Chapter Thirty-One
Julia’s Bureau stays busy in the days leading up to the party, and I’ve passed many an hour staring into space, reliving every second of that kiss: When our teeth clicked together. When my hairpin loosed. When Pax moaned. Moaned.
Sorting out my feelings for Pax is like trying to assemble a complex jigsaw puzzle, one with an elaborate out-of-focus design, and possibly with some pieces missing.
I keep trying to make the pieces fit together, but they don’t quite match up.
The end goal is unclear. It’s frustrating, and it gives me a stomachache. Why can’t I sort out these pieces?
And today Pax has been odd, cold, removed, and I’m fearful we’ve pushed our relationship onto thin ice.
What did we do? That kiss—it was a mistake.
He didn’t want that. Sure, he initiated it.
But he didn’t want it. He was just trying to placate my hurt feelings, keep me involved in this elaborate scheme. He needs my gifts.
A few customers trickle in. I manage a small smile for the woman who sits across from me, desperate to get in touch with her father. “He was murdered,” she says, and my stomach flips. Why now? I ask Spirit.
Spirit answers no questions.
Pax pushes angrily out the door. I blink away distracting thoughts.
The client produces a photograph of her father from her satchel. He’s in a leather hat and vest, and a gray mustache dominates his face. “And we don’t know anything about the circumstances.”
His eyes! Black as coal. Looking at the photograph, immediate rage churns inside me. My breath turns shallow.
He was killed by the sheriff, Stella.
He was wanted dead or alive.
Robbed several banks and killed five innocent people. Including a mother-to-be.
“He was killed in the Arizona territory,” the young woman says between wavering breaths. “We don’t even know where he’s buried.”
He ain’t buried.
Not properly, at least.
They dumped his body in an abandoned mineshaft.
Too good a treatment, if you ask me.
“What can you tell me about my papa?” The woman is in tears now. “I miss him so much. He was the best gospel singer in the whole world!”
Her dead father’s wrath pulses through the room—how can she not feel that? I never know how to proceed in these situations. How do you tell someone their loved one is a murderer? Or a thief? Or a cheat?
“I, uh…” I swallow hard.
And through the throbbing rage, a chill creeps over us.
I see this woman shiver, witness the goose bumps trail up her arms. The back of my neck prickles.
I see the outline of a wide brimmed hat flickering in the shadows cast by candlelight.
Her father is one of the Dark Legion. And he’s brought the Trio here.
They are always so near. I curse their ever-presence.
“You will be consumed by the flames of hellfire!”
I blink, confused. “What was—?”
“You and your ilk must atone for your sins!” The voice is familiar and comes from outside. “Only the beloved creator can foresee our destiny. To pretend to do so is BLASPHEMY!”
Kiyoko peeks into my curtained-off area. “Time to close shop for the day.”
We escort our clients toward the back door. I slip the dime this woman paid me back into her palm. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to finish your reading. But please know—focusing on the past can bring great misery. Try to focus on peace.”
That’s the best gift you can give her, Stellar.
And maybe give yer own advice a try, eh?
Our clients scurry out the back door and through the alleys.
I return to the front to spy Miss Willamina, the clockmaker next door, yelling at the zealots to get the hell outta here.
And Clarice DuBois leans against a nearby lamppost, looking on.
I take a deep breath and approach. She blows a fragrant stream of smoke into the sky, a cloud of cloves and detachment.
I am forthright: “You’re here? Pax told us you preferred not to help with the planning.”
She looks bemused. “He did? Interesting. Well. There’s work to do and not much time.” She says this wistfully, as though she means on an existential level.
“Can you believe these jerks?” I say, pointing at Reverend Jenkins with my thumb. “I don’t know how they find me, but they do. Every time.”
A grin stretches Clarice’s smooth cheeks. “You. Are. Welcome.”
“What?”
“I sent them,” Clarice says, and inhales her cigarette. The tip burns angry orange. “And you’re welcome.”
“You did this?” I don’t where to begin punching her. Stomach? Jaw? Eye socket?
She is amused by my anger. “Yes, darling. We need to put Julia’s Bureau on the map prior to Max Blanck’s party. Can you think of a better way to do that than to stir up controversy? No one loves controversy more than a New Yorker.” She inhales fire, exhales smoke.
I am speechless, so she continues. “Look. Smuggle your clients through the back door while these protests continue. Tell your patrons not to tell anyone else about this place. It’s too delicious.
Controversy is a diamond on a silver platter.
You’ll be turning folks away soon, I promise. I mean, look.”
Clarice waves the tip of her cigarette back at the crowd. More folks have gathered, and William and Nirav discreetly hand out our pamphlets. The recipients tuck these papers deep in their pockets, like treasure, then continue to shake their fists at our storefront.
“You are an entertainer, Stella, whether you like it or not.” Clarice exhales another plume of clove-scented smoke.
“You are a performer whose specialty is testing people’s relationship with death.
You challenge people’s deepest beliefs. And that can inspire wonder, if you perform convincingly enough. ”
Clarice flicks her cigarette to the sidewalk and places the toe of her elegant shoe over it. She grinds. “You know that saying, A fool and his money are soon parted?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It’s not wrong, but there’s a better way to get money from folks than to treat them like fools, no?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps, nothing. Treat someone like a fool and they’re your client once. Treat someone like your confidant, and they’re your client for life.”
Dammit. Clarice DuBois is a good businesswoman.