Ganymede (The Clockwork Century #3)

Ganymede (The Clockwork Century #3) Page 18

She put one hand on her chest beneath her throat, and did a ladylike show of not gasping for breath. “I beg everyone’s pardon, please,” she said—directing the apology first to the unknown guest and Fenn Calais, then the rest of the ladies. “The curfew, you understand. This gentleman was trying to find his way here, and I only stepped out to lend him a hand. Please, everyone. Carry on, and let’s enjoy the rest of the night.”

But Ruthie slipped out from under Calais’s arm, quickly replaced by Septima—with Fenn’s blessing, or apathy. She came back to Josephine, who dropped herself onto the hard-padded couch beside Delphine. Still waiting for the coast to clear, she gave the men another half minute to retreat and then gave her orders quietly as the women gathered around and the man who’d accompanied her stood stiffly, nervously by the door. He looked out the window, watching through a slit in the curtains.

“I’m leaving tonight,” Josephine said. “For a day or two—that’s all. My brother’s been hurt, and I need to see him.”

“Deaderick?” gasped Ruthie. “What happened?”

“He’s been shot, but he’s alive—and he’s going to be all right, I’m pretty confident of that. I have to go take care of him, though. I have to help Fletcher Josty move him safe back to the bayou. From there, Edison will take him up the river to a doctor, if we can’t find one any closer.”

Olivia’s eyes welled up with tears. This was not an uncommon event, but just this once, Josephine didn’t mind it. The young woman asked, “Is he in town? Why don’t they bring him to town? We’d find a doctor for him here. Maybe Dr. Heuvelman—”

“Miss Tillman,” the madam said with less than her usual measure of patience. Olivia was lovely, kind, and well intentioned, but sometimes painfully slow. “Between the curfew and his face being on wanted posters from Metairie to the Gulf, that’s possibly the worst idea in the world. I’ll go to him and get him moved, and then I’ll be back here by week’s end.”

Ruthie, on the other hand, was much sharper. “He’s not in town and he’s not in the bayou? Where is he?”

“Somewhere else. This fellow here—I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Gifford,” he provided. “I’m Gifford Crooks.” Upon suddenly finding himself the most interesting person in the room, he blushed and kept talking. “I’m with Mr. Pinkerton’s Secret Service—his Saint Louis office, working with the bayou boys as of last week. I’m … new. This is my first job.”

“I’d have never guessed it,” Josephine said dryly.

“He’s a Pink?” Marylin’s face hardened.

“The Union hires them sometimes. They sent Mr. Crooks here to give me the message. “Marylin, I’m leaving you in charge for now. Swap off with Hazel if you need to take a customer, and Ruthie—I know you stay busy, but you’re third in command.”

Ruthie said, “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, ma’am. I’m coming with you.”

“You’re doing no such thing. You’re staying here and working. I know you have a soft spot for Rick, but there’s nothing you can do to help except get in the way.”

Ruthie turned to Gifford Crooks and asked, “Did you tell her the same thing, when she told you she was coming along?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You leave him out of this!” Josephine commanded. “You’re not coming, and that’s it.” Ruthie could prove problematic, if they were intercepted and searched.

“I am coming.” Then, in French—because it was easier for her, “You’ll need me, if something goes wrong. You’ll need someone to come back and tell everyone what’s happened.”

“Nothing will go wrong. And any fool can run a message home.”

“Well, I sure as all hell hope nothing goes wrong,” Ruthie blasphemed in her native tongue. She strolled to the hall closet and removed her best navy blue jacket, a jewel-toned silk confection with more pockets than anyone would ever guess. “And I may be a fool of an errand girl, but I will not be left behind. I’ll be back in two shakes. Don’t leave without me, because I do not want to run and catch up.” With that, she climbed the stairs.

Josephine growled, “Fine! Since Ruthie can’t be trusted to stay put on her own, she’s coming with me. If anyone shows up and asks for her by special request, tell him she’s down with a fever and they can come back Friday night. I’ll offer a discount for the wait.”

Marylin listened to every word with great concentration, committing the whole of it to memory. “Ma’am?” she asked when Josephine stopped to take a breath. “You will come back, won’t you?”

“Yes. By tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.”

“But if this is dangerous, and I suppose it must be … what if you don’t?”

Josephine looked around the room, meeting their eyes one by one. In every face, she saw fear. “I will be back, and Rick will be alive. You trust me?”

All the ladies nodded, some more slowly than others. Olivia sniffled and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand, even though she was holding a handkerchief.

“Good. Then keep trusting me, and I’ll be back soon.”

As if she’d been waiting for an entrance cue, Ruthie chose this moment to swan back down the stairs and into the lobby, looking no different at all from when she’d left it—apart from a sturdier pair of boots than strictly matched her dress, and a few inconspicuous lumps here and there in the long silk jacket.

“I am back,” she declared. “I have a gun, and I am ready.”

Josephine stood and went to the hall closet. She retrieved a black hooded cloak that was really too warm for the occasion, but she liked having it all the same. “One moment,” she declared. “I need to gather some things as well. Ruthie, since you’re so damn determined to be useful, see if Mr. Crooks wants anything.”

Ruthie turned the full, blinding force of her charm on Gifford, who appeared embarrassed yet again to have been noticed. Everyone in the room knew by now that he was not terribly accustomed to such houses, and there was literally nothing that anyone could do to put him at ease. This didn’t stop Ruthie from giving it a go, as directed.

On her way upstairs, Josephine heard the woman offering water, whiskey, rum, or coffee, and she heard only mumbles from Gifford in return.

It took no time at all for her to grab Little Russia from its spot in her desk; a box of bullets that she dumped into a pouch, which she stashed in the cloak’s inner pocket; a small derringer she sometimes carried as backup; and a wad of emergency cash and assorted coins.

Downstairs she went again. Ruthie was champing at the bit to hit the road—as was Gifford, who couldn’t turn any pinker with a pot of paint. “Ladies,” she said to bid them adieu. “Ruthie, Gifford. When was the last patrol?”

“Right after we got here,” Gifford told her.

“Let’s say five or ten minutes … all right. We’ll go out the back. We’ll have more time if we head toward Rue Barrack.” She tossed her big ring of keys to Marylin and gave Ruthie one last look—on the off chance her resolve was weakening, and maybe she’d change her mind.

No such luck.

“All right, then. Let’s go.”

Out the back door they stepped, into the wet, dark smell of the river that clung to the walls and wafted off the street—held in place by a layer of fog that was forming before their very eyes.

“Ugh,” Ruthie complained. “Just what we need.”

Josephine corrected her, “It is just what we need. It’ll give us cover as we get out of town.”

“Not if it stays like this,” her determined assistant argued. “It is too thin to hide us, and so thick, it could hide … other things.”

“The zombis are down by the river and the Texians are being useful, just this once. Their patrols will keep the Quarter clear, you can count on that. The dead are too dumb to run and hide. They only want to feed.”

Gifford gazed uncertainly at the wisping fog. “The dead? I’ve heard stories, but … they’re not true, are they?”

“They’re true, Mr. Crooks,” Josephine informed him. “The dead Walk, and they are usually hungry. But they’re no threat to us here, or where we’re going.”

“You said they’re down by the river, and we have to cross it!”

“We’ll cross west of here, away from the Quarter. We’ll be fine.”

Ruthie whispered, “And how do we get to the ferry? It’s too far to walk unless we’ve got all night.”

“The cabs, out on Rue Canal.”

“They will be closed for the night,” she noted, even as she fell in line behind Josephine, with Gifford behind her. To the alley’s edge they went, looking both ways before darting out onto the street.

Over her shoulder, Josephine hissed, “Then we’ll have to wake someone up.”

Night had fully settled now, and the gas lamps made pockets of brightness that lit the corners and crossways. Sticking to the shadows, the three fugitives from the curfew ran on toward Rue Canal at the Quarter’s edge. Upon hitting it, they went left—back toward the Mississippi, down to the river in exactly the way that Josephine had promised they would not. But that’s where the carriages usually waited. They were now folded up for the evening, except for a few stragglers who were allowed to break curfew for the sake of emergency.

These late-night drivers were mostly bored and huddled against the mist, playing cards with one another or drinking surreptitiously from the bottles they kept by their seats. This far edge of the Quarter’s boundary was not so strictly watched, for even the controlling, aggravating Texians understood that this was a commercial border, and strangers to the city might not know the limits. Sometimes, a way must be found inside or out.