The Hummingbird Heart

by A. G. Howard

  Newton’s face paled. He shook his head, backing away from the judge until he hit Julian’s thigh.

  Julian kneaded the boy’s tense shoulder. “He’s not too fond of heights. He won’t be riding any Ferris wheel.”

  The judge struggled against his weight to stand. Julian ended up cupping his elbow to help him.

  Judge Arlington nodded his gratitude, smoothing out his brown suit. “I’m sorry. I assumed, seeing as you design rides, that this little tripper must be the one to test them out.”

  “That would be my other brother. Wilson. He works with me on the rides.” Julian noted how sweet lies were starting to taste on his tongue, so long as they were honeyed with a hint of truth and a generous dollop of justification.

  The judge adjusted his navy-colored tapestry vest, flicking droplets of water from the weave. His gaze caught on Julian’s cheek. “Fine bruise there. Who gave you that?”

  “Ah, Wilson again. We had a … disagreement.”

  “Well, seeing as I plan to join you in this amusement venture, I should like to see your family stay intact for the business. Do you suppose the two of you could make up with one another, keep it civil for the duration of our trip?”

  Though elated that the judge wanted to invest, Julian mentally stumbled over a fantasy of what making up with Willow might entail. “Of course.”

  “Might I meet the daring Wilson and hear his take on the park?”

  An onslaught of mixed emotions rocked Julian’s innards: desire to secure the funding, but fear that his new associate would see through Willow’s disguise. “We could go back and wait for him at the stateroom … I believe he’s out on an errand at the moment.”

  Newton cast a puzzled frown up at Julian. The concern in his dark eyes screamed louder than his earlier rampage over breakfast. Julian attempted a distraction. “Say, Newton, I left your new hat on the floor beside the gowns. Could you go fetch it, please?”

  The boy gripped Julian’s fingers, hard, an obvious demand they go find Willow—now. Julian patted Newton with his free hand. “We will stay and talk with the judge until Mr. Higgly brings our package. Wilson will join us at the cabin soon. I am sure of it.”

  Grimacing, Newton broke his grip and stomped over to the dress rod.

  “Doesn’t talk much,” the judge said. Less a question than an observance.

  “Not a day of his life.” Julian clipped his answer, confident the judge would understand his bid for privacy.

  The judge’s kind eyes narrowed at him. “Rather new at this, aren’t you?”

  “New … at what?” At lying? Yes.

  The judge nodded in Newton’s direction. “Taking care of your brothers. I’d surmise you’re busy at home with your park and don’t spend much time with them. This will be a good experience for you. You should see what your parents do day in and day out for them. A man needs to know such things. Especially one who has a lady at home he wishes to court. You’ll be thinking of a family of your own one day soon, no doubt.”

  Julian’s lips tightened to a wry grin. “No doubt.” His attention shifted to watch Newton kick his hat beneath the line of long gowns in a fit of annoyance. “All right, mouse. Now you’ll have to crawl on your belly like a worm to find it.”

  Newton made a face, looking again like a disgruntled cherub. Dropping to his hands and knees, he dived beneath the line of hems in search of the hat. The dresses dragged his body, swaying in and out with his movements as if they breathed. Dust puffed up from beneath to fleck the skirts with powdery stains.

  Julian rolled his eyes. “Stupendous. This will give Mr. Higgly a full-blown paroxysm.”

  Judge Arlington’s hearty laugh echoed in the small room—as rich and robust as the gongs of a church bell. The movement of his belly bobbing up and down caused the edge of a rolled magazine to peek out from his vest.

  “Is that my Threshold?” Julian asked.

  Still flushed from his chortle, the judge glanced down at his chest. “Ah, yes. And your impressive ride designs.” He drew out the magazine with the papers tucked inside.

  When Julian secured them in his pocket, Judge Arlington pulled out another magazine from his vest. This one he opened, flitting through the pages. “There’s something I wish to show you. Did I mention that I collect these magazines?”

  “You did.” Julian put on his spectacles and moved closer, making a conscious effort to ignore the slapping of Newton’s palms on the wooden floor beneath the gowns.

  “Well, when you described the shoes to me yesterday morn, they sounded familiar. I wasn’t sure why, until I got back to my stateroom and remembered reading an article about a theft at a museum in Spain little over a year ago … a theft that involved a pair of eighteenth century latchets. Ah-ha.” He held up the open magazine, pointing to a black and white drawing—an exact replica of Nadia’s shoes.

  “Well I’ll be dam—”

  Coming up from behind, Newton nearly knocked Julian over trying to get a glimpse. He now looked like a pastry, coated in white dust as he was, but at least he’d managed to retrieve his hat.

  “Are these your missing shoes?” The judge pressed, still holding up the magazine.

  “Yes.” Julian avoided Newton’s accusatory glare … felt it burning into his neck. “Is there any history behind them?”

  The judge clucked his tongue. “Not many details here. Seemed they belonged to a Spanish princess or some such. When she died, they were donated to the museum. Not sure what the story is. Oh, but those buckles you thought were inlaid with glass? They’re diamonds. You were holding a fortune in your hands, and didn’t even realize it.”

  “You don’t say.”

  So intent on his study of the sketch, Judge Arlington apparently missed the lack of astonishment in Julian’s response. “What I find truly intriguing,” the judge continued, “was how they ended up in Mr. Sala’s stateroom. The circumstances surrounding the theft are quite unusual. It says here the shoes disappeared from the museum in the night. No one ever found any indication of a break-in. All of the locks and window panes were intact. People speculated that they simply walked out on their own, right past the night guards posted at each door. The crime was never solved.”

  Newton fidgeted, as if nervous, and Julian wondered if he knew something. Had Sala been behind the theft of the shoes, after all? That would explain how they ended up in his room … and that could be what Nadia had meant about Newton being corrupted by his father.

  Perhaps Willow had been right all along about waiting to hand the boy over.

  “The shoes are apparently haunted, in truth,” the judge said.

  Julian peered over his lenses at him. You don’t know the half of it.

  “Or rather, there is a curse on them.” Julian and Judge Arlington’s heads jerked up as the tailor’s nasally voice interrupted. He stepped into their circle, holding Julian’s wrapped package. Without missing a beat, Mr. Higgly snatched the magazine out of the judge’s hand. “I had no idea these were the shoes everyone was going on about yesterday. There is a dress tied to this theft. A Fontianna masterpiece … pastel yellow with floral brocade. Décolletage wide, mutton sleeves with contrasting white lace. Fitted bodice with a stomacher.” The tailor flushed with reverence as he described the gown. “Yes … I remember hearing of this in the fashion circles. It was a great loss to the industry, being the first Fontianna custom design. It even had a handmade brooch that kept time, which affixed to the décolleté. The Fontianna brand was engraved upon the back.” Focus slipping down to Newton, the tailor paused as if puzzled by the boy’s grubby state. “What have you been into—”

  “The curse, Mr. Higgly.” Julian slipped a palm through the package’s ribbons and released it from the tailor’s hand, letting it dangle from his fingers as he nudged Newton behind him. “You mentioned a curse.”

  Judge Arlington took back his magazine as well, jolting the tailor from his study of Newton.

  “Right-right.” Mr. Higgly sniffed, winding his empty
hands together. “The gown and shoes belonged to the illegitimate daughter of a Spaniard princess and a gypsy man. Apparently, the princesses’ royal husband had raised the child all the way to womanhood, thinking she was his. When he learned of his wife’s affair, he ordered their daughter burned at the stake. But the gypsy grandmother, she put a spell on the shoes and gown, and they wouldn’t burn. Unfortunately, her magic couldn’t save the girl. She writhed and screamed until the flames—”

  “That’s enough of a description, thank you.” Julian glanced down at Newton’s eyes, wide and round like glossy chocolates in the midst of his powdered face. Julian doubted the gruesome tale was appropriate for one of such a tender age. If the boy had nightmares tonight, Willow would have Julian’s head on a platter.

  Mr. Higgly’s attention fell to Newton again. He reached out, skating a line through the thick film on Newton’s sleeve. He rubbed the white dust between his finger and thumb, thoughtful. “It is said that the royal husband went mad with guilt after that. In every corridor of the castle, he would hear the flapping of the gown’s sleeves … the clomping of the shoes. And when he would turn around, there they would be—the gown strewn over a chair or a stair rail … the shoes lying on the floor beneath. To escape the haunting, the man took his own life with a noose. After the tragedy, his wife donated the articles to a museum. She claimed the spirit had served its purpose and should be left to rest.”

  Julian turned this information over in his mind. Perhaps Nadia had been dead much longer than she told Willow. Perhaps she was lying about being Newton’s sister. Could it be possible she was the princess’s daughter’s ghost? Still, none of this explained why she was sopping wet. The illegitimate daughter had burned to ash, after all.

  Lifting his fingertip to his nostrils, the tailor sniffed the dust he’d raked from Newton’s clothes. Then his gaze swept the room and landed on the rod filled with smudged gowns. A series of high-pitched, whistling whimpers burst from his nose. Casting a frown in Julian and Newton’s direction, he stomped into the back room, sputtering something about cleaning solvent.

  “That’s our cue.” Julian clenched the package and guided Newton to the door. Behind them, the judge followed, chortling again.

  Julian had just gripped the latch when it tugged out of his hand, opening from the opposite side. The bell jingled wildly as he bumped into Willow. The shock of the encounter caused him to drop the package to his feet. For a moment, they just stared at one another—her skin coated in black soot, her head uncovered, hair unkempt. The mortified expression she wore could have chilled the sun to an arctic orb. With a trembling hand, she withdrew a doll from beneath her jacket.

  Her bewildered eyes held Julian’s as she whispered, “Tildey. I found … Tildey.” The toy tumbled to the ground as Willow threw herself into his arms.

  Part III

  Wandering between two worlds;

  One dead, the other powerless to be born.

  ~Matthew Arnold

  Sixteen

  Rain slapped the portals, tinted a soft yellow by intermittent flashes of sunlight through the clouds. Droplets streamed the glass like spilled champagne.

  Drawing the bedcovers over her head, Willow hid her eyes. Still, the image remained: Christoff and Engleberta leading her to the pile of luggage in the shadowy midst of steerage.

  “See what we found.” Engleberta had hardly been able to control her glee at their success in picking the antique trunk’s lock. Willow had thought to scold them for violating a stranger’s belongings … yet she didn’t.

  “A wrinkled old man owns it. He’s hunched with a bump on his back.” Christoff demonstrated, walking with a curled spine.

  “And he’s skinnier than Christoad.” Engleberta giggled.

  Christoff glared at her. “He comes down sometimes at night from the upper deck and digs through it. Has some queer things inside.” The boy lifted the lid.

  Willow groaned on the memory. Why had she knelt down? Why had she looked within? Had she no conscience? That small still voice other people were equipped with always seemed to cow to the villainous curiosity which fired her being.

  Perchance God was finally punishing her for that. That’s why she’d met with such an ominous awakening. For there in the old man’s trunk, beneath an avalanche of oddities—ballet shoes, leather harnesses much too small for any horse, coiled ropes of all shaped and sizes, rings and rings of tingling keys, and cylindrical tubes for holding maps and charts—Willow had unearthed Tildey. The doll’s rosy cheeks were worn and faded, her wheat-colored hair a tangled, dingy shadow of its former glory. But there was no mistaking. She would know Tildey anywhere.

  In a warped coincidence, Willow was trapped on an ocean liner with the very past she’d tried so hard to outrun.

  She drew the covers tighter over her face. Her stilted breaths sucked the blanket in and out. A balmy heat enveloped her nose and cheeks on every exhalation. Feeling suffocated, she slapped the covers off and sat up just in time to see Julian peek his head in the door. The scent of roasted duck and buttered truffles slipped by him, titillating her nostrils.

  “Are you hungry? I can make a plate and bring it in.”

  The memory of his tenderness when they first came back to the stateroom—drawing a lavender scented hip bath for her, coaxing her into bed when she was little more than an unresponsive bag of bones—suffused her with comfort and gratitude. But now, seeing the concern in those gray eyes that knew her within and without, stirred vulnerable whispers in her heart, butterfly tremors that shook her chest and made her want to cry like the little girl she once was.

  She refused to give in … to be weak in front of him again. Looking toward the wardrobe where the doll waited within a locked drawer, along with Julian’s gift from the tailor she had yet to open, Willow shook her head. “No. I couldn’t possibly eat.”

  “You need sustenance.” He eased inside with a glance over his shoulder before closing the door and latching the lock. “I’m worried for you. Newton’s worried. He’s been begging to come in and see you. I think he wants to see the doll as well … he seemed captivated by it earlier.”

  Willow hesitated, running a palm along her bared nape. “Is the judge still here?”

  Julian nodded. “He’s eating with Newton in the parlor. I asked him to keep the mouse occupied so I might have some time with you. But he’ll not be leaving our cabin until you’re properly introduced. Until he sees for himself you’re all right.”

  Willow slumped. “I am such a flummet. To expose my identity to your acquaintance. I-I just was so stunned … and, I had to see you. I needed your arms around me.”

  “Shhh.” Julian came to sit on the bed’s edge, smoothing the bangs off her face to kiss her forehead. His lips stayed there, a warm press as he spoke. “It doesn’t matter a whit. He would’ve found out in due time since he’s investing.” Julian drew back, leaving his palms at her temples. “He’ll be coming to the manor for the summer season. Better he find out now. We can trust him, Willow. He won’t say a word. As far as the rest of the passengers and crew on this ship are concerned, you’re still Wilson.”

  Catching Julian’s hand, Willow held it against her cheek. “Thank God for your cleverness … putting your hat on my head and spinning me out the door like you did. I don’t think the tailor would have been quite so compliant as the judge was.”

  A tender smile turned Julian’s lips. “No. But he didn’t see you. And since no one was in the corridor, we’ve nothing to fret over.”

  “But we do have something to fret over.”

  Nudging their foreheads together, Julian sighed. His hands rubbed her arms, sliding the soft fleece of his union suit across her flesh. He’d insisted she change into it earlier, to help alleviate her shivers. “Are you sure that it’s Tildey? After so many years … and other little girls had to have had a similar make of doll.”

  Breathing in his scent of amber, trying to balance in the vortex of emotion which captured her courage and lifted it
out of reach like a withered autumn leaf, Willow gestured to the wardrobe. “Bring her here. I want to show you something.”

  Julian frowned, as if considering the wisdom of such an action, but then complied. As the bed sunk again with his returning weight, Willow slid into the indention so their thighs touched, needing the contact.

  She took the doll. Hands shaking, she turned it over and lifted the ragged pinafore—little more than strands of faded blue thread. Then she tugged down the bloomers with her index finger to expose the doll’s lower back. Etched within the porcelain was a crude rendition of Willow’s tattoo.

  Just as she remembered.

  The sight of it drew her insides tight and pierced them—as if a barbed noose had cinched around her lungs. She couldn’t gauge Julian’s reaction by his expression. Instead, she allowed the hitch in his breath to be her cue to continue. “At the workhouse, one of the boys once took Tildey from me long enough to carve this with a knife. To tease me.”

  The blush of his ears reached his neck. “Had I known you then … had I been there … I would have—”

  Willow stroked his smooth jaw. “I know.”

  “What does this mean? That one of the children at the orphanage took it for themselves in your absence, and in some twist of fate they are here on this liner?”

  “I did have a friend. Her name was Vadette. I gave the doll to her. If she’s here … oh, I would be delighted to see her again.”

  Julian shook his head tentatively. “You said the children mentioned the owner of the trunk being a skinny, old man.”

  “Perhaps her adoptive father?”

  “Perhaps your kidnapper. What if he went looking for you at the orphanage after your escape? What if that farmer and his wife had nothing to give him but your doll?”

  Willow drew her knees to her chest, pulling free the covers from the other side of the bed with her movement. Even wrapped within the bedclothes, she still felt exposed. She had considered that possibility already, and the thought of the old man being responsible for her shattered childhood left her teetering between terror and righteous indignation. After all this time, the chance for answers and sweet revenge might be just beyond the threshold of this stateroom.