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“Some of us girls go over to Chicken Bone Beach on Friday nights,” she said, making the invitation clear.
“I—” It was on her tongue to say no. She had to send word to Jianyu and Viola that the Five Pointers were getting close. But it had been an exhausting day of backbreaking work. It was late September, but the thick summer heat was still hanging around, and the idea of a dip in the cool ocean sounded better than a cramped bath in the shared boardinghouse tub. Besides, these women were right. She’d been wrong to hold herself back. There was a sort of safety here in their community. A sort of acceptance and welcome, too. She’d forgotten that somehow. “I’d love to come out for a while. Thank you.”
“No thanks needed,” Hazel said. Her mouth curled into a wry grin. “But you might could get Chef to make up a little something from what’s left of the lunch service for the rest of us to share. You know he’s sweet on you.”
Cela felt her cheeks heat. She hadn’t been unaware of the way one of the sous chefs watched her when she was near the kitchen. He was handsome, to be sure. Tall with a sharp jaw and skin the color of deep mahogany, he spoke with an accent that hinted of islands and reminded her of her mother’s people. Considering her situation, she hadn’t let herself imagine there could be anything between them. But now that these women had reminded her she still had a life to live while she waited for the future to unfold, she couldn’t help but wonder…
“I think I can manage that,” she said, unable to tuck back her smile.
Abel’s train wouldn’t be in until close to nine, she told herself as she changed out of the soiled uniform and back into her regular clothes. Abel was in contact with Joshua, who was keeping track of Jianyu’s and Viola’s whereabouts in the city, so it’s not like she could do anything much until he arrived. She had plenty of time to venture to the beach for a quick swim and maybe even to flirt with the handsome chef. And if she happened to make some allies while she was there? So much the better.
The kitchens were in the basement at the rear of the hotel, far from where the guests could hear the noise or feel the heat of the ovens. The scent of yeasty bread and the brininess of seafood met her as she turned into the service hall. Her stomach growled in response, and she realized it had been hours since her small lunch of sturdy bread and stale cheese. She hoped Chef was in a generous mood.
She never had a chance to find out. As she started to turn the corner into the passageway of the kitchen, strong arms grabbed her from behind, and a wide hand covered her mouth.
TOGETHER OR NOT AT ALL
1983—Orchard Street
Harte could feel Esta starting to shake. Her eyes were fixed on the far side of the room, where the old man who had once been Nibsy Lorcan had turned the gun on himself.
“Dammit,” she whispered. “Why did he—”
“Come on,” he said, lifting Esta to her feet. The old man was dead. It didn’t matter why he did it, because it didn’t change anything. “We have to get moving, in case someone heard that gunshot and comes to investigate.”
“It’s New York in the 1980s, Harte. Nobody is going to investigate a gunshot.” But she slipped her hand into his. “You’re okay?” she asked, checking him over again.
“There was only one shot,” he reminded her.
“Right.” She looked back over her shoulder, hesitating.
He squeezed her hand softly, rubbing his thumb across her cool skin. “He’s not worth your pity, Esta.”
“I know,” she said, but the look in her eyes told a different story. Then he watched as she visibly pulled herself together. “We should take the papers. We should take anything that might help us.”
“Nothing he was willing to give us is going to help,” Harte told her. “You know Nibsy. It’s just more lies.”
“You’re probably right, but that doesn’t mean we should leave it here for someone else to find.” She released his hand, and Harte felt suddenly adrift. “You heard him. He thought we would take this back and hand it over to his younger self. Maybe he was willing to risk helping us if he thought it was the way to help himself.”
“Or maybe it’s another trap.”
“Probably,” she admitted. “But can you really walk away from the possibility of answers? He knew how to do the ritual that got Seshat out of you, Harte. What if he really did figure out how to use the power in the Book? What if those papers could help us finish this?”
He wanted to reach for her because he felt like she might slip away for good if he wasn’t touching her. But he curled his fingers and tucked them at his side instead.
“Fine. But let’s make it quick.” Thanks to whatever that bit of magic was in the elevator, they were without their affinities. He’d feel better when they were out of the building.
Esta approached the desk slowly, but once there, she hesitated for only a second before taking the stack of papers trapped beneath the old man’s lifeless arm. When she made it back to Harte’s side, he could see that the edges of some of them were stained red with Nibsy’s blood. He took them from her and tucked them into the satchel with everything else.
Together they descended the back stairs. All around them, the building was muffled in an almost oppressive silence, but once they stepped out the back and into the bright chill of the winter day, the noise of the city hit them like a wall.
“This way,” Esta said, taking him by the hand again and heading toward the busier thoroughfare of Delancey Street, but they hadn’t gone more than a block before Harte felt the clear sense that someone was watching.
Tossing a glance over his shoulder, he cursed softly when he saw two men walking a few hundred feet behind them. They weren’t obviously police or Guardsmen, but something about them made Harte think of the authorities. Maybe it was the inky black filling their eyes. “I think we have company.”
Esta paused long enough to pretend to look at the wares in a large shop window. But her eyes were focused on the reflection in the glass. “Cops,” she said softly, pulling him onward.
“Worse than cops,” Harte told her. “Did you see their eyes?” Her jaw tensed, and he knew she had.
