Chapter 54
Fifty-Four
Sorcha
Istuffed the five black, rune-etched daggers in the bottom of my carpetbag, already considering potential explanations if someone decided to search our things and stumbled upon the magic weapons.
We were reasonably certain the knives would work the same as the original Ironmoot-made pistol.
A few local Ironmoot had consulted, agreed.
But the blades hadn’t been tested. And the original Ironmoot smith who’d forged the gun was now apparently up in Rupert’s Territory on a mining expedition.
It’d take months to get final confirmation.
And Ansel was hesitant about concealing one of the guns, too concerned about confiscation risk to even make an attempt.
“I’d still prefer if I went with you two,” Neal said, scowling as he leaned against the parlor wall.
“And I’m still happier we have someone on the outside,” Ansel countered.
“Two pigeons a day,” I said. “You get two pigeons a day. That’s plenty of updates.”
“We’re positive that much magic isn’t going to strain you too much?” Neal asked.
“You insult me,” I said, clasping my bag. “They are pigeons, Neal. Pigeons.”
“And we miss two in a row?” Ansel added. “You come get her back by any means necessary. Burn the whole city down if you have to. Subtlety is done at that point.”
Neal’s hand twitched to the pistol holstered at his side. “That part I’m more comfortable with.”
“We’ll be safe,” Ansel said. “Safe as we can anyways.”
“And your trigger to call it and come home?” Neal prompted.
“Ansel starts feeling any symptoms,” I replied. “Or if I start bleeding from the eyes or ears. Or if I experience severe enough paresthesia I can’t reliably hold a pen.”
“Still think that’s too high a threshold,” Neal muttered.
“I think your wife vomited blood from five minutes of portal exposure,” Ansel said. “So we need something worse than that or we won’t learn anything.”
“What brings you two to our little community?” the black-haired, mustached man asked, sitting across from us in the dimly lit parlor.
The mansion certainly wasn’t as obviously occult as the club back in New Orleans.
It had normal furnishings, if a bit dingy.
The walls were almost aggressively whitewashed, like they were trying to keep it sterile, but the smell was off—a touch of iron, a hint too sweet, something almost sulfuric. Wrong.
“My daughter’s worried she’ll lose the babe,” Ansel said immediately. “We heard you can help.”
“We certainly can,” the man replied. “My name is George Collard. You two?”
“Albert and Sally Mansard,” Ansel replied, shaking hands.
“There’s a small introductory fee. Then monthly dues. And we do ask that you stay here at the house with us,” George said, shuffling through a stack of papers on the table beside him. “Will that be an issue?”
“Money is no object,” Ansel said. “I own a couple of linen mills out in the country. Still doing well.”
“Good to hear,” George said, handing over a stack of forms. “And I do have to ask. Where’s the girl’s husband?”
“Sally may have made some unmentionable decisions. No husband,” Ansel said.
“But the child’s father?” George pressed.
“Unfortunately taken to drinking,” Ansel replied automatically. “I’ll look after her and the babe. She hasn’t seen the father in months.”
I cast my eyes down to my clasped hands, feigned shame, quiet, pliability.
George clucked his tongue and huffed. “I see. All too common these days.”
“All too common,” Ansel agreed. “So where do I sign?”
Our rooms were cold and clean—whitewashed everything, even furniture, two oil lamps, stiff-backed chairs at a table, and two narrow single beds with thin but clean straw mattresses. There was not a trace of ornamentation anywhere. Even the blankets were undyed wool.
“I miss my silk sheets,” I muttered, curling up under the wool blanket. “I miss sleeping with Neal.”
“We’ll learn what we can and get out,” Ansel replied. “Trust me?”
“Stupid question at this point,” I said.
“Fair enough,” Ansel said. He pulled the blanket back and dragged me up to my feet. “So go make friends. We need to talk to people to get results.”
“Fine,” I grumbled.
Ansel shoved an apron in my direction. “Makes you look further along. Like more of a charity case.”
“Lovely,” I muttered, tying the apron on and heading downstairs.
The house was massive—there were half a dozen sitting rooms on the first floor.
Most were sparsely populated and primarily with older, somewhat grimy men.
I made a mental note to have Ansel ask around and see why each of them had come seeking help—maybe there’d be a pattern, something useful.
Eventually I found a doorway to the cellar, then a hallway to a butler’s pantry, then finally a set of double doors that led to the library.
They were carved, probably mahogany underneath—if it weren’t for the whitewash they might have been pretty.
And in the library I saw the first younger group since we’d arrived.
Two men, close to my own age, and a girl who couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
The young men looked rough but strong with weathered faces, callused hands, patched but sturdy clothes.
Dock or steelworkers likely, I thought. But the girl was frail—exceedingly so.
Her pale pink dress clung on her frame. Her hair was lank and dull.
And there was no flush in her sallow cheeks.
But when the young woman looked up and caught my eye she brightened, gestured for me to come over.
“You’re new,” she said. Even her voice was frail—thin and reedy, raspy like her throat hurt.
“I am,” I said, sitting down beside the young woman. “I’m Sally.”
“Jenny,” the woman replied. “My brothers Amos and Ezra.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Wish circumstances were better,” Amos said bluntly. He sipped a cup of steaming coffee with an expression halfway between boredom and genuine distress.
“Certainly,” I agreed.
“I’m assuming you’re here about the baby?” Jenny asked, eyebrows knitting together in quiet concern.
“I keep bleeding,” I said, quietly praying that lying about such a horrifying topic wouldn’t somehow manifest it into reality. I wasn’t superstitious like that. But I also wasn’t losing this baby. Not after everything. “And you?”
“I’ve cancer,” Jenny said, immediately averting her gaze, “um . . . here.”
She gestured at her chest.
“And has it been helping?” I asked. “The work that George and the others do?”
Amos shrugged. Ezra shook his head. Jenny just sighed.
“They say they have another idea to try tonight,” Amos murmured. “Perhaps that will help.”
Jenny swallowed hard then. “I don’t want to die, Miss Sally. I’m sure you understand.”
Ansel and I were given dinner in our room.
Gruel. Weak tea. A plate of pale, boiled vegetables.
George insisted it was critical to “cleanse the body of worldly food” for their rituals to help.
I immediately vomited it up. No blood. Yet.
I hadn’t thrown up without Neal there to rub my back and hold my hair and wipe my face clean in months.
I didn’t realize how much his support had helped until it was gone.
This was going to be a long few days.
I sent our first pigeon to Neal. And then lay up all night worrying, tossing and turning, as Ansel prowled the house during his prolonged window awake.