The Hummingbird Heart

by A. G. Howard

  Willow’s insides cinched to an excruciating heaviness, as if someone had sewn all of her organs together and tightened the seams. “Did they also tell you that I watched Mama die? That her neck cracked when she hit the ground? Did they tell you of the sound, how it snapped the air like lightning … how it torched my heart to ash?”

  A garbled sob shook Sala’s throat. “They both paid with their lives for what they did to her. I wept for her, Nadia. For so many years …”

  “And what of my papa? Did you mourn him? He was good to me. Kind and devoted. He didn’t deserve to die.”

  Sala’s jaw twitched as a lamp overhead flickered with the train’s motion. “He stole your mother from me. For that he merited a flogging. But the moment he took you, he merited death.” An agonized turn to his chin, Sala held out the hummingbird ring. “This was Mariette’s wedding ring, discarded in our room when she left me. I put it on my finger. A vow to find you … a vow that when I did, I would take you back and care for you—the one perfect product of our union.” He slipped the ring onto Willow’s finger over her glove.

  In spite of the flood of emotions radiating from her finger to her heart, she scowled and tugged it off, returning it to him. “Subjecting a child’s tender flesh to the needling fire of a tattoo; sending her to a rundown orphanage where no one knew or loved her. Is that your idea of caring, Sala?”

  His dark-lashed gaze fell to the floor and snagged upon the crumbled butterfly wings. He leaned over to rake the fragile fragments onto his palm before sitting up again, forehead wrinkled. “I could not lose you a second time. I had to ensure you would be safe while I was away. Had to have some means to keep you separate from the other children, so there wouldn’t be any mix-ups.” His brows furrowed further as he rubbed the wing particles against his hand with a fingertip then shook them into the air. They drifted to the ground once more, leaving an imprint of their tinted dust on his skin. “I marked you to protect you.” He held up his colorful palm, as if to underline his point.

  “Ah. And your plan was flawless.” Willow caught his wrist and forced his palm to swipe a cloth napkin on the table, transferring the residue. “Did you ever consider how easy that mark would be to emulate?” She shoved his hand away.

  Another sob caught in his throat. “Louisa said you wished to forgive me … to know me.”

  I will never forgive you, voi bastardi. Willow bit back the response. For one, she couldn’t say it aloud because a small part of her somewhere wanted to learn to forgive. To get past this obstacle that had always stood in the path of her future. According to Louisa, this was the part where Willow was supposed to fold to tears and mold Sala like putty in her hands so he would agree to her participation in the theft.

  But she had no tears to give. She’d cried most of them alone throughout her childhood then shared the remainder with Julian on the ship. Her well had run dry. Without tears, forgiveness was out of reach. So far out of reach.

  “I am here because of my blood,” she retorted, stamping her Italian words with proficiency, as if she’d never traded them for English. “It drives me, just as it does you. I’ve glutted myself on petty thievery my entire life, never feeling fulfilled. I suspect I need the danger of something bigger—the thrill of possible capture—to appease me. Louisa informs me that you need an aerialist for this job, since you lost the one you had. I want to become part of the troupe.”

  Sala frowned and lifted his hand; he looked as if he might reach out to touch her hair, her face. Instead, he removed the lid from the tray of food and began to dish out round cakes of meat smothered in gravy. “No, the climb is too high.”

  Willow huffed. “Too high? Is that not the very reason you had me keep to my trapeze training in the orphan house? So I could steal for you one day … take on capers such as this that no one else could manage?”

  His face darkened to sternness. “No. I had you keep to your aerial stunts because you loved to fly. It made you happy. This job. It is too big a risk. I am not willing to let you take it. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

  The joy in his voice when he spoke of Willow’s love for flying, the worry upon his face at the thought of her in danger—his duel reactions were as conflicted as her own feelings. The train’s shuddering movements rocked through her limbs but she kept her gaze steady on him, unwilling to fall prey to his counterfeit sentiments … too little too late.

  “Mama is dead. She has little say in my choices. And as you’re the one who took her from me, you have no say at all.” The words tasted of vinegar and bile. She noted the glimmer in her peripheral where the hummingbird ring he’d placed back on his pinky caught a snatch of light.

  Wincing as if she’d struck him, he pushed a plate of steaming food toward her. “Where have you been all these years?”

  “What bearing does that have on our present situation?”

  “It is just … I never expected you to be so calculating. So cold.”

  Willow took a fork in her hand and stirred the gravy, hardening her heart against a nauseating desire to act the part of a gentlelady for the sole purpose of experiencing his paternal pride. “Would you rather I be like you? A murderer, haunted by ghosts. A daring thief so fearful of heights he stood helpless as his son drowned … a doting father who broke the heart of a girl he thought was his daughter and drove her to take her own life. You are tormented by thoughtless mistakes and choices. I’d much rather be calculating and detached if it means freedom from guilt.”

  Her cutting remarks had the desired effect. She watched his spirit crumble, affecting a deep slouch of his broad shoulders. Her own shoulders drooped in sympathy but she stiffened them back to a straight line. She couldn’t allow remorse to seep in, or she’d lose all of the control she had gained.

  “Louisa has told you far more than she should have,” Sala mumbled.

  “Why do you think it was Louisa? Perhaps it was one of your ghosts.”

  A sickened tinge tainted his complexion, mirroring the hue of the turnip greens on his plate. He nudged his food aside. Elbow propped on the table, he massaged his temple. “If I let you do this, will you stay with me? Give me time to make everything up to you?”

  An eternity would not be long enough to make such losses up to me.

  “Yes, I will stay.” Willow choked out the lie then plunged a savory bite of meat cake into her mouth to quell the bitterness. For the first time since she’d boarded this blasted train, she had the upper hand. And in spite of the uncountable, incomprehensible emotions at war within her, her appetite had returned.

  Twenty-Three

  Diurnal assignments for Tuesday, April 29, 1904:

  1. Detain the big-boned actress before the train reaches the depot; 2. Accompany the mime troupe to the fairgrounds; 3. Send Newton to find Sala and lure him to me; 4. Rescue Willomena.

  A wrought iron fence ran along the middle of Forest Park, enclosing the fairgrounds. Weaving through the gates, Julian’s carriage rolled across Skinker Road behind a caravan of actresses. Horse hooves clopped in procession, overplaying cricket songs and the trickling water from the Fountain Angel which greeted the group one by one as they came through.

  His own troupe had split up, each taking a separate hackney cab from the depot as opposed to the hansoms the other two thespian troupes and their chaperones had shared. The open four-wheeled hackneys were often used for patrons with inordinate amounts of luggage, as the back seat was roomy—three times the size of a hansom. In the case of the mimes, they needed the extra space and open ceiling for the huge hoop-skirts that nearly bubbled up to their chins when they sat.

  Julian propped his arms over the balloon-like contraption, feeling like he’d swallowed a parasol that sprouted open within him. He had worn trousers, a vest, and shirt beneath the disguise in hopes that once he and Newton found a place to hide, he could lose the cumbersome outer-trappings.

  Exerting pressure on the skirt with his gloved palms, Julian assured the hem grazed the carriage floor, keepi
ng Newton hidden within the tent-like space. By Newton’s stillness, Julian surmised the mouse had fallen asleep. It gave him an unexpected comfort to feel the warm breath against his trousers and a tiny pair of arms wrapped around his shin and calf. A coil of protectiveness unwound within him. The boy had shown his adroitness, bobbing in and out of crowds on the ship’s deck to pickpocket, and he knew the fairground map, inside and out. Otherwise, Julian would’ve forfeited this plan hours ago. He was relying on the hope that Newton was as adept at subterfuge as he seemed.

  The chill, damp breeze picked up and the thick netted veil attached to Julian’s velvet toque swayed and clung to his lashes. He thanked the stars that his brother wasn’t here to witness this humility. Nick would never let him live down wearing a wig, theatrical white-face, and fancies, especially now that the driver was nursing an ill-born infatuation. The rat-nosed lout had been enamored ever since Julian first climbed into the cab.

  In order to keep anyone from seeing Newton, Julian told the lad to hold on for dear life to Julian’s waist beneath the steel-framed hoop upon the climb into the carriage—to keep Newton hidden beneath the billowing black skirts. When Julian had tried to scale the step, he’d almost fallen backward due to the misbalanced weight. The driver caught him from behind. He proceeded to push Julian into the rear passenger seat, but not without first giving his bust two firm squeezes.

  The birdseed bosoms must have been convincing, for ever since the incident, the driver kept looking over his shoulder at Julian from the raised seat in front, a depraved glint in his eyes.

  As if hearing Julian’s thoughts, the driver swiveled and glanced down at him. “I know yer not to speak and all that … but what say”—he leaned over the seat’s edge to spit a wad of brownish saliva onto the passing road—“once yer practicing gets done, you meet me behind the boiler house there.” He motioned to a big square building coming up on their right. “Don’t need words to be hospitable with one another.” The sickly sweet scent of tobacco drifted back to Julian as the man laughed.

  Julian narrowed his eyes, tempted to pound the weasel into a greasy puddle. Instead, he drew out a black fan tucked within the sash at his waist and opened it in front of his veiled face. A grunt then a creaking sound announced that the driver turned back around in his seat.

  Rainclouds had rolled in. They couldn’t be seen, but the smell was unmistakable. Julian was glad the mimes had anticipated this weather. Their costumes were made of a water-proof wool fabric called Auquascuturn, and though heavy and rather warm, would protect his clothes and Newton underneath. St. Louis had been excessively wet over the past month, affecting the rivers and watercourses. In fact, the River Des Peres had been temporarily placed underground in a wooden channel for the fair, to allow people to walk over it where the river flooded parts of Forest Park.

  The carriage lurched as they took a right turn on a skinny road between the boiler house and the Machinery Pavilion. From behind the fan, Julian scanned the scenery. The sounds and smells of animals grew more prominent on the breeze. Elephants, cattle, and even giraffes were to be exhibited on different parts of the grounds. The fifteen main fair attractions were separated into temporary ‘palaces,’ immensely intricate buildings made of a disposable fiber-based plaster.

  Shadows draped the ornate domed columns. Spired towers pierced the night sky and blocked what little moonlight filtered through the clouds, leaving only the lamps from the carriages to light up the extraordinary sights Julian had once been so anxious to see and learn from. Now he didn’t give a whit. All he wanted was to be on his way home with Willow and Newton safe in his arms.

  He wondered how much longer it would be until they reached the Japanese Pavilion. Even in the dark, the vastness of the grounds was awe-inspiring. It would be impossible to take in an exposition of such size in less than a week. One would have to stay for an entire month. That’s why many families, including Judge Arlington’s, had rented rooms at the Inside Inn, which was said to have space enough for two thousand people.

  Julian could’ve shared one of those rooms with Willow had he not been such an overbearing prude. She could’ve been awaiting opening day with him right at this moment, had he bought her a ticket from the very beginning instead of dropping her at the school. She never would have been in steerage, never would have found that blasted doll. He could have shared his stateroom, pretended they were husband and wife. Now he might never have the chance to make that fantasy a reality.

  The edge of Julian’s skirt lifted. Newton ventured a peek out over the cab’s low hanging boot. Julian let the boy have his curiosity, being it on the side opposite to the driver. No doubt, Newton was disappointed by what he saw tonight, having heard the descriptions Julian read aloud from the magazine’s articles. Enthusiastic writers wove scenes of the tantalizing scents: hot dogs, sauerkraut, gumbo; of the sights: a giant flight cage filled with birds, the Festive Hall and water Cascades illuminated with thousands of glimmering lights, stands brimming with vividly colored spun-sugar delights called fairy floss; and of the sounds: the buzz of foreign languages, music on every corner, and the hum of commerce in full swing.

  Tonight, the only sound was a horse’s occasional nicker, hushed voices in the hansom cabs speaking of the upcoming rehearsal, and the roll of thunder.

  Newton jerked back into his hiding place just as lightning streaked the sky, illuminating the Ferris wheel looming ahead like the skeletal web of some mythological spider-god. Even from this short distance, the cars were enormous. Julian had read they were the size of a train’s caboose, each one able to hold up to sixty passengers. He wished Willow could be sitting next to him to share the magnificent sight. He loved the way her eyes sparkled upon seeing one of his rides come to life. Thinking of how she would react to this masterpiece made the ache within his chest excruciating.

  Some movement caught his attention, as if the giant wheel were rotating; but it was little more than a distorted shadow from behind his veil now that the sky had darkened again. It must have been a trick of light, as the ride would not be running tonight.

  They reached the Japanese Pavilion and the carriage pulled up alongside the others in the caravan. Julian scrambled up in his awkward attire, managing to descend from the carriage before his rodent-faced suitor could put on the brakes and climb down himself. Newton did a tremendous job of hanging on for life beneath the hoop, then tottering along in sync with Julian as they took up walking.

  Julian disregarded the driver’s parting lewd comments and caught up with the mimes. The patter of rain eddied beneath the voices of the other troupes walking in front of them. Julian took up the rear. He moved slower than anyone, partly due to the boy hidden beneath his vast skirt, and also to facilitate his search for a hiding place in the Japanese Imperial Garden.

  The actresses crossed a footbridge over a small, gurgling stream, their path lit by the soft amber glow of ground lanterns carved in stone. Julian found the perfect secluded spot just on the other side of some Bonsai trees. He ventured a step to the right behind some unknown foliage—aromatic as cherries—and felt his way along the lightless trail which led around a small hill. Little Newton scrambled next to his legs beneath the skirt. As soon as he was out of sight, Julian lifted his crinoline to allow the mouse an outlet.

  With Newton’s help, Julian peeled off the costume and the corseted birdseed bosoms. He drew off the veil and took a deep breath of rain-scented air while setting aside the bubbling cage and petticoat. Then he slid the blousy water proof shirt over Newton to help keep him dry. The hem came to just below the boy’s knees.

  After Julian pulled the waterproof basque and hoop-less skirt over himself again to protect his own clothes, he tried to glimpse the Ferris wheel once more. The drizzle had grown harder, almost biting on the exposed flesh of his nape beneath his wig, and it was difficult to see through the downpour. Julian coaxed Newton to slip with him under the dress hoop where it bubbled on the ground like a giant mushroom. The petticoat that stretched ato
p the crinoline was similar enough to a tent to provide sanctuary from the rain.

  Crouched inside with the mouse, Julian listened as a million droplets pelted their sanctuary. His wig—weighted down with water—slipped sideways on his head. He cast it to the ground and rubbed the wetness from his neck. Thunder shook all around and lightning torched the darkness again.

  Newton knelt beside him, his black eyes eerie, vapid holes in the bright flash. His curly hair stood up on his head—a mess of static from rubbing against the fabric on the walk over. Julian had used some of his white makeup to smear along the boy’s face for a ghostly effect. He presented a haunting image; one that would surely disturb and beguile his father enough to follow him. Julian wrestled another bout of guilt for endangering him. “So, you know what to do then?”

  In way of an answer, Newton pointed to his feet as lightning struck once more.

  “Yes.” Julian ruffled the boy’s damp hair, magnifying his disheveled appearance to a ghoulish level. “Yes, we will search for Nadia later. But first, you bring Sala to me. He’ll know where your sister is. Let him see you, but do not let him catch you. Keep looking behind to see that he’s following. Then make your way back here.”

  Their surroundings grew darker. Julian felt the movements in the small space as Newton pointed to his shoes again. “The only way to get Nadia back is to bring your father to me. Understand?”

  Julian cupped the boy’s nape to feel him nod. Noticing the wetness on Newton’s neck, Julian buttoned the waterproof shirt all the way to Newton’s collarbone. “This will keep you warm and dry, alright?”

  Newton nodded again.

  Taken off guard by his own emotions, Julian tugged the child forward and gave him a hug. A pair of tiny arms closed around his shoulders. He blinked away a burning sensation from his eyes.

  “Godspeed, little mouse.” Julian nuzzled his warm forehead, tasting the basil-honey soap he’d washed the boy’s face with last night. As soon as the rain let up, Julian sent Newton down the trail, biting his tongue to the point of cutting just to keep from calling him back. Then Julian settled beneath the caged contraption to wait.