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“My countrymen are hated as well,” Viola argued. “When I was a girl, eleven were hanged in New Orleans.” Her family had prayed for weeks, for the men who had died and for their own safety.
“This conversation isn’t about you, though,” Cela said. “We aren’t talking about how your countrymen have suffered. We’re talking about what’s at stake right now if my brother’s friends offer their help.”
“You’re not wrong,” Abel told Viola. “But what you need to understand is that the decision that my friends and I make to help you is a decision that impacts more than our small circle. More than a hundred of my brothers were lynched last year alone. Citizens of this country were killed in broad daylight, and the authorities looked the other way—or they helped—usually over some white woman.” He eyed Viola pointedly. “Mrs. Wells exposed the truth about that particular kind of violence a decade ago in the very paper owned by the man whose house you’re now standing in, and it still happens with impunity.”
“There’s little point in comparing suffering,” Theo said, his tone verging on dismissive. “Terrible things happen every day to many different people.”
“Spoken by a boy born with a silver spoon,” Abel said. “Don’t you see? It’s all related. All of us are implicated. You included, Barclay.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Theo asked.
“You don’t think I saw the way you looked at me when we first met? Or don’t you remember?” Abel asked. His voice was soft, pleasant even, but there was no mistaking the steel in it. “I knew exactly what was going through your mind when you saw Viola getting into my carriage.”
“I didn’t… That is to say, I didn’t mean anything.” Theo looked momentarily stunned.
Abel shook his head. “In the end, the numbers don’t matter. One or one hundred, each is a life stolen—a promise wasted—all because of ignorance and hate. That, and that alone, is why I haven’t put a stop to Cela’s determination to help you.”
Cela cut a sharp look at her brother, but she didn’t say anything against him.
Silence swelled in the room again. Tension thick and palpable threatened to overwhelm, but it was Theo who surprised Viola by breaking it.
“I do believe I owe you an apology,” he told Abel.
Abel straightened his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height. Waiting. They were all waiting to see if this fragile alliance would crack or crumble beneath the pressure of their differences.
“You’re right,” Theo admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck. “When we first met, I behaved rather badly, I’m afraid. And for no reason at all. There was no reason for me to regard you with any suspicion. You’re right to point that out now.”
“I appreciate you saying that, but it doesn’t change the facts. You reacted like you did, and others will react the same. They always do.” Abel looked to Viola. “The bottom line is that a lot of people in the Bowery can hide what they are—they can tuck their magic away and lie low until the winds change. My friends can’t. There’s no hiding the color of our skin, and we wouldn’t want to anyway. They have every right to say no to what we’re asking of them, even without those reasons.”
Theo’s apology hadn’t eased the tension in the room. If anything, there was even more now than there had been before. They all seemed to be looking to Viola, expecting something from her. Her instinct was to push back against that expectation and against their judgment.
But then, Viola’s instinct was always to push back. She’d pushed back against the weight of her family’s expectations since she was young, hadn’t she? It was as natural to her as breathing. She’d rejected their hatred of her magic. She’d rejected their control over her. Their hatred and judgment had driven her from home and led her to the Devil’s Own.
A thought settled over Viola then, one that left her more than a little shaken. How was her family’s hatred toward her affinity any different from their other hatreds? The words that she had just spoken, the thoughts that had just overwhelmed her, those were her family’s thoughts—her mother’s and her brother’s. They judged anyone who didn’t fit into the small view of the world as they knew and understood it. They found anyone wanting who wasn’t like them. It wasn’t only her magic they rejected. They looked down upon the whole world outside their narrow community and their singular way of life. And she had accepted those views like mother’s milk.
How had she not seen this about herself before? How had she, who had believed so much in what Dolph hoped and worked for, somehow still managed to carry her family’s narrow-mindedness deep within her. Unexamined. She’d somehow missed that the seeds of something too close to hate grew already deep in her heart.
Had Dolph known that about her all along? Perhaps he’d been right not to trust her completely, not to take her into his complete confidence, as he apparently had Jianyu. Her words, still hanging in the air, shamed Viola more than her family had ever been able to, and suddenly she felt the fight drain out of her, leaving her hollowed out. Empty.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling her cheeks burn and her throat go tight. “After all you’ve done, after all we’ve asked of you…” No. That wasn’t it. “Even if you’d done nothing at all to help us, my words—my thoughts—they shame me.”
Cela frowned, as though confused, but the anger in her expression eased a little.
“I would understand if you want to walk away from this now,” Viola told Cela. “If either of you wanted to.”
“We don’t have any plans to back out now,” Cela said. Her expression had softened a little, but she was still frowning. “Right, Abel?”
“My sister’s right. We promised our help already,” Abel agreed. “We’ll keep that promise.”
“But you said—” Viola started.
“Everything I said is true,” Abel told her. “But our family doesn’t go back on our word once it’s given. What’s more, I wouldn’t want to. Even with the danger we might face, I can see that there’s something bigger going on here than our differences.” He glanced at his sister. “Cela was right when she made the commitment to help Jianyu. Maybe we can’t change everything, but Cela and me, we’re gonna try to help you change this one thing. Neither of us is walking away.”
WAKING
1952—San Francisco
Harte Darrigan couldn’t recall much about what had happened to him since the night he’d escaped from the Committee and made his way to his father’s house for the second time. He remembered standing across from the door he’d knocked on that first day he’d arrived in San Francisco, before everything had gone wrong. And he remembered waiting to see if anyone was home so he could get Esta’s cuff and the necklace back. Everything after that felt like a dream—or perhaps, more like a nightmare. All of it seemed too impossible and too awful to be real.
