Hetty stepped around the table and drew the Leo sigil in the air. A star-speckled lion lunged at Charlie’s body, only to meet a wall of silver light head on. It vanished on impact.
“I see you set boundary protections.” Hetty found the sigil Oliver had drawn on the table. Pisces pulsed against the wood. “Yet you say you aren’t worried about a curse?”
“These are just the usual protections,” Oliver blustered, nearly sloshing his drink onto his clothes. “I had to set them up after the last man you brought me nearly burned my house down.”
“We learned to check for latent magic.” Hetty met his gaze and only saw her scowling reflection in his glasses. “We wouldn’t have brought him here if it wasn’t safe. You don’t need the boundary.”
“I most certainly do.” Oliver stood, using what little height he had over her to his benefit. “I need to find out how he died. Given the circumstances, I wish to be a bit cautious. Or maybe I won’t be here to collect dead bodies the next time you come around.”
This bit was directed over her head at Benjy. Hetty snapped her fingers to bring Oliver’s eyes back down to her. “You don’t need protections. I already know how he died.”
“You do?” Benjy asked. “You didn’t get that close to the body.”
“I didn’t. But you’re covered in blood. It’s hardly a big mystery.”
Benjy looked down at his shirt and stared a bit too long at the dark splatters across his chest and arms. The location as well as the shape had given Hetty pause when she first noted them, but hardly enough to worry. She was more surprised he hadn’t noticed. Benjy was usually three steps ahead of her. Was Charlie’s death that shocking that he could have missed such an obvious thing? Or was the failing on her part? Now that the shock had passed, she found herself annoyed by the mess that remained. In some ways, it felt like Charlie’s last laugh.
“This happened when I carried Charlie here,” Benjy murmured.
“That can only mean one thing.” Oliver put his mug aside and rubbed his hand across the sigil drawn onto the table. The boundary faded, and Oliver reached to turn Charlie over.
The light revealed a large dark spot between Charlie’s shoulder blades. “He was stabbed in the back.”
“He wasn’t wearing these clothes when he was killed. Yet he bled again.”
“It might not be blood,” Oliver said. With a jerk of Oliver’s hand, Charlie flipped back onto his back with a small thump. “It could be the sigil. Perhaps you might want to try a purification spell on yourself. It could be poison.”
“I doubt that’s the case.” Benjy touched the splotches on his shirt. “It’s trouble—not curses—that seems to follow Charlie.”
“It certainly does.” Oliver’s shoulders sank. “What are we going to do about him? Surely you’re not going to leave him with the police?”
“No,” Hetty interjected. “Not with that mark on him. It’ll cause a panic.”
Oliver looked to Benjy.
“It will,” was Benjy’s simple reply. “I don’t want to draw attention.”
“I can’t see how you’ll avoid that,” Oliver said. “This is Charlie Richardson, not some old man you found in a park missing his hands. People will notice he hasn’t been seen around town for several days. You can’t keep this quiet.”
“This was never going to be quiet.” Benjy shook his head. “Someone killed Charlie with great deliberation, and we need to find out why.”
“Then he needs a funeral,” Oliver said.
“Are you offering to put together services?”
“It will give me a reason to keep him here longer, to discover all I can.”
“I think you’re both galloping after a star that hasn’t fallen yet,” Hetty interjected. “Marianne needs to be told about Charlie. I’m certain she’ll have a few opinions about you handling the funeral, especially if she has no say in the matter.”
“That’s right.” Benjy nodded. “She needs to be told. I’m glad you agreed to do it, Hetty.”
“Me?” Hetty crossed her arms over her chest. “I never said anything about that!”
“Who else would do the honor? You’re so much better with words. Marianne will appreciate hearing the news from you.”
Marianne would not, for a variety of reasons, but Benjy always said the wrong thing when talking to mourners—and Oliver was even worse.
“Should I tell her about the sigil carved in his chest?” Hetty asked as Oliver pulled a sheet over Charlie. The light of a preservation charm shone as fabric touched skin. “She might know something.”
“I wouldn’t.” Benjy shook his head. “I want to keep that bit quiet. I don’t believe in curses, but if we’re going to find out who did this, we don’t need to make a monster out of a mere mortal.”
“Too late,” Hetty said. “Only a monster could have done this.”
ANDROMEDA
Interlude
March 1860
ROCK CREEK FARM, NORTH CAROLINA
SHUT UP IN THE COFFIN, Hetty couldn’t do much more than lie there, listening to the roll of wagon wheels against the packed earth. Hours in darkness taught her every creak the wagon made as it bounced along, yet she still waited for the moment when the bumping, rolling, and creaking would cease and the next sound she’d hear would be her last. Although she paid the undertaker enough money to trust him, she remained as jumpy as a frog caught on dry land. Despite the spells she knew and even the knife shoved in her boot, if the night patrol opened the lid she would die in this coffin—and that was if she was lucky.
If she wasn’t, well, she was certainly never going to see her sister again.
Planning a route that would take her to the tobacco fields of North Carolina was hardly any trouble. As luck would have it, the older couple who gave her a bed in their attic were station masters. Their home was not just a hub for the Vigilance Society, but the point at which all communications in and out of Philadelphia went through. After Hetty learned how to read, it was easy to find the time to sift through the missives, learning names and important codes, as well as whom to contact for her journey. The rest was simple. She saved her coins, gathered supplies in secret, listened to the stories of the conductors whenever they passed through, and sent a series of messages down south. Once she got a response regarding the whereabouts of her sister, Hetty set off.
And now here she was, living out the plan she made.
The wagon slowed to a stop.
Hetty heard creaks along the wagon bed, along with soft mumbling. Only when she heard the rhythmic taps on the lid did her hand slip away from the knife at her side.
“End of the line,” grumbled the undertaker as he opened the coffin lid. He chewed on a stick, eyes darting around as Hetty sat up. The lantern dangling on the wagon swayed, making shadows jump along his bearded face. It wasn’t a kind face, and the darkness did little to soften his features. But he took her aboard without a word.
Hetty lifted her head toward the stars dancing over her head, breathing in and out slowly.
“Do you need any more money?”
“Your companion took care of that,” the undertaker said. “Shoed my horses before we left. If I had the means, I would take him on. Best work I ever seen, even for a Negro.”
Hetty climbed out the coffin, ignoring the pinpricks in her feet and calves as she lurched toward the other one on the wagon. She knocked on the lid just once before yanking it open.
“Get up,” Hetty said, “or we’ll be late.”
Benjy yawned, slowly rising to a sitting position. “Aren’t we there already?”
“On the outskirts,” the white man said. “It’s as far as I can go. Hurry now. I need to be on my way.”
Hetty jumped off the wagon and Benjy followed a breath later, his bag of tools jingling behind him.
The undertaker departed with his empty caskets, the light on his wagon shrinking down the road until shadows swallowed him up.
Hetty and Benjy likewise vanished, leaving the ro
ad for the protective embrace of the woods.
Above their heads, the stars blinked in and out of sight depending on the stretch of the branches. The woods went on for several miles according to Old Annie, and to avoid getting lost they needed to find a tree with a dipper gouged into its bark. From this tree they would go east, drawing near to the quarters where they would meet their contact. Any other direction would put them off the path and into danger.
Hetty walked to each tree, rubbing her hands along the bark, going up, down, and around as her fingers sought the carving.
Nearby, Benjy pressed his hand against a tree but didn’t circle it like Hetty. He stayed still, and it was hard to tell if he was pushing it or letting it support him.
“I don’t like this,” Benjy murmured. “Danger catches up when you stand still.”
“This is the plan.” Hetty absently touched her neck. The bumpy, scarred skin remained even after a year of applying healing salve to it. “The contact gave us a spot to meet, and we’ll be there at the right time.”
“If he’s not there? Do you have a plan for that?”
Hetty stayed quiet, moving to the next tree.
After a few moments, Benjy’s voice came from behind her.
“You don’t have a plan.” His voice was flat, but there was no accusation in there, nor surprise. “Did you ever have one?”
This stung. Not because it wasn’t true. She had a plan, but he’d ruined it.
Benjy was never supposed to come.
The blacksmith’s apprentice followed her out of Philadelphia because she’d stolen a broken collar from the forge. He claimed he would be blamed for the theft. If theft was his concern, Benjy would have returned to Philadelphia once the collar was in his hands a long time ago. Instead, he traveled with her like a grim disapproving shadow, his mere presence requiring her to make hasty arrangements with contacts who weren’t expecting two people.
The further they traveled it was clear she wasn’t going to get rid of him.
“You didn’t have to come.” Hetty’s nails dug into her palm. “You chose to not turn back. Why come all this way? You didn’t even know my name when you set off.”
“I knew you were doing something I didn’t have the courage to do.”
This was not the answer Hetty had expected. Her surprise left a pause long enough for him to barrel on in a rush of words.
“I left people behind too,” Benjy continued. “Not blood kin like you, but we were as close as that near the end. I was the only one who made it. I thought that to honor that sacrifice I needed to stay safe and free. I was a coward to think that was the only thing I could do.”
“I’m not brave.” Hetty shook her head. “I’m scared.”
“You should be,” Benjy said. “It would be dangerous if you weren’t.”
She grunted, acknowledging his words, before she returned to her search. After a few moments more of running fingers along rough bark, Benjy called out to her.
“Here.” Benjy patted the tree. “This one has the mark. Where do we go next?”
Hetty put her hand on the dipper mark and then looked up at the sky. The stars aligned, and her fears faded as she saw the path made from the stars. “We go east.”
* * *
East they went, conversation falling by the wayside as they drew near the plantation. The stars guided them around traps left by overseers in the woods—from simple snares such as bells strung to the branches of trees, to complex spells hidden under fallen leaves. Eventually the stars led them to a man sitting in a pool of moonlight, whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a bird.
Hetty tugged at Benjy’s arm, and Benjy whistled out a bird’s song like their contact had instructed them to do. The man’s knife stilled, and he pitched his voice toward the shadows.
“Just like Old Annie said,” the man said rather cheerfully. “You must be the conductors.”
“You’re the one we’re supposed to meet?” Hetty asked.
“Yes.” the man beckoned them forward in the light. “You’re in luck—there’s quite a to-do up at the Big House tonight.”
“A party?”
“Much better than that. The young miss wants to elope with her fellow . . . and he’s Irish. Missus fainted dead away.”
The man led them to the quarters. The cabins were arranged in neat rows like the tobacco their occupants picked, but that was the only neat thing about them. The cabins were tightly packed and squat structures, some with the look of rotting wood. Firelight flickered in a few windows, while others were dark as the night. Hetty and Benjy followed the man past most of the cabins until he entered one at the very end of a row. Hetty took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, before slipping inside.
A dying fire illuminated the cabin, casting light and shadows unevenly around the room. As Hetty’s eyes adjusted, she saw a living space that had much in common with the one she left behind in South Carolina. The same walls—so close together you need only to stretch out your arms to touch both sides at once. The only difference was this one had wooden floors instead of packed dirt.
The man that led them there moved towards the fire, where a gray-haired woman sat darning a shirt. The man bent over to speak, and the woman’s hands stilled.
Benjy placed himself by the doorway, half in the room and half out the door. Hetty ignored his watchful gaze, just as she ignored the hurried whispered conversation across the room.
Her attention went to the young girl sitting on a pallet with a bundle clutched to her chest. Her face remained in shadow until she looked up at Hetty.
The age was right, as were the delicate features that held a certain sweetness and charm. Taken together, however, none of it was right.
“This girl isn’t Esther,” Hetty said, staring into the face of a stranger.
“Esther was here until a moon ago,” the older woman said. She carefully placed her mending aside as she stood. “She was sold with a few others to settle a debt.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know. But far from here,” the man said. “The buyers weren’t local.”
Hetty almost stopped breathing.
She had traveled all this way and was no closer to seeing Esther.
“That means,” Hetty rasped as the floorboards lurched and shifted under her feet, “we have to go.”
“You’ll still take Poppy with you? Won’t you?” The older woman’s voice cracked in the air. “I’m sorry she isn’t the girl you’re looking for,” she said, without a trace of sympathy gracing her deeply lined face. “She can’t stay here. You must take her.”
Hetty looked back down at the girl, who was clutching the bag even tighter now. She wore no collar around her neck. She likely didn’t know magic, or if she did, not enough to be punished for it. She was pretty, delicate, and young, and Hetty suddenly understood why the news about Esther not being here anymore didn’t reach her ears.
“You’re about to be sold, aren’t you?” Hetty asked, although it was hardly a question. “To the breeding farms?”
Poppy nodded. “Buyer will be here in a few days. You coming here is a blessing.”
“It’s just luck,” Hetty said, looking away from those bright, hopeful eyes. “Stand. You’re coming with us. Your mother, too.”
“I’m not her mother,” the woman said quickly. “I just want her safe.”
“She’ll be safer if you come along,” Hetty said quite reasonably. “To look after her.”
“In that case, mind if I come along too?” the man drawled. “I hate to be left out.”
Hetty glanced over at Benjy from his position at the door, waiting for the protests he would surely make.
They had planned to take only one person back with them. This scenario had never entered her mind at all. A girl that was not her sister and two grown adults. Not to mention an eager buyer arriving in a matter of days who would give chase. Surely Benjy would protest this.
Yet when Hetty found Benjy’s eyes, she saw no complaints, only
a steady gaze eagerly awaiting her next move.
Leave them, take them—no matter her choice, he would support her.
If these people were willing to run, how could she refuse to help them? How could she refuse anyone with the courage to walk down this dark and twisting road?
“Just be ready to listen,” Hetty said with a confidence she didn’t feel. “That’s the rule. Listen to me and keep up, because otherwise we’ll leave you behind. Do you understand . . . ?”
“Charlie,” the man said, a slow grin filling his features. “Name’s Charlie Richardson. Or at least that’s what I plan to call myself once I’m free.”
CANCER
5
UNABLE TO SLEEP without disturbing dreams, Hetty read an old newspaper, tidied up their small room, finished the laundry, and, just before dawn, started sewing charms into Benjy’s shirts.
She was just rounding off a rather nice piece of work with Canis Minor and Canis Major when a shadow fell over her.
“Did you even go to sleep?” Benjy asked.
“For a moment,” Hetty admitted. When he poked at the pile of his clothes on the table, she called out, “Wait, you should take this one.”
Benjy held up the sleeve, studying the fading light as the magic settled into the fabric. “It’s not your fault,” he added softly.
“What?”
“It’s not your fault,” Benjy repeated as he pulled on the shirt, running his fingers along the new stitches. “You told me Charlie wanted to talk, and I put it off.”
“I could have listened to him,” Hetty shook her head, “even if it was just for a moment.”
“Even if you had, it might not have changed the course of events. Charlie was deep into something. He was only reaching out a desperate hand when it was too late for anything else.” They were both silent for a moment, and Hetty’s eyes fell onto the vial on the table.
There was one more thing she needed to do before they started investigating Charlie’s death. Although dodgy potions were no longer that important to her, Hetty still needed to speak with the woman, if only to prevent it from becoming a larger problem in the later days. “I’m going to pay Geraldine a visit before I go to the dress shop. Hopefully this time I won’t have to threaten to hex her seven different ways.”
The Conductors Page 6
