. As buffoonish as most are, the zealots could be the literal death of me. It is not only illegal to read fortunes as a medium in New York City, it is also considered immoral, this dance with the dead.
Spirit plays clownish circus music as I spy on them, but I whisper back, “They aren’t fools, you know. This isn’t child’s play.” Spirit silences.
The zealots shout names and threats at my temporary home. They sting like hot needles, these insults. I used to be able to ignore them, but since they’ve stolen so much of my dignity, their threats land like punches.
“Only witches and Satanists talk to the dead!” Reverend Jenkins shouts at the boardinghouse. He is a narrow-faced, narrow-souled, narrow-minded lout. Never once has he invited me into a conversation.
Reverend Jenkins blusters and puffs and shakes his fist at the still-open window. Intolerance stokes the fires of the righteous.
Ah! Me mum is there! Tell her I love her, will ya? I miss ’er so!
“Right,” I mutter back to the Spirit currently talking. “I’m going to march into THAT crowd of lunatics and give your mother a message. And then I’ll swing from the nearest tree branch.”
Swinging from a tree branch! Oy, I miss it!
There’s something to be said for frolicking in skin and bones.
“By swing, I mean from a noose, you know. With flames licking my toes?”
Spirit grows quiet again.
I can’t walk through that crowd. I can’t get to my belongings.
Correction: belonging. My satchel is inside, but everything therein is expendable.
The only thing I truly care to retrieve is the photograph of me, Daisy, and Maman.
The gelatin silver print of me and my sister, our mother resting with creamy lilies on her breast. Maman waltzed into death like she was dancing on rose petals.
She told us her heart exploded with love for us; those were her departing words.
I heard her voice once, just after she passed.
She whispered: All the seeds I planted are blooming.
I knew it was the last time I’d hear her smiling voice; she parted peacefully.
My sister did not part peacefully, and those are the voices I usually hear: the tortured and suspended souls. The voices that haunt me most are those with unfinished business: unexpressed love, or deep regret. And sometimes those voices reek of vengeance.
If I’m honest, I’m not certain how Daisy perished. It’s a morbid fascination of mine, this wondering. Did she leap? Did she burn? Did she choke? I simply cannot stop my thoughts when it comes to conjecturing about her demise. It’s a miserable, spiraling trap.
I snap myself out of it. I want that photograph.
When I look at it, I can almost imagine the rosewater scent Daisy wore.
Grief is a seduction. Grief cheats and lies but leaves you begging for things like a piece of copper.
But oh, that photo. When it is tilted just so, the tiptoe of light across it makes us disappear.
Which is a half-truth, now. One of us is indeed gone.
I exhale, my backside still pressed against the cold brick building. Guess I’ll head toward Bleecker and see if the bakers have thrown out this morning’s bread yet.
I turn and run into a vest lined with smart tortoiseshell buttons. They march skyward to a slim red tie, starched collar, strong stubbled jaw, jaunty flat straw hat.
“Oh! Pardon me.”
That coffee voice. His olive skin is tanned, his hair and features dark.
And then my eyes lock onto his. His eyes, bottle green, with a sheen of silver. He smiles, his face lifting on one side, then the other. Cocky.
It’s him.
The young man steps back, smiling, and it’s warm, like a fresh cinnamon roll. I don’t trust it for a second. Too sticky-sweet. He removes his expensive hat in one graceful measure. “Stella Bohdan?”
I flinch. Not that name. It is my grain of rice. It is the one thing that could tip the scale.
But this gentleman must somehow catch my hesitation. He dips his head until my eyes are forced to meet his. “Wait. Ah… no! It really is Rose, isn’t it? Very clever, using your real name as your stage name! Hiding in plain sight.”
“No.” My heart is in my throat. How could he possibly know that? “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”
“Rose! It’s lovely. ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ ”
“Are you… commenting on how I smell?”
“It’s Shakespeare.”
“I’m aware. But it’s still commentary on my scent.”
“It’s commentary on your name. On sweetness.”
“Ah. Well. If you’re equating me with sweetness, you have a lot to learn, sir.”
The gentleman cocks a grin. “So… bitter, then. Understood.”
Who is this guy? Infuriating! My cheeks flush with frustration.
He continues: “ ‘Something wicked this way comes?’ ‘To be or not to be?’ That old guy had all sorts of humdingers.”
I clench my jaw, impatient to move along. “Yes. Hamlet. Always asking the wrong questions.”
His eyes shine. “What do you mean?”
I huff. “To be or not to be. That’s not accurate at all, now, is it? No one simply ceases to be. They just… exist differently.”
The gentleman pauses. I feel the shadows thicken around him, his aura prickling. “It’s real for you, isn’t it? You actually hear them.”
I breathe to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do. And it’s a gift. It might presently seem like a curse, because you don’t know how to control it. But it is a gift, Rose.”
“Do not call me Rose. It’s Stella to you.
” I’ve never once invited someone to call me that name, but it feels safer with him somehow.
People often ask me if the voices are real, but I rarely encounter people who tell me they are.
I study this fellow. He has thick, wavy hair and I wonder about lacing my fingers in it.
This thought surprises me, and I shake it off.
I continue to evaluate him with a more objective eye.
He still sports his expensive watch chain. Expensive things can pay bills.
I finally confess I know him: “You were in that last reading.”
“I was.”
“You didn’t pay,” I say, arching an eyebrow at him. “You owe me a nickel admission.” This fellow probably tosses nickels into fountains for wishes; his appearance screams money.
“But I saved you back there.” The way he says it: Teasing. Mischievous. It sends a thrill down my spine that I don’t care for.
“No, you didn’t.” I extend my palm. “One jitney, please.”
He pats his pockets. Grins. Is it possible to feel someone’s grin, like a yearning? “Would you believe I left my wallet at home?” he asks.
“I would not.”
He laughs. Oh, his laugh! His laughter is deep and honest and carefree, and it stirs something deep in my—
NO.
I don’t get to do this. I don’t get to do any of the things Daisy didn’t get to do. That is my pact with myself. And certainly not with some wealthy, cocky playboy.
Eyes shining, he composes himself with a brilliant smile. “I will pay you, Stella Bohdan. I promise. I always pay my debts.” He dons his cap and tips the brim with a flick of his finger.
He’s making promises? Promises imply future togetherness. That’s not good.
I clear my mind, ask no questions, and listen:
His name is Pax.
He’s twenty, Stella.
He wants something.
That’s obvious.
It’s my brother!
Ah! There’s the voice. There’s always a related voice. This one is young, a small girl. That twinges my heart.
Pax has lost a sister, too. My heart wants to turn toward this young gentleman as a sunflower turns to the sun, but I clamp down on that instinct.
It’s my brother, Stella. He’s so smart and silly!
He used to tickle me until I had the hiccups.
I can’t help but smile. It’s hard to remain leery of someone when you have such inside information, when you know his loss.
No, I scold myself. Shadows still darken his aura, and his intentions are slippery at best. “What do you want?”
He extends his hand. “I’m Pax.”
I place my hand in his; his lips graze the arch of my wrist. His touch! It’s borderline too hot, like touching an electric light bulb. I calm my breath. “What do you want, Pax?”
His forehead crinkles. It’s a teasing look, this pretend hurt.
“What do you want?” he asks me.
Me? I—that’s a first.
A shout from the zealots blares through a megaphone, blasting over my thoughts. “SINNER!”
Pax smiles, and when this fellow smiles, you can likely see it from behind his head—it’s that blinding. Convincing—that’s the word. Persuasive.
“Come with me. You can’t very well go back there.” He tilts his head at the crowd spitting and scratching in front of my boardinghouse like a gang of feral cats. Reverend Jenkins yells, “You are touched, girl! Your mind is diseased!”
Pax continues: “I have a business proposition for you.”
I snort. Whether it was at business or proposition, I cannot say.
His eyes dance, as if he understands. “Business only. I promise.”
I’m clenching my teeth, knotting my fingers. There is a sense of urgency here that I can’t quite place. Like a runner just before the starting gun fires, a hound just as the rabbit is released, a flag just as the wind billows it, before it snaps at its seams.
It all leaves me deeply uneasy. He’ll expose me to these zealots. He’ll be the final grain of rice. I can’t go, can I?
Go.
I stand straight. Was that… Daisy?
It was one word. Two letters only. I can’t tell!
It sounded so much like her. But I want to hear her so desperately, I can’t trust myself to know for sure. Am I imposing my own will here? Surely I am. Grief, the seductress, luring me back.
My heart pounds in my ears. I’ve been trying to hear Daisy for months, and not once has she broken through. I can’t say that I blame her; I’d never speak to me again, were I her.
Go? Does that mean run away, or go with him? Daisy, go? What do you mean?
Questions. Spirit answers no questions.
My mouth dries, my palms sweat. Daisy?
Go. That’s what I heard.
I link my hand through his elbow. It is almost unbearable, touching him, like I can feel his shadows and mine join forces. I somehow know this is a clear, defining moment in my life: There was before I met Pax, and after.
“Where are we going, Pax?”