That’s the other thing. He doesn’t believe me about time travel. In fact, he seems far more comfortable with the idea that I’m some sort of extraterrestrial.
This, I believe, is my fault. I landed a bit too close to the workshop and, as such, Nikola saw my ship. Successful air travel isn’t achieved until 1903, remember, so it’s four years too early for me to go whizzing about in a flying machine. There’s that and, of course, the fact that my ship is a bit advanced-looking for the turn of the nineteenth century. In any case, the jump to “alien” isn’t totally out of nowhere.
Damn it, I think that’s him outside now. I should really put this away before I’m caught—
7
Dorothy
The spotlights switched off, leaving Dorothy blinking into spotty darkness. For a moment she heard only the plastic click of buttons, the dying whir of motors.
And then Roman, snickering. “Revel? Really? I’m afraid you’re beginning to show your age.”
Dorothy rubbed her eyes. “People don’t say revel anymore?”
“Not for the last hundred years or so, no.” Roman came out from behind the camera equipment, carrying the duffel bag containing their stolen artwork.
He placed it on the cart that already held the king’s lost jewels and removed the Vermeer, tilting his head to study it.
He sounded awed as he said, “Just think, we’re the first people in over two hundred years to see this painting in person.”
Dorothy allowed her eyes to flick to the painting. It really was amazing. Not just the art, but all the beautiful things they were allowed to see, all the incredible places they were able to visit. Sometimes, they went back to a specific time or place out of necessity, and other times it was merely because one of them had wanted to see it.
The Vermeer, Dorothy had desperately wanted to see. A smile tugged at her lips as she pulled her gaze away.
She stopped beside Roman, lifting the king’s scepter. “You know, I don’t really understand the point of a scepter. Is it just a stick that you’re supposed to hold? Or another place to put—”
Someone cleared her throat, interrupting her. Still holding the scepter, Dorothy turned.
The girl standing in the doorway was tall and broad-shouldered, with round hips and long red hair that she wore in a braid down her back. Her face was so freckled that it was hard to make out the color of her skin beneath, but her eyes were dark brown and vibrant.
“Mira,” Dorothy said, surprised. Mira worked in Mac Murphy’s whorehouse. Mac didn’t usually trust women, but Mira had been with him since before the flood, and so he often allowed her a few small tasks outside of her usual duties.
But Mac always dealt with the Black Cirkus himself. Something must’ve happened for him to send Mira in his place.
Dorothy looked around, suddenly anxious. No one had seen the treasures down here except for Roman and herself. “Perhaps we should speak in the hall. . . .”
Mira cocked her head, amused. “I’m not here for any of this,” Mira said in her rasp of a voice. But her eyes lingered on the jewels, impressed.
“Then why are you here?” asked Roman.
“Mac was . . . unavailable this evening.” She spoke coolly enough, but Dorothy thought she saw a flash in her eyes—humor, perhaps, or delight. There was a story there. “He sent me to collect your payment.”
The Black Cirkus had been squatting in the Fairmont since the mega-quake flooded the city. It was a dilapidated mess, but it was also the only hotel in downtown Seattle that was still livable and, as such, it was incredibly valuable real estate. The Cirkus had managed to hold it for so long by paying off some rather unsavory people—Mac included.
Roman pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Mira.
She nodded, lips pressed tight as she counted the bills inside. After a moment, she paused, glancing up. “I’m afraid you’re a bit light.”
“We’ll make it up next week,” Dorothy promised.
“Will you?” Mira pocketed the envelope, looking unconvinced. “This is the third time you’ve handed over less than the agreed-upon amount. Rumor has it you’ve been more interested in playing Robin Hood than making money lately.”
A beat of uncomfortable silence followed her statement. Dorothy placed the king’s scepter back on the table; Mira followed the movement with her eyes.
Dorothy wished this could be solved as easily as handing over the scepter—or any one of the other treasures—as payment. But, priceless though the items were, their actual worth here was very little. No one in New Seattle was flush enough to hand over money for jewels and gold.
Resources had always been slim in New Seattle. After the mega-quake destroyed most of the West Coast, the United States government moved the country’s borders inland, leaving the remains of the devastated cities to save themselves. With all the nation’s wealth consolidated to a dozen or so states at the center of the country, inflation along the coasts skyrocketed.
It cost a couple hundred dollars for a bag of grain large enough to feed one person for one week, a few hundred more for fresh water and a supply of vitamins to prevent someone from getting scurvy. Add to that the fact that most people in New Seattle had no way of making money or growing their own food.
Before Dorothy had arrived, the Cirkus had been a gang of petty thieves. They’d numbered hardly more than thirty members, all children and teenagers, most close to starvation. They’d been like stray dogs, nipping at each other, fighting over scraps.
Dorothy had organized them. She’d taught them simple cons, convinced them to work together. They made hundreds a week stealing from anyone stupid enough to be out on the docks after dark.
At least, they used to make hundreds a week. It was impossible to get a city to trust a gang of thugs when they robbed them blind each night, so Dorothy had urged the Cirkus Freaks to lay off the thefts. Just for a little while.
It had not made her popular. The Freaks liked money, and that was running dry.
“Mac asked me to deliver the message,” Mira said. “He’d like the rest of his money by tomorrow evening.”
Voice toneless, Roman said, “And if we can’t get it?”
Dorothy glanced at him, seeing only the lower half of his face beneath the edge of her hood. There was no possible way for them to get the money by tomorrow evening, but she wouldn’t know it by looking at Roman’s expression. The annoying thing about her partner was that he grew even more cool and collected the angrier he got.
Right now he seemed to be all calm, unworried confidence. But Dorothy noticed that a muscle in his jaw had gone tight. His only tell.
Mira considered him, head tilted. “Mac didn’t say, but I can’t imagine he’d be happy.” She glanced at the broadcasting equipment in the corner, her lip twitching in a way that made Dorothy think she’d been watching from the shadows while Quinn Fox went on air to appeal to the people of New Seattle. “Perhaps he’ll come by your little party and you can speak with him then.”
Something prickled, uncomfortably, in Dorothy. Was that a threat?
The Cirkus Freaks were strong, but Mac was stronger. He made real money off his disgusting whorehouses, and that allowed him to procure certain things from the Center.