While some of those events were quite surprising, nothing could surpass Hetty’s astonishment when Oliver handed over the deed to his house.
Typical of Oliver, he gave no true reason. He simply said it was a fair exchange. Thomas would later admit, however, it was not a true trade. The money had come in from the boxing match, and when they asked Benjy what he wanted to do with it, he simply told them to keep it. Handing over the house was an attempt to balance the scales.
Hetty didn’t know how much money was involved on either side of the equation, but in her opinion, no value would be equal to the gift her friends had bestowed on them.
“You should take it,” Hetty said. “You said you were starting up a mailing business? You’ll need a desk in your new home.”
“Mail-order business,” Thomas corrected, and turned to Oliver. “And it will work. People want to buy things without the hassle that occurs when going to the store. I told you—”
“Yes, you told me a great many things, but you hardly tell a good story,” Oliver grumbled. He waved his hand and the desk was set down alongside the pile of things they were taking.
Grumbling, Oliver headed upstairs.
“He’s right, you know,” Hetty teased as Thomas made to follow. “You tell a poor story.”
“No worse than the one you told Oliver,” Thomas replied. “A little bird said you’re going to open a funeral parlor.”
“That’s no story.” Hetty shook her head. “It’s a plan. This house is so big and we’ve enjoyed putting on funerals with Oliver. It’s perfect.”
“Well, it was your idea in the first place.” Thomas’s hand rested on the bannister as he paused his ascent along the stairs. “Thank you for all you did. He’ll never admit it, but your frequent visits and the dead bodies gave Oliver something to look forward to.”
“We don’t deal with murder all the time.”
“But they make the most memorable cases.”
With that, he went upstairs in search of Oliver. Hetty turned back to join her friends only to find a star-speckled fox guarding the door.
“You want to talk to me now?” Hetty muttered, even though the fox could not answer for her husband. It only stared at her. “Fine, lead me to him.”
Hetty half expected to be taken down into the cellar, but the fox merely turned the corner and walked into the parlor, then looked back at Hetty expectantly.
Benjy had disappeared into the room after breakfast, as he had the past few days. He had broken his right arm when he fell, and while it was healing it rested in a sling to keep him from engaging in his usual distractions. It would be a while before he benefited from Penelope’s healing tonics, as bone-mending potions took a few days to brew.
Hetty thought he would turn to his books, but soon she realized he needed something to occupy his mind. Without it, he would only dwell on what could have happened if things had gone wrong.
Which meant when Hetty opened the door now, she found him hidden behind a mass of papers. But instead of covering the floor or tables, they floated around like slow-moving butterflies below the glittering sigil painted along the ceiling.
As Hetty stepped closer, she saw drawings of large windows and various pieces of furniture, with measurements all marked.
Renovate the house, she had told him when she pressed the sketchbook into his hand. Make this our home.
As Hetty leaned in to study one paper, it flitted away to be replaced by an even more delightful sight.
“Hello,” she said. “I see you remembered me today.”
“I spoke to you this morning.”
“But it’s afternoon, and I haven’t seen you all day,” she teased. “Keep this up and our friends will be wondering if we had a fight.”
“Let them,” Benjy said, but without the usual lightness that came with such words.
He held up an envelope.
“I found this in the mail that Sy brought from the boardinghouse.”
She didn’t take it.
“You read it?” she asked, although she knew the answer. “Is it good news or bad?”
There was a knock on the front door.
“Let someone else get that,” Benjy said. “You need to read this.”
“I’ll just be a moment,” Hetty said, eager to take this excuse. “I’ll be right back.”
Not content to wait, Benjy followed her into the hall, but he stood aside as she answered the door.
A woman stood in the hallway in fine, if slightly travel-stained, clothing. She was tall, with dark coloring similar to Hetty’s. Her head was mostly turned away at first, but when she faced Hetty, it was clear who this stranger was.
Her features were almost identical to Alice Granger’s.
No wonder Alice had kept her sister at a distance.
“Are you Henrietta Rhodes?” Judith Freeman asked. “I heard you were looking for me.”
“Your sister is looking for you. I was searching on her behalf.”
“She actually said she was my sister?” Judith scoffed. “Tell me again how the sun rises in the east.”
“She was very concerned about you,” Hetty said. “And of the things you’d gotten mixed up with.”
“I was just teaching magic to eager minds.”
“Like a man named Clarence Loring?”
Judith stilled and shrank back. “Yes”—she swallowed hard—“I taught a few lessons to him. As I did for anyone interested, but he—”
“Threatened you. I bet he wanted to use Sorcery for something you didn’t agree with. You refused and he threatened your life. So you disappeared for a bit.”
The younger woman said nothing but regret filled her features.
“I know it was cowardly.”
“No, it was smart,” Hetty said. “Clarence took the life of three people. I’m not sure if he did it with your magic, but it certainly helped him cover his tracks.”
“Stars. I read about what happened in the papers. If I had known . . .”
“It wouldn’t have changed a thing,” Hetty said. “Or you might have ended up dead. No, you did the right thing. But now that there’s no danger, you should tell your sister you’re alive and well. She’ll appreciate that.”
“Tell her yourself,” Judith shot back. “She went through all the trouble of seeking you out!”
“I could, but she wants to see you,” Hetty said. “Your sister will speak to you. Whether it’s with anger or with joy, I cannot tell you. Only you can find out for certain.”
Judith looked away, her face grimly set. “Then I suppose a visit is in order.”
Hetty shut the door and slammed her fist into the wood.
Judith had taught Clarence Sorcery!
Why hadn’t she made that connection earlier? Not that it mattered now, but not knowing had nearly gotten her and Benjy killed.
“Don’t you think it’s funny,” Benjy said, “that after all the time you spent asking so many questions, in the end the answer just appears right in front of you?”
“I did go all over town looking for her,” Hetty began, only to realize he held the letter out once more.
He wasn’t talking about Judith.
The scribbled name on the front of the letter was her first clue. Olympia LaRue had finally responded to the telegram that she’d sent. It was already open, and a few sheets of paper stuck out, as if it contained too much to be properly put back.
With trembling hands, she took it. On the first page were a few scribbled lines:
I apologize for the delay, but you have waited long enough. I reached out to my contacts, and this is the result.
There was another sheet of paper behind it.
Hetty looked up, but Benjy’s expression had not changed.
She read on.
The handwriting was different on this letter, with precise care in every stroke of a pen.
Mama used to say magic was the world, and I never believed it until I found a stack of letters waiting for me at home one day, all tatter
ed and rain spotted. Letters I knew that came from you.
Hetty, I have missed you these past years. But it felt like you were with me the whole time. In the stories I remember, in the kindness of strangers helped by a sparrow, and as always when I looked up and saw the stars.
I cannot wait to tell you my stories. You’ll find some things funny, I hope, and not judge me too poorly for the things that weren’t.
I will not be able to travel to Philadelphia for a few weeks. There is a sickness going around town, and I know I will be needed. Until then I send this letter to convey these words:
You can stop searching. You have finally found me.
Hetty ran her finger along Esther’s overly elaborate signature, joy singing in her heart.
Her sister, found!
And on her way!
How wonderful, how amazing, the best of news—
But then Hetty saw another piece of paper inside the envelope, a torn page from a yellowed newspaper dated nearly a full year earlier.
Miss Esther Beale, lately of this town, lost the fight with Yellow Fever after nursing so many through the worst of this dreadful illness . . .
There were more words, but Hetty lost them as the paper slipped out of her hand.
Benjy bent down to pick it up, adding softly, “She was well loved in the community as a teacher, a healer, and a loyal friend.”
“She was.” Hetty pressed a hand to her face, the words still spinning in front of her eyes. “She always wanted to teach me. It’s why I didn’t have patience for brewed magic. Esther was going to teach me, was going to change my mind, and now . . .” She drew a breath, then let it go. After all this time, Hetty knew how this story would end. She only hoped it would be different. But there was one thing she knew now. Her sister knew that Hetty had never forgotten her, and that was the second thing she always wanted.
“Now I know the truth,” she continued. “I suppose it’s a good thing we hadn’t made any travel plans.”
“We should still go. To prove the letter is true.”
“I don’t need to prove anything.” Hetty tapped her chest, crushing the letter. “I know here.”
As Benjy argued his points, Hetty wrapped her arms around him, taking care to not disturb the sling holding his arm.
His words trailed off as she whispered, “Thank you for helping me find her. It took a little longer than I would have liked, but I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
“Don’t be so quick to thank me.” Benjy’s arm circled her, and he drew her close. “That night when you first set off to look for your sister, I only went with you because I was bored.”
Hetty snorted. “Bored!”
“Quite bored,” Benjy insisted, and Hetty heard the smile in his words. She didn’t believe him any more than she did the other claims he made over the years. But it didn’t matter. The reasons he gave, the explanations he told, they were just details. Embellishments over one simple truth: he offered his help, she accepted it, and together they accomplished many wonderous things.
“I hope you aren’t still bored,” Hetty teased.
His laugh was a rumble in her ears. “With you in my life, that is simply not possible!”
* * *
When evening rolled around, the house was full of people.
Oliver and Thomas returned from dropping off their belongings at their new apartment. Darlene had brought George and the baby. Cora and Jay arrived, leaving Eunice with no excuse but to stay. Penelope was there, of course. So were the cousins that she liked the best, Sy, Rosabelle, and Maybelle. There was even one of their old neighbors from the boardinghouse and a few others of some importance invited by Hetty’s friends.
All these people had arrived for a dinner party, and despite earlier teasing, the meal was quite edible. Everyone agreed, however, that it was a good thing that some guests had brought food with them as well.
They all were gathered in the backyard, seated around several tables shoved together to create the illusion of one long table. A half dozen candles hovering overhead provided illumination, and the stars provided all the decoration required.
Dishes and plates passed from person to person, with a large helping of chatter on the side. There were too many voices filling the air for Hetty to listen in on every conversation, to pluck out the more interesting tales and stories. Instead she let the words wash over her, letting them become a jumble of many parts—which was what all stories really were. One long tale, to which those listening brought meaning and sense to their favorite parts.
Hetty told a few stories of her own, some true and some made up on the spot. As she told them, she caught Benjy’s eye more than once. He smiled and nodded, encouraging her to tell the more outlandish tales.
Sitting there, Hetty saw a vision of many more evenings like this in the future. Maybe not always at a table laden with so much good food and company, or even with stars dancing above their heads. But she saw many other times—be they bewildering, sad, or joyous—all with the people she considered family.
Acknowledgments
Let me tell you a secret: The Conductors exists because one day I looked at the running list of story ideas I kept and thought to myself, “What happens if I added magic to a story about Underground Railroad conductors?”
Since that spark of an idea, I have filled six notebooks with scribbled notes, used countless pens until the ink ran dry, and written and deleted so many words that I long stopped counting. While all that led to the book you now hold in your hands, I would have never finished it without all the support I had along the way.
Mom and Dad, thanks for giving me that first computer and the space and encouragement to keep writing. It looks like Plan B might work out after all!
To my sisters, Stephanie and Regina, thanks for tolerating all my story talk for years, even when you had no clue what I was talking about. Also, you may or may not have been sounding boards for finer story details—sorry for that.
Aunt Ericka, thanks for all the enthusiasm and excitement for every bit of news I shared in the past, and I promise to remain “still curious” no matter what comes my way.
To all the “J”s, it takes a village to create a book, and I’m glad to have all of you:
Thank you to my stellar agent, Jennie Goloboy. We connected just when I was thinking of trashing this story. It’s been a whirlwind of a time since, and the fun hasn’t stopped yet.
Thank you to my editor, John Joseph Adams. You helped me find my vision for the best version of the book.
Thank you to Jamie Levine and the other staff at HMH. You coordinated and arranged more things than I’ll ever know about—thanks for all your hard work! Special shout-out to Fariza Hawke, Heather Tamarkin, and Alison Kerr Miller.
Thank you to Jaria Rambaran for providing some very fun artwork and for being 100 percent game for my very silly idea.
To Deborah Oliveira, thank you for being an extra pair of eyes when I needed them the most.
Special thanks to the librarians working in the Norfolk Public Library system who dug books out of storage for me, answered my very particular interlibrary loan requests, and provided a space where I could squeeze in writing over my lunch break. I couldn’t have finished this story without you!
About the Author
© Exposed Moxie Photography
Nicole Glover works as a UX researcher in Virginia. She believes that libraries are magical places and that problems seem smaller with a cup of tea in hand. Her life outside of books includes bicycles, video games, and baking the perfect banana bread. The Conductors is her debut novel.
Learn more at nicole-glover.com
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