This postcard is worthless to me, too, but my heart feels a tugging ache, the sudden, sharp reminder it brings: of Mom, of home. Of all the things I burned to the ground. Every part of her lost. But way out here, in this dry, unfamiliar town, I have found a small thing that reminds me of her.
I retrieve a jar from the crate, then hold it down to the boy.
“Thanks,” he says, still nodding, holding the jar close to his face, eye almost pressed to the glass. “Thank you.”
He starts to hurry away, up the street, but I call out to him. “Wait.”
He pivots around, gazing at me over his narrow shoulder.
“I’m looking for someone,” I say, my voice dropped low. Maybe I’m stupid to ask, maybe this is a bad idea, but I suspect this boy knows his way around town, and has heard people talking—knows of things whispered in alleyways and the dark corners of saloons. “I need to find…” I look away to the street, to make sure no one else is close enough to hear. “Someone… a man, known as the Architect.” I say it so softly, the word is quickly lost amid the noisy crush of the town.
But the boy blinks at me, mouth unmoving.
“Have you heard of anyone like that?” I press. And when he still doesn’t answer, I say quickly, in a rush, “I’ll trade you another bottle of tonic, if you can tell me where he is.” I’m desperate, willing to offer up one of Pa’s last bottles for any clue about the Architect, and I can feel the tension forming in my chest.
A wagon rattles by, the horse snapping its head against the reins, and the boy turns his head to the sound. My temples begin to ache.I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have asked this boy.He swivels his gaze back to me and his mouth dips open, like he’s going to speak, some thought hanging at the end of his tongue. But then his mouth clamps shut and he stares at me, a twitch in his eye, a tug of nervousness across his forehead, before he abruptly turns and darts up the wood sidewalk, ducking down an alley out of sight.
Gone.
Foolish girl,I remember Imogene saying to me.
Maybe she was right.
I asked a boy about the Architect, but I have no reason to trust him. And I just bartered a full jar of tonic for a bent postcard.
Foolish, foolish girl.
Pa returns without the mule, his hands in the pockets of his tan canvas coat.
When he reaches Willard’s Barber & Dentistry, he stares down at the crate on the bench and sees that a jar is missing. “You sold a jar?” he asks. But his voice isn’t pleased, it’s tight—he told me not to do anything until he returned.
I know I need to tell him the truth.I won’t lie. “I traded one.”
“Traded for what?” His brows drive together, and I pull out the photo from my coat pocket.
“This.”
His eyes crease, staring down at the piece of paper with an image on one side, words on the other. “Do you even know what that is?” he asks.
“It’s from before.”
He blows out a breath and looks out at the street.
I run my fingers across the handwritten letters again. “Mom had three just like it,” I say, as if this explains why I traded a whole jar of tonic for something of no use. “But the photos were different.”
He doesn’t say anything, only swivels his gaze back to the remaining jars in the crate. Now one fewer.
I slide the postcard back into my coat pocket, out of sight. “I’m sorry.” Guilt blooms hot in my cheeks; I’m ashamed that I traded one of our last jars of tonic for something that has no value. That we surely won’t be able to trade again.
“It’s done now,” Pa says, voice hoarse. “But don’t go making any more trades.”
I nod, lowering my eyes to the crate.
For the next two hours, the sick and the half-dead approach our makeshift shop in front of the barber. Most bring coins, holding them out to us in grimy palms, eyes watering with a wretched need for tonic. But some have trades, objects they’re willing to part with: silverware and eyeglasses and small sacks of grain. Pa is careful, though, concise about what he’s willing to barter for—he knows this is the last of the tonic.
But hidden in my pocket, I still carry the nearly full bottle ofaspirin. The last of Pa’s stash. He knows I have it, yet strangely, he hasn’t asked for it back—he’s allowed me to keep it.
I coil my hair down my back, wary of any eyes that might stray over me, while I study the faces of every customer who ambles up the steps, asking about tonic, my gaze always flashing to their hands, looking for the ring. But frustration builds in my chest. Mom said that finding the Architect would be hard—we would need to be patient and swift. But I always imagined she’d be here with me, that her cleverness would lead us to him without much effort. I never thought I’d be searching for him on my own. And I worry I’m not moving fast enough, that I’m doing it all wrong. I think of the boy…. Has he run off and told someone that a girl is asking about the Architect? Or like Imogene, did he just want to get as far away from me as possible before my words crept beneath his skin?
