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1920—Chicago
Harte and Esta didn’t discuss anything more about what had happened between them on the train, especially not once the Quellant faded and Seshat began to stir again. Instead, Harte couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened—what he wanted it to mean—but he allowed the matter to drop, and they seemed to enter into an unspoken agreement, a fragile truce that was both a relief and a frustration.
What more was there to say about the matter? Wishing for a future or a long life with Esta wouldn’t make it so.
Harte knew exactly how headstrong Esta was, and he knew it would be pointless to argue with her about using her affinity if it cost her life. He knew how he felt as well. He would do everything he could to retrieve the Book, but if the Ars Arcana didn’t hold any answer to their dilemma—if it didn’t show them a way to control Seshat while keeping Esta alive and whole—Harte still knew of one sure way to end the threat Seshat posed without harming Esta. He didn’t need to argue with her about it. He would only need to act.
The truth of the matter was that Harte would not allow anyone else to lose their life for him or because of him. Not like Sammie had. He had been the one who had tried to steal the Book of Mysteries from the Order’s vaults, and he would be the one to accept the consequences for the mistake of letting Seshat loose into the world. Not Esta.
And if she carries your child? Seshat whispered, a dark amusement curling in her voice.
The goddess felt stronger than she had before—more like she had back in St. Louis—except now Harte knew she was furious with being muzzled and chained by the effects of the Quellant. It was clearer than ever that taking Maggie’s formulation had destroyed any hope of a truce, even with his continued promise to end Thoth.
Would you be so quick to sacrifice yourself and seek the easy escape of death? Seshat taunted. Would you leave them unprotected and make your child a bastard, as you are? If you do, Thoth will destroy them both.
Harte tried to push away Seshat’s words. He knew what she was doing—trying to weaken him, trying to make him waver—but by the time they arrived in Chicago, he was exhausted from trying to ignore the unresolved issue between them. The train slowed into the station, all steam and grinding of brakes. Esta was looking out the window of their small Pullman berth, her expression a study of concentration, and Harte wondered if she was considering the same thing he was.
“Esta, when would you…?” Harte hesitated, feeling unbearably, stupidly embarrassed.
“What?” Her dark brows drew together as she turned to him. “Are you okay? Is Seshat—”
“I’m fine,” he said, cutting her off. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about Seshat. But Esta only gave him a questioning look. “I mean, she’s still there, but that isn’t what I wanted to discuss. We need to talk about what happened between us.”
Esta grew wary. “What about it?”
“When might you know?” Harte asked, feeling his cheeks flame, and when she didn’t understand, he was forced to spell it out for her. “If there were any… complications.”
“Complications,” she repeated. Her expression had gone strangely, carefully blank. “Are we back to this, then?”
“You know I would never allow—”
“You wouldn’t allow??” The wariness shifted to impatience now.
“That’s not what I meant,” he tried to say. “Only that if there is a child—”
“We are not talking about this right now, Harte,” Esta snapped.
“I could marry you,” he blurted.
Her mouth fell open, and for a moment, she looked as shocked as he felt from saying those words out loud. But then anger replaced shock. “Could you?”
Harte knew he was on precarious ground. It had come out all wrong.
“Esta—” He tried to collect his thoughts—tried to figure out how to say everything he felt—as she waited, dangerously quiet.
“Forget it, Harte,” she said after a moment. “I think I’ll pass on your generous offer to make an honest woman of me. I’m fine. We are getting off this train, and we are going to focus on finding Jack and the Book. We have enough to worry about without you inventing more problems.”
She turned from him then to collect her bag with a cold determination, while Harte stood there wondering how he’d screwed everything up so absolutely. Again. Esta was already opening the door and heading out into the corridor before he could even begin to consider how to repair the fragile peace he’d broken, and then they were disembarking and the time for conversation had passed.
The station was packed and filled with an energy like something about to begin. It was because of the convention, Harte realized. Somewhere in the city, Antistasi were planning the attack that would set history on a different course, and somewhere in the city, Jack Grew was waiting with the Book. Still, even with so much at stake, Harte was painfully aware of Esta next to him—especially the anger that radiated from her stiffened spine and tight jaw. She refused to look at him.
With Esta resolutely ignoring him, Harte tried to push aside his hurt and his embarrassment. He needed to keep himself alert as they made their way through the station, watching for any sign of trouble. He didn’t remember much about leaving the bank or catching the train in Oakland. He’d been reeling still from the death of his brother, but now he saw that the world had changed once more. Chicago was all flash and energy, with boxy motorcars and bustling sidewalks and buildings that towered overhead. The air was thick with the scents of exhaust and bitter cigarettes and the noise of street vendors with their wares. Men in light-colored, slightly wrinkled-looking suits and groups of young women walking arm in arm without escorts filled the sidewalks. The women wore dresses that fit loose, with low waists that obscured the shape of their bodies and hemlines that exposed their ankles, and many wore hair cut bluntly at their chin, every bit as short as Esta’s.
It didn’t take them long to find lodging in a small hotel. Esta lifted a few wallets so they could purchase some new clothes, and eventually her icy demeanor began to thaw and she started to talk to him again. But they never regained the warm easiness of the truce they’d come to on the train. She was purposely holding herself back from him now, and Harte knew it was his fault.
Three days later, not much between them had improved, especially with Seshat pacing impatiently beneath his skin. But they’d uncovered a promising lead—whispers of a nightclub where Mageus were rumored to go. It wasn’t much, but it was a start toward locating the Antistasi in the city, and so that evening Harte found himself standing beneath the brightly lit marquee of the Green Mill wearing one of his new ready-made suits and trying not to stare too hungrily at Esta. Her dress was ready-made as well, but it fit her like it had been tailored specifically for the long lines of her body. The fabric skimmed over her curves, a shimmering column that ended only slightly below the knee. It looked like it was made from dark, liquid gold, and Harte wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch the material—and the girl beneath.
He didn’t have to worry about Seshat that night, because they’d decided to risk using one of the remaining Quellant tablets. For the first time in days, the goddess’s mocking laughter and threatening whispers weren’t echoing in Harte’s mind, but he barely noticed. All his concentration was on Esta and the dress she was wearing, and the fact that she was still holding herself away from him. He might have so little time left, and he wanted to fix things between them before it was too late. He wanted to bring her back to him—to make sure she was safe and protected—but Harte understood that they had a job to do. He tucked his hands into his pockets and kept them—and his thoughts—to himself.
