Chapter Twelve
The next few days pass quickly. Pax peruses the city in search of a storefront to lease for planning purposes; we can’t exactly meet in each other’s bedchambers.
Or CAN ye, girlie?
Spirit offers me the sound of squeaking bedsprings, and I blush deeply at the mere suggestion.
Absolutely not! The impropriety!
Aye, don’t be such a prude, Helen. This is 1912, for heaven’s sake!
It tickles me to no end when spirits tease one another. If I must have voices in my head, let them at least entertain me.
The three of us also decide we can offset some of our expenses by me continuing to do readings, by Pax peddling Nirav’s paintings.
I am quite comfortable with this arrangement; I’m not enthusiastic about the idea of getting something for nothing.
Though when I give readings, Pax hovers nearby, rapt.
I don’t understand his fascination. The thing that makes me feel borderline insane is the thing that Pax admires most about me. What terrifies me, charms him.
We fall into the habit of using the name Julia’s Bureau, and I hope that William Stead, wherever he might be, understands that our use of his name is a ruse, a bit of a joke, and not in spite of his wishes that it be disbanded.
But as fond as Spirit is of teasing me, when it’s my turn to tease them, they are silent.
Once we have a locale, Nirav will paint flyers and hand them out like a newsie, building our business. It’s a good plan.
Nirav. His skin sores heal with regular baths, his face softens with regular meals. He ate so much at the all-you-can-eat buffet at the diner, he had to dash outside to vomit in a gutter. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, walked back inside, and finished his plate.
And I? I continue my one-sided conversations with my dead sister: “I’m not seeking your permission to do this, Daisy,” I mutter, my boots clacking on the sidewalk.
Nirav listens to my utterances all day now, and for the first time, I am unselfconscious about talking aloud to dead souls.
Passersby think I’m talking to Nirav. “I’m doing this with or without you. ”
I purposely did not phrase these thoughts as questions. And still, no Daisy. No word of Daisy from any soul on the other side. The silence weighs on me—Where is she? What did I do to her soul?
Nirav and I pound pavement up Fifth Avenue until we see them: the lions guarding the brand-new New York Public Library. The building is gleaming white marble and is an anchor in this city adrift. We climb dozens of wide, stout stairs toward the entry. A pull of voices comes from inside:
This building took me life, it did. I fell from scaffolding in the main hall and plunged to me death. Welp, enjoy!
Used to be an aqueduct, this spot. Not easy to drain a whole lot for the use of books!
Nirav is delighted by the tall, rotating doors, and I giggle as he spins through them five or six times.
A guard nearby snorts at us. “No unattended children in the library, miss.” As he says it, two young boys race past, obviously lacking adult supervision.
I arch an eyebrow at them, then back at the guard.
He sighs. “Them’s the Fedeler boys, ma’am.
They live here. Not much I can do to tame the superintendent’s kids. Believe you me, I’ve tried.”
We fully enter Astor Hall. This marble entryway! Spirit whistles, long and low, and then pretends to make the whistle echo, because it would in this massive space.
We turn right, pass the elevators and telephones…
Elevators and telephones!
In a public building! Wouldja lookie there!
… and climb two flights of stairs. I scan the gleaming-wood research room until I spot someone who obviously works here: a woman in a smart, straight, floor-length dress. Glasses on a gold chain. Hair in a tight chignon. Shushing a gentleman who mutters to himself while reading Walt Whitman.
Nirav and I weave around desks and card catalogs and approach her. I whisper, “Excuse me, ma’am?”
She purses her lips at me.
“We’re looking for recent newspaper articles. Where might we find those?”
The librarian crooks her finger in a follow me motion. We follow her back down two flights of stairs to the opposite side of the building. Inside this room, magazines line long, wooden shelves, and newspapers hook over wooden dowels, hanging in rows like laundry.
Wow! I didn’t know there were this many words in the whole world!
However are you going to find what you’re looking for, Stella?
Spirit cannot talk me out of this quest by simply pointing out how vastly impossible it seems. The librarian must see the overwhelm on my face, because her expression loosens.
“What topic can I help you find?” she asks.
My stomach clenches. “I’m looking for information on Max Blanck.” The name of that man tastes like bile.
Whatever grace this librarian had given me when I looked lost among these periodicals is now gone. Her face screws tight like she’s tasted lemon, her arms cross her chest.
“He’s… uh… the owner of—” I begin.
“The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory,” the librarian spit-whispers back. “I know.”
I size her up, quickly. She’s young—maybe twenty or twenty-two—and obviously smart. I decide to take a chance. I lean close to this stranger. She smells like bergamot, orange and spicy. I whisper:
“I am seeking revenge.”
Did my Team of Light pull a tad away from me?
The librarian inhales sharply, leans back. Her eyes are dark brown and hard as she studies me. She turns on her heel and marches away.
I shrug at Nirav. “I guess we’ve…”
The librarian tuts at me over her shoulder, shushing me.
She jerks her head, come. We fall in step behind her.
She lifts several loose-leaf pamphlets off a shelf, The Readers’ Guide to Periodical Literature.
She silently shows me how to scan the typewritten list for the topics of interest: Max Blanck.
The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire. The City of New York versus Max Blanck.
This list leads us to dozens of magazine and newspaper articles.
I whisper that we’re seeking the most recent information on Blanck, so we work backward through the list. The librarian silently pulls them all, then directs us to a table.
She sits with us, scanning the articles alongside me (Nirav is not reading and I assume does not know how).
After thirty or so minutes, she sits upright, slides a newspaper toward me, and taps a column twice.
She leans back and folds her arms over her chest with a look of satisfaction.
The article is a gossip column, one of those ridiculous blathering pieces written by Hedda Hopper, published just yesterday.
The headline reads, “Blanck to throw lavish celebratory post-trial party—will host the world-famous Hope Diamond debuting on U.S. soil!”
I look up and a grin splits my face. “I’m Stella,” I whisper.
“Laura,” she whispers back, and extends her hand.
We shake hello.