The simple act saved the lives of the young student, the baby that would become Lorene, and Darlene.
“I know where this con artist is,” Hetty said. “She promised to stop, but she must have forgotten.”
“Must have,” Penelope echoed. “What do you plan to do? Remind her of that promise?”
“And a bit more.”
Worry crossed Penelope’s face. “This is why Darlene and Benjy rushed to usher Marianne out the house. You say things like this and we all wonder what will happen next.”
“Why always bad things?” Hetty laughed as she tucked the vial away.
“Don’t you know five different stories about preparing for the worst?”
“What’s the worst in this case? There’s nine stories I can tell, and one has a good ending.” Hetty stood, heading for the door. “I’m off to collect my husband. If I do happen to meet Marianne, I apologize for any smoke.”
“That’s not funny, Henrietta!” Penelope called after her, her voice carrying even through the closed door.
Still chuckling, Hetty headed back down the stairs. She had just placed her hand on the doorknob to Darlene’s apartment when she heard someone call her name.
It wasn’t Penelope or anyone she wanted to have her name on their lips.
“Henrietta,” said Charlie Richardson. “I need to talk to you.”
“You may talk.” Hetty swung around to face Marianne’s husband. “That doesn’t mean I’ll listen.”
Faint light illuminated his surprise. “You’re still mad about the dresses?”
“I am mad you took what was meant to be a gift and sold it to others! Maybe it’s my fault for thinking gifts could bridge a peace between Marianne and me, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t wrong!”
“Your work is worth the price I charged. Did you want to be paid?” Charlie reached into his pocket. “I can get you the money and more if you like. Name a figure.”
She paused, taken aback by this generosity. “Any figure?”
“Any.”
Hetty’s answer was on her lips when she saw the gleam in his eyes. He’d tossed bait at her feet, and she’d nearly taken it like a fool.
“No. No money. No listening to a word you have to say.”
Charlie grabbed her arm.
“You must! It’s important. At the elm—”
Hetty coolly meet his gaze and held it until Charlie wisely removed his offending hand.
“Please,” he begged. “You must listen.”
The words were a rasp from the back of his throat, raw and stripped of his usual airs and whimsy.
The man who said these words wasn’t Charlie Richardson, the peacock with eyes toward the next bright shiny thing. The man stooping to beg his case was a Charlie in a raggedy coat and split shoes, with eyes darting to shadows.
Charlie sought her out for trouble he couldn’t handle. But if it was truly dire, he wouldn’t waste time talking to her—he’d go to Benjy. Talking to her was a delay. Unless of course that was the point. She was here to field his request, since he seemed to think Benjy wouldn’t even consider it.
“Can I do something about it right now?” Hetty asked.
“No, but—”
“Then it can wait.” She opened the door. “Tell us together. It’s the better choice.”
“Only choice, you mean.”
“Why, yes.” Hetty paused in the threshold, letting conversation in the next room wash over them. Beams of light striped his face into patches of light and shadow. “Did you think you would get special treatment?”
He didn’t have an answer, or if he did, hadn’t found the right words when she shut the door behind her.
Hetty spotted Marianne right away.
It was hard not to. Marianne was resplendent. She stood in a crimson dress from Lord and Crown. The bright color and the overly complicated waste of fabric was a stark contrast to the dark suits of the men and their wives clustered around her.
Of the group of friends Hetty had formed over the years, Marianne was the only one that did not talk about the days when she had been enslaved, skipping over that chunk of time as if nothing mattered before she arrived in Philadelphia. Darlene claimed it was because of painful memories, but Hetty knew it was tied to Marianne’s ascent into the insular upper class of the city.
Wielding the gifts she was born with, Marianne used her golden-brown complexion, dainty features, and softly curling hair to fit right in with the elite of the city. What she was aiming for was hard to tell. At first Hetty assumed it was a better life, but these days Hetty wondered if it was to forget the past. If that was true, Marianne was doing an astonishingly good job of it.
As Marianne held court, Darlene tiptoed about with a pitcher held in her hands. She weaved through the crowd, refilling drinks, ignored by all until Marianne snapped her fingers. Marianne’s glass floated in the air, all but shoving itself into Darlene’s face. Marianne said something Hetty didn’t hear, but she could guess the gist of the words in the way Darlene’s polite expression curdled into contempt.
But Darlene was a better person than Hetty. Instead of tossing the drink at Marianne, she returned to the kitchen. Darlene paused at the door, and when she looked back her eyes locked on Hetty.
Don’t, Darlene mouthed. With her chin, she pointed in the direction to Hetty’s right, and then disappeared through the door.
When Hetty turned, she could see why Darlene felt confident to leave Hetty in close quarters with Marianne. Benjy was across the room.
Like Marianne, he too stood apart from the crowd around him, due to his rough and muddied attire. He seemed perfectly at ease despite being locked in a conversation with Darlene’s husband, George.
While Charlie had climbed up into society with a skip and jump, George had clawed his way upward inch by inch, enduring taunts and gentle rebukes from all sides. He had fought with the 43rd regiment, witnessing everything from the horrors of the Battle of the Crater to the surrender at Appomattox. George’s experience during the war, as well as his classical education, inspired him to do something great in the world. The classroom that sat below this apartment was the fruit of that inspiration, and his motivation to force himself into the high society world that wasn’t all too welcoming.
“I’m not surprised to see you,” George declared heartily as Hetty approached. “Everyone,” he slurred, “this is Benjamin’s lovely wife, Henrietta. She’s going to be a teacher at my school.”
“I think someone told you a lie.” Hetty eyed George’s flushed face, unsure what brought these words about.
“Why not?” George said. “You know your letters and numbers, and your stories charm children. You’re good with people.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Hetty said as the men around them chuckled. “I’m not teaching anyone anything.”
“Not even magic lessons?”
There was a small outcry at that. Even Benjy’s eyebrows lifted. George’s opinions on magic ran pragmatic and practical—the old mindset that came from the plantations. Back in the old days, magic was a handful of star sigils to till the land, to aid in picking the cash crop of choice or sweeping nettles out of the way. In George’s view, there was no room for inventive or cleverly done spell-work. For him to even float the idea meant one of two things. He was either desperate for teachers, or drunk.
Hetty leaned toward the latter.
“She’s exceptionally good with magic.” George spun around to the crowd, waving a hand about. “Every story you heard about these two, they’re all true!”
When he didn’t get the response he expected, George blathered on. “You haven’t heard of them? Have none of you heard? Benjamin and Henrietta Rhodes worked as conductors for the Vigilance Society when it was still up and running. You know of Joseph Mills or Della Reynolds? These two brought them up north, and a slew of others. Some that are even in this room right now!”
Eyes went to Hetty and Benjy, but as always, greater doubt swung back around to her.
“Is your sister as pretty as you?” one of the men called.
“That’s a story for another day.”
Hetty forced out a laugh she nearly choked on. She needed to leave this room; she needed to leave now. In moments, they would ask the question people asked when learning of this sliver of her past. And she was in no mood to spin a pleasing lie.
Hetty pushed her way through the group. Benjy followed close behind, whispering what he thought were consoling words.
“Don’t mind him, he was drunk.”
“Anyone could guess that.” Hetty stomped down the stairs, welcoming the rush of cool air against her face. “With him acting as if I was going to be one of his teachers! What was he thinking getting that deep into his cups! Can’t imagine it makes him a good host.”
“George always has some at gatherings like this,” Benjy said. “Thinks it makes people like him. I’m not sure if he does it due to experience or Richardson putting the thought in his ear.”
The mention of Charlie made Hetty forget all about George, as she recalled her earlier conversation.
As they headed down the street, Hetty glanced up at the dimly lit streetlamps over their heads and considered her next words.
“Did you see Charlie earlier?”
“I got a glimpse.” There was a long pause. “Why do you ask?”
“Charlie twisted my ear with a tale of trouble. Said it was important and seemed to think you wouldn’t listen to his ramblings.”
“That’s one thing he’s right about.” Benjy’s words were quiet, but they snapped and crackled in the air with an anger that couldn’t find its target. “Is someone in danger?”
“He didn’t say.” Hetty kept her words light and airy, but underneath her curiosity stirred.
Her falling-out with Marianne had been looming on the horizon for some time, but Benjy and Charlie met regularly to play cards. Or at least she thought they did.
“Then he was right,” Benjy said. “I won’t listen to him.”
“What if I convince you otherwise?”
“If you cared about what he had to say, we’d already be talking to him.”
“I didn’t, but now that I know you’re against it, I do.”
“Not tonight.”
“Not tonight,” Hetty echoed, not wishing to wage a battle when she didn’t care about the outcome. There would be plenty of other chances to talk with Charlie.
After all, Charlie never gave up without a fight.
SAGITTARIUS
Interlude
October 1858
BOYKIN FARM, SOUTH CAROLINA
BEFORE HER SISTER had come back from the Big House to tell her, Hetty knew good and well someone had run off.
“You heard the alarm?” Esther asked as she plopped down on her pallet.
“Didn’t have to,” Hetty grunted. The heat of flames ran along her neck, and it was all she could do to keep from tugging at her collar. “Punishments started. Don’t look at me like that,” she added when Esther’s head whipped around. “This ain’t nothing that hasn’t happened before.”
Esther settled, running a finger through the dirt floor of their cabin, her next words soft and filled with resentment. “It shouldn’t be happening at all.”
The silver collar at Hetty’s neck, at the neck of every slave that could do magic, was always on Hetty’s mind. There was no way it couldn’t be. It was always there. Pinching as she slept, rubbing her skin raw every time she moved, and leaving her shivering when cold weather reared its head. The overseer took pleasure in grabbing it whenever she looked at him funny, jerking her head up so he could blow stale smoke in her face. The collar marked her. It told everyone that set eyes on her she was magic enough to be trouble. And the ones that didn’t know that would know she was a runaway when the collar started ringing like a bell.
This was all very bad, but not as much as the Punishments.
The Punishments sent sharp pricks like needles jabbing into your neck, or made your skin burn like fire that seared until you couldn’t breathe.
Hetty got enough of them that she knew how to push down the pain—to reduce it to a dull ache, one that never quite went away. But usually she had time to prepare. Just like you knew you were going to get slapped for saying the wrong thing. You do magic, you hurt for it.
But this morning was too new for her to have done anything wrong. That meant the pain she’d just felt was from someone else kicking up dust.
“Who was it? I know it was someone magic.”
“Solomon ran off last night,” Esther said. “I heard them talking as I left Little Miss’s room. I hope he makes it to freedom.”
Hetty could only grunt, not wanting to tell her sister it was his only option if he wanted to live.
* * *
Usually, Hetty worked in the weaving room, stitching and sewing the day away. To keep their mother’s garden patch, she had swapped places with Nan for the change of a moon. That put Hetty working in the kitchen under Tilly’s blistering tongue, but it was a worthwhile trade. Esther had been worried they’d lose the patch, which still had plants their mother had touched and cared for. This arrangement put that worry aside until the spring. But Esther was happy, and that was all Hetty cared about.
Hetty kept thinking about those plants and her sister’s smile all morning as she helped prep supper. Her pleasant thoughts made a strong barrier against the rough side of Tilly’s words.
The pain at her neck was harder to ignore. With each breath it got sharper and sharper, until Hetty put down the knife—before she lopped her thumb instead of the carrot.
“Stop your cloud gazing,” snapped Tilly. “You might be Connie’s girl, but unless you got a bit of her skill, you don’t get to sit around. Shoo—get that pan into the fire. You can do that, can’t you?”
Biting down on her tongue, Hetty held the pan over the flames, shifting and shaking it as needed. When she lifted it to shake it once more that fire kissed her skin. The pan slipped right out of her hands, and fear plunged her forward as she saw every terrible thing that would follow if she burned Master’s breakfast. When her hands grabbed the bottom of the pan, relief was her most prominent feeling—before flames lapped against her palms.
She didn’t scream.
Others did. But somehow the noise never left Hetty’s throat.
She felt the pain but nothing else. Everything flowed around her. People pulling her back, the hot pan being stepped over, Tilly’s horrified face. And then, finally, Esther was there to do something about Hetty’s red and bubbling hands.
The wrappings hadn’t been replaced twice before Hetty was summoned into the parlor the next day.
Mistress lounged on a chaise, rubbing the ears of the evil creature in her lap. The dog didn’t growl at Hetty, not like it usually did. Perhaps it found something to pity with the bandages.
The room was full of beautiful things: the curtain, the rug on the floor, the pictures hanging on the wall. Painted pictures, she remembered. These folks called it art.
The only thing that wasn’t beautiful in the room was the overseer. He was perched on the edge of one of the dining room chairs, sweat dripping off his forehead and mud clinging to his boots.
“Mister Tibbs,” Mistress said. “Take a look at her hands. See those bandages? She got burned because you went above and beyond your place.”
“She’s collared.” Tibbs stumbled over his words. “I was told—”
“Yes, I know,” Mistress sliced into his words. “My husband gave you orders to punish the collared slaves. I have no problem with that. But this girl is mine. I came into this household with five slaves, and any children they bore became my property. I can’t breed her since she has too mu
ch magic, but she’s the best seamstress in the county. I’ve gained favor by lending her out to my neighbors and gotten invitations I only dreamed about. You best pray her hands heal properly, for you’ve cost me a great deal of money.”
“But she wasn’t supposed to be in the kitchen,” the overseer stammered. “She switched her placement around—”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re still fired.”
“Mistress, I—”
A wand slid into her slender, milk-pale hand, though no words came to light it with a spell. “You’re fired. Leave before I have my husband forcibly remove you. And you,” Mistress said to Hetty as the overseer stumbled out. “If your hands are not healed by the end of winter, you’re going to the fields. Your mother was my favorite. I took good care of you on account of her. But if you can’t sew, you’re no use to me.”
Hetty said the right things, mumbling and stumbling over words just as Mistress wanted her to, all while staring at one of the paintings on the wall. And as she did, she realized that it wasn’t just art. It was something far more important.
It was a map.
* * *
“The healing salve won’t work if you keep drawing in the ground with your fingers,” Esther said as she tended the little plants in their mother’s patch, keeping her body in the way of anyone who might look over at Hetty. “You ain’t drawing star sigils?” She paused and considered something worse. “Or words?”
“No,” Hetty said. Esther’s shoulders had just relaxed when she added, “This is a map. I saw it in the parlor. It shows the land around here and beyond.” Hetty pointed at the messy marks. “I don’t remember most of it. There are lines and colors, and words. I need to get it all in my mind, tell it over and over like a story, and then I’ll—”
The Conductors Page 3
