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Will was reeling. “You said you were giving her iron. For her anemia!”
“I was. But I was also correcting.”
Will leaped up, pacing the same square of carpet. “For Chrissakes, Jake, she doesn’t need correcting! She’s a human being!” The terrifying image of Rotke’s frequent nosebleeds swam in Will’s head. He whirled toward Jake, pointing an accusing finger. “I swear, if you’ve hurt her…”
Marlowe glowered. “I would never hurt Rotke. She’s my
fiancée, Will!” He stared into his lemonade. “Or she will be again soon enough, when this whole war business is over and she comes back to me. It’s her Diviner nature. She’s too sensitive. I’ll help her with that, too.”
“My god. Your ego.”
“I’m changing the future, Will! I’m making our nation great. The power and envy of the world. That was always the aim of Project Buffalo!”
Anger uncoiled inside Will and reared its head, eager to bite. “She’s not coming back to you, Jake. She’s never coming back.”
Marlowe chuckled. “Attaboy! There’s that Fitzgerald optimism! Thanks for your belief in me, old sport.”
“She’s not coming back to you because… because she’s marrying me.”
This time, Marlowe’s laugh exploded out of him. “Oh, Will. You and Rotke?”
“Ask her.”
“Come now, Will. You’re being ridiculous.”
Will balled his fists at his sides. “Ask. Her.”
Jake’s mouth parted in shock. “My god. You’re serious.”
The punch had landed. Marlowe, the golden boy, sagged against the mantel, vulnerable at last. The anger Will had felt earlier left him, taking his bravery with it. In its place was a sick emptiness. He adjusted his spectacles. “I’m sorry. I… we wanted to tell you, but…”
“You were my best friend, Will.”
“I’m still your fr—”
“No. No more. Never again.”
“Jake—”
Jake drained his lemonade and tossed the glass into the fireplace. It shattered into pieces. Will flinched. There were tears in Jake’s eyes. “You should be very happy, William. You’ve finally become what you love most: From this day forward, you are a ghost to me. I don’t even see you.”
THE FORGOTTEN
On the steamer ride to Ward’s Island, the sky was the color of slate, the threat of rain sewn into every cloud. Mist curled off the water in great tufts as the boat bounced mercilessly over the choppy East River. Memphis gripped the railing and kept his eyes on the distant serpentine curve of the Hell Gate Bridge and prayed for his stomach’s contents to stay put.
Beside him, a relaxed Henry pulled the briny air deep into his lungs. “Mmmm. Love that smell. Reminds me of my time playing piano on the steamboats that went up and down the Mississippi.”
They hit a swell. Memphis moaned.
Henry chuckled. “Kind of funny that a healer gets seasick.”
Memphis spat into the water. “Hilarious.”
“It’s miserable to be seasick,” Evie said, leaning against the ferry railing. “Why, once, I got splifficated on a boat and upchucked all over the deck. And I’d just had a good steak, too.”
“Please,” Memphis begged, putting a hand to his roiling stomach.
“Golly. Sorry,” Evie said. “Here.”
