The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World

by Shaylin Gandhi

  Nuggets clinked into the Reverend’s bucket, a waterfall of gold. Sophia could taste the sound: a sour, metallic glint on the back of her tongue. It snaked down into her gut, sparking a complex mix of hatred and revulsion—and something else she didn’t care to examine, in case it turned out to be a grudging kind of envy.

  Henry’s gun prodded her ribs. “You and the redhead, come with me.”

  Her chest contracted. “What? Where?”

  “To the rectory.” Henry lumbered into the aisle and wrenched Annie from her pew. “The Reverend wants a private audience.”

  22. The Professor.

  They didn’t have enough. Palmer had gone over the numbers twice—examined them from every angle, then once more for good measure. For the very first time, he wished he could break the ironclad laws of mathematics.

  The ten-thousand-dollar tithe for the Reverend didn’t exist.

  Palmer rose, stiff-necked, and abandoned his desk. He went as far as the opposite wall, but the familiar sketches there failed to soothe his panic.

  We have three thousand, three hundred and seventy-one dollars.

  Even the prime number, bursting blue in his mind like a sapphire tossed into a sunlit sea, didn’t comfort him.

  How could it? The Blossom couldn’t spare even half of what they needed.

  The impulse to let his hands flap nearly overwhelmed him, but he ground his body into stillness. Though surrendering to the habit might drain away the fear and helplessness storming around within him, he’d spent years systematically eliminating those urges.

  At least he’d thought he had. Until the day Annie had seen.

  The raw exposure should have shamed him. Yet she hadn’t recoiled, the way others always had. She’d comforted him. Her gentleness that night still intoxicated him. He couldn’t help but feel she’d seen him—caught a glimpse of the man who dwelled behind the face he wore for the world.

  Irene had taught him what to watch for, long ago. A long glance with a smile—she likes you. But if she touches you for no reason at all? She likes you very much.

  Annie had done both that night.

  It’s called flirting, Madam had said.

  Palmer curled his hands into fists to keep them still. Confusion swamped him as two memories collided.

  Annie, flirting with him.

  Annie, once telling Madam she would never fall in love again.

  Which was true? They logically precluded one another, which left him baffled. Countless times, he’d wished he could glimpse the secret messages people seemed to read so easily in each other’s behavior, but he couldn’t. Maybe he should just tell Annie how he felt.

  But what if she laughs? What if she thinks I’m a freak?

  He thrust the thought away before it could suck him in. Turning toward the desk, he gathered up the ledgers.

  After all, none of this mattered unless he could keep her safe.

  ***

  The door stood open, so Palmer entered without knocking.

  The room was small, just four whitewashed walls bordered by a plain ceiling and an equally plain floor. A cluster of rough wooden crosses hung above the simple bed.

  Temperance knelt on a thin rug, hands clasped, eyes closed.

  Palmer shuffled the ledgers to cover his embarrassment. Should he have knocked? Madam had never told him what to do in these precise circumstances. He tried, “Hello.”

  Though Temperance’s eyes didn’t open, her mouth curved—a smile, which meant happy or amused. “Hello, honey.”

  He relaxed a bit. “What’re you doing?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “It looks like you’re kneeling on the floor.”

  She chuckled. “Give me a minute, will you?”

  He hesitated. The monstrous problem of the Reverend’s impending visit felt like lit dynamite inside his chest, and the longer he waited, the shorter the fuse burned down. Come Saturday, if he didn’t have the journal or the money, the whole messy situation would explode, and finding a solution seemed more important than praying.

  Yet on their way to his mouth, the thoughts collided with the silent wall that was his chronic inability to express himself, and all that came out was, “Okay.”

  Temperance bowed her head again.

  Palmer approached the solitary window, trying to leash his frustration. Glancing at the bookcase, he distracted himself by counting the Bibles.

  Thirteen—prime. A thin spear of yellow light, like a single ray of dawn, pierced his mind. The dynamite feeling receded.

  Temperance murmured a quiet amen, then rose and came close. She wore a simple linen dress, the kind she donned during the day, when no customers were around. “What can I do for you?”

  He handed her the ledgers, glad to be rid of them. “We don’t have enough to pay the Reverend. We either need to find the journal he wants, or make six thousand, six hundred and twenty-nine dollars in six days.”

  She paused. “That’s a very specific number.”

  “That’s how much we need.”

  A rare expression passed over her face, vanishing before he could decipher its meaning. “It’s sweet of you to worry, honey. I suppose it’s time to reopen.”

  “Even then, we might not make enough.”

  She reached out, then stopped halfway. Her fingers hovered in the air. “I’ve put my faith in God, sweetheart. He’ll see us through this. I promise you.”

  Palmer eyed the prayer rug by her bed. Two circular dents flattened the weft of the fabric where her knees had worn the threads. “You intend to ensure our safety with prayer?”

  She nodded.

  The dynamite sizzled, a fuse flaring to life again. Palmer turned, leaving the ledgers behind as he fled.

  “Professor!”

  Temperance’s call couldn’t drown out the echo of the Reverend’s parting threat. A brothel might burn to the ground in any number of ways.

  He had to keep Annie safe. Had to.

  Which, apparently, meant taking matters into his own hands.

  23. Sophia.

  In the rectory, amidst the priceless antiques and carved tables, creamy lamplight flirted with lush shadows. Tufted settees invited Sophia to sink in and prop her boots up among the leather-bound books, while on the walls, oil paintings warred for dominance. Each depicted a variation on a theme: Jesus, leading a flock of helpless sheep.

  Subtle, she decided.

  Henry steered Annie toward the center of the room, his palm splayed unnecessarily against her rump. The moment he let go, though, Annie pounced. She swung, arcing her fist around and crashing it into his jaw. The wet crack of flesh reverberated. To Sophia’s amazement, Henry crumpled to the carpet, out cold.

  Annie perched her hands on ample hips. “Hands off the merchandise, bucko.”

  Thoroughly impressed, Sophia knelt and thumbed Henry’s lids open. His eyes rolled, spinning like gyroscopes. “Who taught you to hit like that?”

  “My Pa. Didn’t want no man taking advantage of me.”

  “Did he know he created a monster?”

  Annie massaged her knuckles, looking affronted. “I ain’t no monster. Just an innocent young thing, trying to hold her own in a hostile world.”

  “That right hook is anything but innocent.”

  At that, Annie preened, puffing her chest out until her bosoms threatened to spill over her bodice. “Well, when you put it like that…”

  Sophia rolled Henry over. She climbed atop him, digging her knees into his chest. “This’ll teach you to grope people.”

  “What in Sam hell're you doing?”

  Reaching into Henry’s coat, Sophia withdrew the shotgun, then tossed it to Annie. “Pinning him. He won’t be out for long.”

  “Pinning him? You ain’t no bigger than a mole on a chigger.” Annie snorted, her skirts swirling as she bustled closer. “What’re you, eighty-five pounds soaking wet?”

  "Ninety-eight, thanks."

  "Pfft. I got twice that. Move over."

 
Sophia’s first instinct was to deliver a stinging retort, but when she glanced up, the words withered on her tongue. Across the room, a fall of shimmering fabric only halfway obscured a side table with metal caster wheels.

  Hidden in plain sight.

  “I’ll be damned,” she breathed, and sprang up.

  Annie plopped down in her place, drawing her legs up to gift Henry’s chest with her full weight. A strangled wheeze escaped his lips. Grinning, the redhead poked the shotgun’s twin barrels against his jaw. “Now this is some proper scene-making. Madam Hyacinth is gonna be downright furious.”

  Sophia crossed the room and whipped the drape to the floor. She gripped the table’s corners, trying to rotate it.

  Her muscles bunched, straining and burning. The table easily outweighed her and its uncooperative rollers sank into the plush carpet, stuck fast.

  “Don’t rightly see what we got to gain by rearranging the Reverend’s furniture. You one of those fungus way experts or something?”

  Sweat broke out on Sophia’s brow. “You mean feng shui?”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  “Just watch.” Sophia heaved; the table budged. Barely. Leaning in, she shoved until the thing finally arced around. Breathing hard, she stood back.

  Annie’s shotgun sagged against Henry’s cheek as her mouth fell open. “What in blazes…?”

  Sophia grinned.

  A moment later, though, her smile faltered. The massive safe looked impenetrable, its broad iron face punctuated by an imposing wheel with enough numbers to make her head spin. Gilt letters splayed across the door. Victorious Safe & Lock Co., Portland, Oregon.

  “You know how to crack that damn thing?”

  Sophia crossed her arms. She didn’t, but she could shoot a moving target while doing a one-armed handstand atop a cantering horse, so… “How hard could it be?” Bending down, she twirled the dial. Tiny vibrations tickled her fingertips as numbers clattered by.

  From the floor, Henry emitted an anemic groan. His eyes fluttered open, bulging like marbles as he struggled for air.

  Annie just pursed her lips. “That ain’t helpful, sugar. Didn’t your mother ever tell you if you can’t say something nice, then don’t say nothing at all?”

  “Try not to suffocate him, will you?”

  Annie shrugged. “No guarantees.”

  Suppressing a smile, Sophia pressed her cheek to the cool cast iron of the safe’s door. Ticks caressed her ear as the numbers clicked past. The correct one should sound different—

  Click.

  Blood drained from her cheeks as the doorknob turned.

  The rectory door swung open, revealing the Reverend. In the oil-light’s cheerful warmth, his cassock gleamed like it was spun from black diamonds.

  Sophia swallowed hard.

  He smiled. “How delightful of you to pay me a visit, kitten. I see you’ve made quite the mess.”

  ***

  Something’s different.

  Wary, she circled away, trying to untangle the meaning behind the raw joy illuminating Gray’s face. Was that actual happiness? Or just another of his ever-changing masks?

  He glided inside. “Would it be terribly unsociable of me to request that your associate refrain from killing my associate?”

  Annie scrambled back before his advance.

  Henry’s chest inflated in a rush. “Goddamn harlot,” he managed, between gasps.

  Then Annie remembered her advantage. She clambered upright, shotgun raised. “Now, sugar, what’d we just discuss about being nice?”

  “Both o’ you.” Henry stood, stabbing the air with a finger. “You’re both on my list now.”

  The Reverend strolled straight through the stand-off, casual, then opened the safe and tucked a jingling sack inside. The slam of the cast-iron door filled the room. That done, he unbuttoned his cassock and draped it over the settee’s arm. Underneath, he wore black tailored trousers and an ivory shirt of fine linen cambric.

  He sank into the sumptuous cushions. “Leave us, Henry, and take the voluptuous one with you. I have a proposition for my kitten.”

  Sophia’s stomach lurched, a potent mixture of fear and curiosity. What could he possibly want? And whatever it was…could she barter for the Blossom’s freedom?

  “I ain’t going nowhere,” Annie said.

  Henry didn’t move, either. “Boss?”

  “Let us dispense with these tedious formalities, shall we? Nobody’s shooting anybody. At least not here.”

  Sophia’s voice took her by surprise. “It’s all right. I want to hear his offer.”

  Annie’s cheeks flushed. “I leave you alone with this bastard, he’s liable to kill you.”

  Henry’s words echoed in her mind. You’re the one he won’t let me hurt. “I can take care of myself.”

  Annie sighed deeply but hoisted her skirts, searching for her thigh holster. Swapping the shotgun for her flask, she dropped her petticoats and took a long pull. “S’pose you can. But I’m waiting right outside. And poor, sweet little Henry here ain’t getting his gun back.”

  “Splendid.” Gray leaned forward, fixing Sophia with an azure stare that made her feel like she’d forgotten something important. “That’s settled, then.”

  A shiver of unease rippled through her as the door shut behind Henry and Annie. Already, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

  “I’m merely studying your countenance, Sophia. I find it pleasing.”

  Her breath caught. What new game was this?

  Plucking a decanter from a low table, Gray poured into two crystal tumblers. “Brandy?”

  She nodded. Anything to steady her nerves. But first… “You understand if I take precautions?”

  “Do what you must.”

  She drew her petticoats aside, absurdly conscious of the way his eyes roamed up her bare legs. Quickly, she fished the Colts from their holsters.

  “I assure you, that’s quite unnecessary. But if they comfort you, then please, by all means.” He patted a cushion. “Sit.”

  Nerves jangling, she complied, leaving as wide a rift as possible between her leg and his. Snugging one Colt onto her lap, she tossed back the brandy, embracing the eye-watering sting. Maybe the burn would distract her from the sudden shift in the room. “So. What do you want?”

  “Such haste. Drink.”

  Shrugging, she refilled the glass and drained it again. “If you’re trying to get me jiggered, it won’t work.”

  “I’m merely being hospitable.”

  “Right. Look, liquor’s never really affected me. Enough of it makes me…a little softer, maybe. But never drunk. So don’t waste your time.”

  That familiar angel’s smile appeared, a ray of light shining from his face. “You’re a singular woman, Sophia.”

  Swamped with confusion, she looked away. That was the second time he’d used her name, and somehow, it sounded more genuine than anything else he’d ever said.

  Don’t be fooled. He can turn himself into anyone, anything.

  Gray sipped, his eyes thoughtful. Setting down his drink, he reached up to unfasten the top button of his shirt.

  Panic drove her; she whipped the gun around to aim at his chest. “Just because I’m a fairy doesn’t mean you can have me.”

  The smile never left his face, even as his hands crept into the air. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you in such a fashion. I merely desire to refresh myself.”

  Eyeing him with suspicion, she lowered the gun. What did it matter, anyway? She could shoot him from her lap without a second thought.

  “My thanks.” He rose, crossing to a porcelain washbasin. There, he peeled off his shirt and set it aside.

  Sophia looked away. To distract herself, she searched for the orange kitten Gray had picked up off the street weeks ago. Unsurprisingly, the cat was nowhere in sight.

  If that didn’t prove his heartlessness, what did?

  Still, the rectory, lavish as it was, o
ffered few diversions, and as the Reverend scooped water over his face and hair, her eyes wandered toward him again. Hating herself, she studied the interplay of muscles in his back. Long and smooth, they undulated with every movement, diving toward the twin divots at the base of his spine.

  Half-naked, he didn’t look like a boy anymore, and certainly not like an angel. Though she hated admitting it, his body was beautiful—masculine and vigorous and strong.

  “You’re disgusting,” she whispered to herself.

  He turned. “Pardon?”

  “You killed Madam Irene,” she said, more loudly. The accusation snatched her back to reality—to an overwrought room where she sat sequestered with a criminal. “And you let Henry hurt Temperance.”

  That helped, too.

  Something tragic moved across his face. Or he designed it to look that way, at least. “I did take part in Irene’s fate. But I never sought her death, I assure you. And you must understand, she and I had a complex history, one you know nothing of.”

  The admission summoned a shockwave of surprise. Sophia had expected denial, or an attempt to spin events into something else. “And Temperance?”

  “A regrettable lapse in judgment.”

  She frowned.

  Gray sauntered back to the settee, settling closer this time. She retreated, wriggling backward until she could go no further. Only then did she notice the scar on his side—a ropy, jagged line that marred a quarter of his abdomen, shining silver in the light.

  Whatever caused that, it should’ve killed him.

  “You needn’t fear me,” he said.

  “I don’t.”

  Oddly enough, that was true. Witnessing this side of him—human, even a bit vulnerable—dimmed her hatred. She fought to hold on by reviving the image of Madam’s lifeless face and carrying it like a shield.

  But what if this was his true self, at last? She thought she’d glimpsed it on the landing after Irene had fallen, but that might have been another lie. Or maybe he had no true self anymore. Maybe he’d spent years pretending, and now he was hollow inside, nothing but a multitude of manufactured personas he changed like clothing.

  “You detest me,” he said.