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Ling had heard girls fantasizing about such scenarios, calling them romantic. Mostly, she found it embarrassing. It was Alma’s arms Ling missed. Now that their plan was under way, Ling’s worry took over. What if Alma was unhappy to see her? What if Alma did say no to taking them along? What would they do then?
What if she was with another girl?
“Am I hurting you?” Jericho asked.
“N-no,” Ling said, trying to rid her mind of that last thought. “You’re not even winded,” she noted. “You’re abnormally strong.”
“Are you calling me abnormal?” Jericho said, grinning.
They’d reached the symphony of traffic snarling up Broadway. There were people on the street who stared at the sight of Jericho carrying Ling down the street, and she tried not to let it bother her. She was used to stares.
No, that wasn’t true.
She had learned to keep her own eyes straight ahead. But she never got used to the looks people gave her in the seconds before they corrected themselves: a combination of pity, nervous gratitude for their own good fortune, and the jolt of fear when they realized—just for a second—that this good fortune was not guaranteed, that anything could happen to them at any time. That they were vulnerable. Those were the people who looked away fastest.
Jericho signaled for a taxi and one swerved to the curb. “Ling, I need you to make a lot of noise.”
“What kind of noise? What are you…?”
“Please, my wife’s having a baby!” Jericho said as he gentled Ling onto the backseat, shielding her body from the driver’s view.
Ling’s cheeks burned as she realized what he’d meant by “making noise.” She narrowed her green eyes at him. “If we survive this, you are dead to me.”
“You told me to be clever,” he whispered.
In the rearview mirror, the driver regarded the couple in his backseat with suspicion. “Are you two pulling my leg? Because you can get out right—”
Ling screamed at the top of her lungs. The driver floored it.
“That was impressive,” Jericho said as he and Ling walked the two blocks from Harlem Hospital to Alma’s apartment building.
“Screaming isn’t impressive,” Ling said. Her body ached with each step after such a full day, but she was not about to meet Alma cradled in Jericho’s arms.
“We’re here,” she said, stopping in front of a four-story redbrick building with a fire escape dotted wit
h drying laundry. Light bled from the windows of Alma’s second-floor apartment. Ling’s stomach hurt. She pictured Alma in some other girl’s arms. But now Jericho was ringing the bell, and a moment later Alma stuck her scarf-wrapped head out the window and peered down at Ling and Jericho with surprise.
“Ling? Jericho. What on earth?”
“Please, Alma,” Ling said. “We need your help.”
“Wait there. I’ll be right down,” Alma said.
At Penn Station, Henry and Bill fell in behind late-straggling passengers scurrying to catch the Crescent Limited to New Orleans before it left the station. Most people hurrying on board now were preoccupied with last-minute things. They were not looking for fugitives.
“What’s the matter with him?” one man asked, pointing his cigarette at Memphis, who was still slung over Bill’s shoulder.
“He fainted at the Sarah Snow memorial,” Henry said. “Terrible scene.”
“I heard there was a ruckus. Diviners,” the man clucked. “Ought to round them all up if you ask me.”
“I’ll be sure not to ask you,” Henry said to the man’s back as he boarded the train.
“Now,” Bill said. They made their way down the platform to the porter’s stand, where a tall man with a pencil-thin mustache was at work directing several porters to the luggage.
“We’re looking for Nelson Desir,” Bill said to the man in a low voice. “Madame Seraphina sent us? About some important cargo to transport out of the city? You might even say it’s divine cargo.”
“Ohhh.” The porter looked around to be sure they were safe. “I’m Nelson. Pleased to meet you. Board the last car to the left.” He shook their hands. “Welcome to the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. Don’t you worry—the Georges’ll see you through and keep you safe.”
