She still had that job, the one he’d been so proud of her for getting, and she still had herself. She had family in the city who would take her in if she really needed them, whatever they might think. And she had a ring, a gorgeous golden ring with a jewel as big as a robin’s egg and as clear as a teardrop. It wasn’t glass, Cela knew. Glass didn’t glow like that or shine like a star when the light hit it. And glass wasn’t that heavy. Even seated, she could feel the weight of it, tugging on her skirts from the secret pocket she’d stitched to hide it.
But her brother . . .
The vines tightened around her heart until they felt as though they would squeeze it down into nothing. But before she could let grief overtake her again, Cela heard something in the darkness: footsteps coming down the stairs. It was too late for anyone else to be around.
She picked up her shears. They weren’t much of a weapon, true, but they were sharp as any blade and could cut just as deep.
“Hello?”
It was a woman’s voice, and now that Cela really stopped to listen, she realized they were a woman’s footsteps, too. Not that she put down the scissors.
Cela didn’t answer. Silently, she willed the woman to go away.
“Hellooo . . . ?” the voice trilled. “Is someone down here?”
She knew that voice, Cela thought with a sinking feeling. She heard it often enough. Every time Evelyn DeMure had an idea for a new way to make her waist look trimmer or her bust look larger, Cela was the one who got to hear about it . . . and boy did she hear about it. Evelyn was the type of performer the workers backstage tried their best to avoid. Though she was undeniably talented, Evelyn thought she was more so, and she acted as though the world owed her something for her very presence.
Evelyn DeMure peered around the doorframe and found her. “Well, Cela Johnson . . .” Without her usual lipstick and rouge, Evelyn looked like a corpse in the dim lighting. “What ever are you doing here so late at night?”
Cela kept the scissors in her hands but picked up a piece of fabric to go with them. “I had some odds and ends to work on,” she told Evelyn.
“At this hour?” Evelyn asked, eyeing her. “I would have expected you’d be home.”
Home. Cela fought to keep her expression placid and to keep any trace of pain from her voice when she answered.
She intended to lie and brush Evelyn off, but suddenly Cela couldn’t remember why she hadn’t liked Evelyn. There was something soothing about the singer, like her very presence was enough to make all the pain and fear that Cela was carrying fade away. Cela hadn’t wanted to face her family with all that had happened, but somehow she found herself telling Evelyn everything.
She told her about the white lady who’d died on her watch and the brother she would never see again . . . and about the ring, with its perfect, brilliant stone. It all came pouring out of her, and by the time she was done, she felt sleepy. So tired and relaxed now that she’d cried out all the tears left in her body.
“There, there,” Evelyn cooed. “Just rest. Everything will be fine. Everything will be just fine.”
Her eyes felt heavy . . . so heavy.
“That’s it,” Evelyn said, her voice soft and warm. “Just rest your head there. . . .”
Vaguely, Cela felt herself releasing the scissors. Her body, once wrung out with grief, felt soft now. Her chest a moment before had felt cold and empty. Hollow. Now she felt warm. Safe.
Her eyes fluttered shut, and when they opened again, Evelyn was gone. The lamp had long since gone out, and her workroom was as silent as a tomb.
With a groggy moan, Cela pulled herself upright, rubbing at her head, which still felt muddled and fuzzy. Evelyn’s visit and the whole night before it felt like a dream. A very bad dream. For a moment she allowed herself to believe that it was.
Cela didn’t need the light to make her way to the door. She knew her workroom well enough. But when she went to open it, she found it stuck. No. It was locked.
Not a dream, then.
Which meant it had happened—all of it had happened. Abe, her home. Evelyn.
Evelyn.
Cela was trapped, and she didn’t need to feel her skirts to know that the ring Harte Darrigan had given her was gone.
COMMON RABBLE
1902—New York
Jack Grew smelled like shit. He’d been sitting in a stinking cell, surrounded by the foulest dregs of the city’s worst denizens, for who knew how long. Since they’d taken his watch, he certainly didn’t. There were no windows, no clock to mark the passing of time. It could have been hours or days for all he knew, and the whole while, he’d been surrounded by flea-bitten filth who were happy to wallow in their own excrement.
Most of them were asleep now, which was better than before. When he had first been tossed into the cell, the five other men had eyed him eagerly, and the largest of them, a tall, bearded man who didn’t say much—probably because he didn’t even speak English—had crowded him into a corner.
Touching his tongue to the space where a tooth had once been and wincing at the pain in his jaw, Jack told himself that he’d held his own. He’d managed to defend himself, at least. Maybe he hadn’t stopped the man from taking his jacket, but he’d put up enough of a fight that the animal had given up and left him alone. They’d all left him alone eventually.
He lifted a hand to scratch at his hair. It had probably become infested with vermin the moment he’d entered the cell, but the movement caused a sharp ache in his shoulder. That damned policeman had nearly jerked it out of its socket on the bridge.
Not one of the idiots had understood what he’d been trying to tell them—that it was Harte Darrigan they should be arresting. That damned magician had been right there, and the police had done nothing.
They’d taken in Jack instead. And the worst part? He’d been arrested for attempted murder. He’d had a clear shot and was sure the bullet would hit its mark, but then . . . nothing. The bullet hadn’t even grazed him. Darrigan was like a damned ghost evading death.
The filth of the cell and the stink of the slop bucket in the corner might have been easier to deal with if Darrigan were dead. The missing tooth and sore arm and hair filled with lice might even have been worth it if Jack had been the one to end the magician’s useless life.
The echo of footsteps came from the darkened corridor outside the barred doors of the cell, and the inmates around him started to wake and rustle uncertainly. As the steps approached, men in other cells rattled their bars and called out curses. Animals, all of them. When the guard stopped outside the cell where Jack sat, the small barred window of the door was eclipsed by the guard’s face, and then Jack heard his name being called as a small window slid open below.
Finally. He hadn’t doubted that someone would come for him. He didn’t belong there with the common rabble. He placed his hands through the opening, as expected of him.
“Enjoy your stay?” the policeman asked, his voice mocking as he handcuffed Jack through the door. “I s’pose them’s not as fancy as the accommodations you’re used to.”
Jack ignored him. “Where are you taking me?” he asked as the guard pushed him toward the staircase at the end of the corridor.
“You’re being arraigned,” the guard told him. “Time to answer to the judge.”