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She didn’t let herself think too much about Jianyu—not about his quiet strength or the way he managed to lead without trying at all. She certainly didn’t think about what it meant that he’d come running down the street to find them after the mess of the Flatiron Building. It was easier to believe that she’d imagined the way he’d looked at her, as though she were something rare and precious, especially because he hadn’t made any move in the months since then. His notes were terse and impersonal, without any indication that deeper feeling ran through his words. So maybe she’d only seen what she’d wanted to. It was easier not to think about it at all.
She was too busy imagining what Viola could do to the bratty little boys and their awful parents to notice the men who didn’t belong when she first stepped into the chambermaids’ workroom. But the sound of the flat, guttural New York accents broke through her daydreaming, and she pulled up short just before she could be seen.
“You sure you haven’t seen her around?” the man was asking. He and his partner were talking to a trio of maids, their backs turned to the door that Cela had just entered. “She might be going by a different name.”
“A Negro girl who can sew?” Flora said, giving the men a doubtful look. “That description could match a dozen of the girls who work here.”
“This one’s on the darker side,” the other man said, turning to examine the other women, as though sizing them up by the color of their skin.
Cela pulled back, ducking into one of the alcoves where the mops and brushes were usually stored, but not before she recognized one of the men. She’d seen him before—at the Morgans’ gala and in the saloon she almost hadn’t escaped from the night of the Manhattan Solstice. Razor Riley. A Five Pointer. And he was there in Atlantic City. Looking for her.
She didn’t know whether to be relieved that she didn’t have Newton’s Sigils on her or worried about how safe they were hidden in the floorboard of the boardinghouse’s fruit cellar.
He isn’t magic, she reminded herself. He might be close, but he couldn’t track her or the discs, not like Logan Sullivan could. And anyway, she had been waiting for something like this to happen for weeks now. She’d known all along it was only a matter of time before someone came looking for her.
From across the room, Hazel caught her eye and lifted a single, arched brow. Cela realized then it had been a mistake to keep to herself so much over the last couple of months. She shouldn’t have been so standoffish. The chambermaids were a group of women she should’ve fallen in with easily. She could have had friends, support. But at first she’d been convinced that Jianyu and Viola would call her back to the city in a matter of days. And then later, when she realized it was going to take longer than she’d expected, Cela hadn’t wanted to put anyone else in danger. Now her fate was in Hazel’s hands.
“There’s a reward,” the other man said. “Our employer would be most generous to anyone who might be able to help us locate her.”
“Why’d you say you needed to talk to her?” Hazel asked.
“For a business opportunity,” Razor said easily. “Our boss’s wife needs some new dresses, and this woman can sew them better than most.”
Cela couldn’t do anything more than shake her head at Hazel, silently pleading for the other woman not to give her away.
Hazel considered the situation before she finally spoke. “There isn’t a woman worth her salt that don’t know how to sew, mister,” Hazel told him. “If your boss needs someone to stitch up a gown for his wife, I’m sure I could manage.”
“I could too,” another of the women said. “Or my sister’s even better. You should see how delicate her stitching is.”
The other women spoke up, one at a time and then all at once, clamoring about their own prowess with a needle until Razor and his partner, realizing they wouldn’t get any help from that lot, turned without a word, clearly disgusted, and left.
Cela pulled back into the alcove, ducking away to avoid their notice. She didn’t breathe again until she heard the door close behind them.
“You can come out now,” Hazel called, her voice tinted with the soft cadence of the South.
Slowly, Cela emerged from the shadows of the cubby. The women were all waiting, expectant.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
None of them spoke at first, but Hazel held Cela’s stare. She was a little taller than Cela, with skin that some would have called “high yella” and hair that didn’t so much as curl out of place around her heart-shaped face.
“I appreciate you not saying anything,” Cela told them, suddenly uncomfortable. She’d been stupid not to make friends with these women. “I know I haven’t been overly friendly—”
“No,” Cecily said, placing her hands on ample hips. “You haven’t.”
“There isn’t a one of us who doesn’t have something we’re trying to leave behind,” Hazel said, cutting Cecily a sharp look. “Doesn’t matter who you are or why they were asking for you. Those peckerwoods weren’t getting a thing from us anyway. But you could have known that already if you hadn’t been keeping to yourself so much.”
“I’m sorry,” Cela said. “I’m just—I’m grateful, that’s all. Those men…” What could she possibly say about Razor Riley that wouldn’t give away too much? That wouldn’t put these women in danger?
“Those men are nothing but common trash from the city,” Cecily said dismissively. “We see their type around here all the time. Acting like big-timers because they can afford a night at the Brighton. Maybe they mean something up in Manhattan, but down here?” She waved her hand.
“We gotta stick up for our own,” Hazel added. “Don’t we?”
Cela’s throat felt too thick for words. Eighty-seven days she’d been alone, except for the brief stops Abel made in New Jersey. Eighty-seven days without anyone else to share her life—her joy or her worry. Pressing her lips together to ward off the threat of tears, she nodded.
“You off now?” Hazel asked, her expression softening a little.
Cela nodded again. “Just about.”
