by Erin Lindsey
“My heart?” Instinctively, my hand went to my breast.
“The source of your life. The fragment is a piece of death, and like a magnet, it is inherently drawn to its polar opposite. It’s making its way through your chest cavity even now, one millimeter at a time. That’s why Wang immobilized you. We were afraid you’d drive the fragment deeper. When it flares, you see, it’s like a hot knife, and … Well. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Wang gave you a potion to settle the fragment, but it’s no more than a balm over a bullet wound. Unless the bullet itself is removed…”
“How do we do that? Surgery?”
“If only it were that simple. The fragment is not a physical thing, strictly speaking, so it cannot be extracted by physical means. As far as I know, there are only two ways to remove it. The first is to destroy the shade. I’ve only encountered one person who could do that—years ago, in Japan. The second is to restore the fragment to the shade. That requires powerful magic.”
“Hence your message to Chicago.”
He nodded. “I believe Jackson can help us, but…” There was no point in finishing the thought. We both knew how it ended.
“If Mr. Wang can make a special tea that settles the fragment, maybe he can make one that slows it down even more. To buy us some time until Mr. Jackson gets here.”
But of course it couldn’t be that easy. “Wang is a talented apothecary, but the best he can do is keep the fragment from resonating. That will help prevent another acute episode, but the fragment will continue burrowing deeper until it reaches your heart.”
“What about your walking stick? Ash banishes spirits, you said.”
“If it were to come into direct contact with the fragment, perhaps, but…” He winced. “It’s buried too deep, and merely touching your skin with it … I’ve no idea what that might do to you.”
“I do,” I said, realizing at last what had happened at Drake’s. “You handed me your stick this morning, remember? It felt strange in my hands, like it was alive. And when my skin brushed against it…” I shuddered, but this time it really was nerves. “I wish I’d said something.”
“So do I. We might have spared you a great deal of pain. Though as to the larger problem, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d have been as powerless then as I am now. The fragment has obviously made you sensitive to the spiritual properties of ash, but experimenting with that would probably do more harm than good, and would be extremely unpleasant besides.”
“Still, it’s hope.” Slim, maybe, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth clinging to. After all, what was the alternative? Wallowing in despair wasn’t going to get me anywhere, and as for prayer … well, the Lord helps those who help themselves, or so they say.
I slid down off the cot and was surprised to find myself steady—so much so that for a brief moment I wondered if Mr. Wiltshire might be mistaken and there was nothing wrong with me at all. “I feel fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said with a weak smile. “But I’m afraid you’re not fine, Miss Gallagher.”
Miss Gallagher. I knew it for a sign of respect, but it still felt cold and impersonal. “I liked it better when you called me Rose.”
“That feels like a privilege I no longer deserve.”
“To you, maybe. To me it feels like distance, and that’s the last thing I want from you right now.”
There was more in that remark than I’d intended—a lot more. Whether he registered it or not I couldn’t say, but he gave me the best possible reply. “In that case, I think you’d better call me Thomas.”
“Thomas.” The name melted on my tongue. For two years it had been nigh-on sacred to me, spoken rarely and almost always privately. To say it now, with those pale eyes fixed on me … It was all I could do not to repeat it over and over, but I’m fairly sure even he couldn’t have missed the subtext then.
Subtext or no, the intimacy of the moment wasn’t lost on him, and he dared something even bolder, taking me by the shoulders and meeting my gaze steadily. “I’m in awe of your courage, Rose. If you can show such mettle, then I can do no less. We will find a way.”
It was in that moment, I think, that I truly understood what it was to be in love. If I’d had any sense at all, the timing would have struck me as tragic, but I was young enough yet that the concept of my own mortality hadn’t truly sunk in. Which meant I could savor the tiny flecks of green in Thomas Wiltshire’s eyes, the warmth of his hands on my shoulders, and most of all, the lingering sweetness of his name on my tongue. To say it was a solace would be an understatement—but of course it ended all too soon. Mr. Wang came bustling in, taking us both by surprise. His dark eyes shifted between us, absorbing the scene, but his tone was all business.
“He’s ready, then? Good.” Mr. Wiltshire—Thomas—turned back to me and gave my shoulders another squeeze. “I’ll be back as soon as we’re through with the shade.”
“She’s still here?”
“On the far side of the store, waiting for the medium to prepare. I’ll be able to speak to her properly now.”
“Good, I’m coming.”
He blinked. “Why would you want…? Rose, I don’t think you quite understand. Proximity to the shade is what caused you to collapse. In great pain,” he added, in case I needed the reminder.
“You said Mr. Wang’s special tea kept the fragment from resonating.”
“Temporarily, yes, but who’s to say—”
“Safe,” Mr. Wang interrupted. “For now.”
Thomas frowned. “Are you certain?”
“Certain,” Mr. Wang said, looking a little smug. “Strong tea.”
“That’s settled, then,” I said.
“I know you think you feel well, but—”
“Are you going to tell me how I feel?” I said impatiently. “Or how I ought to go about trying to save myself? That shade might be able to tell us something that will help me. It’s my decision, Thomas.”
I’m guessing he regretted according me that privilege just then.
“I know you’re trying to help me,” I went on, “and I’m grateful. But I have to help myself, too, and that means I have to keep looking for answers.”
I expected more of a fight, but he just sighed. “I can’t disagree with you there, though I hope you feel you can rely on me. It’s not necessary for you to put yourself directly in the path of the shade. But”—he held up his hands to forestall another protest—“since you’re determined, may I at least suggest that you approach slowly. Give yourself time to judge whether the fragment is reacting to the spirit’s presence.”
“That sounds like a fine plan.”
“And I think it would be wise to have some of that potion on hand, just in case. You needn’t look so offended, Wang, it’s just a precaution. Now, Rose, will you follow me, please?”
Grudgingly, Mr. Wang went off to prepare more of his special tea, leaving us to wend our way through the labyrinth of back rooms. They extended much farther into the alley than I’d realized. It looked as though there was a cellar, too, not to mention a second floor—all of it built to the usual Five Points standard, which is to say that it listed like a drunkard and looked fit to blow over in a stiff wind.
Everybody knew about the opium and the gambling, even the coppers. But as far as I knew, Mr. Wang didn’t run a brothel, or anything else that might account for the size of the place. “Mr. Wiltshire … Thomas,” I amended, blushing, “what exactly goes on here?”
“Anything and everything. Wang is a singularly gifted apothecary, and he’s also known for having the most comprehensive stock of rare magical items this side of the Atlantic. That’s given him an unparalleled network in the paranormal community, and he’s managed to turn that into a lucrative business. For a fee, Wang puts people like me in touch with the resources we require. If I need a medium or a witch or someone with a very particular skill set, chances are Wang knows just the right person—or how to find him. And if I need a discreet space in which to work…” He gestured
at a set of double doors covered in peeling gold paint. “The medium should be ready for us. I must warn you, however, he’s a touch … theatrical.” So saying, he knocked.
“You may enter,” said a voice.
We found Mei waiting inside, along with one of the most extraordinary-looking persons I’d ever encountered. “Mr. Smith,” said Thomas, and I almost laughed aloud at the irony. “May I introduce Miss Gallagher, of whom we were speaking earlier. She has expressed a desire to participate in the session. Do you see a problem?”
Mr. Smith looked me up and down, which I figured gave me leave to do the same. It didn’t take long, since he was approximately the height of a twelve-year-old, and had the soft complexion to match. That wasn’t the extraordinary part, though. No, that distinction belonged to his hair, which I’m not sure quite how to describe except to say that it resembled meringue: white on the bottom, golden at the tips, and whipped into improbably stiff peaks. “Hmm,” he said, not flatteringly. Then, without the slightest warning, he pressed a hand flat to my chest, right between my breasts. I gasped and flinched away, but he just tutted impatiently and did it again. Thankfully, it was over before the rest of us could even recover from our astonishment. “The fragment is stable,” the little man declared. “There shouldn’t be a problem.”
“How dare you?” I spluttered, blushing furiously.
“That was bloody out of order,” Thomas snapped, his own color high, and Mei added her two cents in Chinese.
“My friends,” the medium said, drawing himself up to his full five feet, “I am a professional. You would not react thus with a physician, would you?”
“I would if he touched me without asking! You’re lucky you didn’t end up with a knee in your bits!” I might have said worse if Mei hadn’t burst out laughing.
“Good Lord,” the medium said, flushing to the roots of his confectionary hair. “Born on the Bowery, this one.”
“Let us recalibrate, shall we?” Thomas said. “Now, Smith, do you have everything you require?”
“Everything except the shade,” the medium replied sullenly.
On cue, Mr. Wang appeared, bearing a steaming pot of tea. He said something to Mei, and she nodded, gesturing at a table laden with various items. I recognized salt, incense, and a length of wood that looked a little like a spear—ash, presumably—along with a host of other less familiar implements. Mr. Wang grunted in satisfaction and said something else; I recognized the word yoūlíng from Mei’s letter.
Specter.
“It’s time,” Thomas said. “Are you sure about this, Rose?”
Swallowing down a thick knot of fear, I said, “I’m sure.”
“Very well. Let’s begin.”
CHAPTER 22
SHADES IN THE DARK—MRS. MATILDA MEYER—HELL GATE—THE RIBBON OF LIGHT
I stood at the far end of the corridor, willing my racing pulse to slow. Mr. Wang had promised I’d be fine, and the medium had agreed. The special tea was ready just in case, and Thomas would have his ash walking stick in extremis, as he’d put it. I wasn’t in any real danger, or so I tried to tell myself. But I couldn’t keep my knees from wobbling as I started down the hall toward the room with the peeling gold doors, approaching slowly as Thomas had suggested, and when I felt the first throb of cold behind my ribs, I very nearly turned and fled.
But my situation was too dire to let myself give in to fear. The fragment in my breast was going to kill me if I didn’t find a way to stop it, and the damaged spirit behind those doors might be able to help. So I gritted my teeth and kept walking.
I opened the doors hesitantly, unsure what I would find. I smelled incense, and for a moment all I could see was smoke swirling in the shadows. Gradually, my eyes adjusted to the gloom and I took in the scene. Thomas, Mei, and Mr. Smith sat cross-legged on the floor, arranged in a triangle. Mr. Wang stood at the back of the room near the table, where a pot of incense burned. He had a box of matches in his hand. When he lit one, I knew, the shade would appear.
“Stand back with Mr. Wang, my dear,” the medium instructed.
Thomas met my gaze. “Are we steady, Rose?”
“Steady.”
“Good,” said Mr. Smith. “The lamp, Mr. Wang, if you please.”
Mr. Wang gave me a reassuring nod. Then he struck a match.
The bloody woman flared into view at the center of the triangle. I fell back a step at the sight of her—bloodstained clothing, hair matted with gore, eyes as desperate and haunted as the first time I’d seen her. She was looking right at me, and the force of that stare sent a stab of cold through my flesh. Mr. Wang approached the triangle warily, keeping one eye on the shade as he lit a series of candles arranged in a circle on the floor. They hissed to life, sending up thick ropes of fragrant smoke that formed a sort of boundary outside the triangle. By their glow, I saw that Thomas’s walking stick lay beside him, within easy reach. That made me feel a little better.
“Spirit,” the medium intoned gravely, “I am Archibald Smith, medium between the worlds.” He paused, as though to give his audience time to absorb this pronouncement. “I shall speak for you this night. Were you whole, I would accord you use of my corporeal form, but in your current state that would be fatal to me. Be assured, however, that I can hear your voice perfectly well, and I swear to repeat faithfully all that you say, in your exact words. In exchange, I ask only that you do not attempt to touch any of the living, nor step outside the smoke barrier. Be warned: If you fail to heed this directive, you will be summarily banished. Do you agree to these terms?”
The bloody woman tore her eyes away from me briefly, her lips moving as though in speech.
“She agrees,” Mr. Smith said. “These are the last words I shall speak as Archibald Smith. From henceforth, I speak for the spirit. Wiltshire, the floor is yours.”
“Thank you.” Thomas looked perfectly calm, as if this were nothing new to him—which, I supposed, it wasn’t. “I’m grateful that you kept our engagement, spirit. We have much to discuss. First, I believe introductions are in order. My name is Thomas Wiltshire. To my left is Miss Ah-Mei Wang, and at the back of the room is her father, Wang Jianguo. Miss Rose Gallagher you have already met.”
“Rose.”
The voice was Mr. Smith’s, but I’d watched the bloody woman shape my name with her lips, and it sent another shudder down my spine.
“Forgive me, Rose. I never meant to cause you injury. I didn’t know.”
I nodded stiffly. What else could I do?
“Please, spirit,” Thomas said, “tell us your name.”
“My name…” The bloody woman closed her eyes in grief. “My name is Matilda.” It was unnerving, hearing her words spoken in a man’s deep tones—the more so because Mr. Smith was doing his best to convey the emotions as well as the words. His voice quavered now, as though speaking the spirit’s name were painful to him. “I whisper it to myself every day, or I shall certainly forget it. I forget so much already.”
Thomas nodded. “Regrettably, that is the way of it when a spirit is trapped in the mortal world. The longer you remain here, the worse it will become.”
“Why am I trapped?”
“That is what we must ascertain. Your injuries … They would seem to suggest that you died by violence.”
The bloody woman—Matilda, I corrected myself—raised a hand to the gruesome wound on her head. “My husband.”
“I see,” Thomas said. “I’m sorry.”
“I always knew he would get carried away one day. I should have left him years ago.” She paused, her expression twisting in anguish. “But I was so afraid, and then our son died and Charles lost all our money and the drinking got worse…” Mr. Smith’s voice climbed in pitch. “I’m afraid he’ll hurt my other children, too. Please, you have to help me. I have to find my children. I have to make sure they’re safe—”
An icy throb seized my chest, and I sucked in a breath, stumbling back against the table.
Thomas stirred, but Mei s
topped him with a sharp gesture. “No, you must not! If you disturb the barrier—”
“You make it worse,” Mr. Wang growled, pressing a cup of hot tea into my hands. I gulped it down, not caring that it scorched my throat.
Thomas grimaced but stayed where he was. “Calm yourself, Matilda. You’re hurting her!”
“How?” The bloody woman’s gaze darted between Thomas and me. She didn’t understand.
“When you touched Rose yesterday, you left behind a fragment of your spirit, like a splinter embedded in her flesh. It’s reacting to your emotions.”
Mr. Wang put a hand on my shoulder. “Better?”
“Yes.” I took a few deep breaths just to be sure, but it was as if the tea had melted the shard of ice inside me, at least for now. “Better, thank you.”
Thomas didn’t look convinced. “Perhaps you ought to—”
“I’ll be fine. Keep going.”
The bloody woman wrung her hands anxiously before her. “What do you mean, a fragment of my spirit?” Mr. Smith’s voice conveyed fear, frustration, and most of all bafflement. “How is that possible?”
When she said that, I felt cold all over again—the sort that couldn’t be banished by any tea, no matter how special. So much for the shade being able to help me. She couldn’t even understand how she’d hurt me in the first place.
Thomas’s shoulders sagged, and I knew he’d had the same thought. “You can’t sense it, then? The fragment?”
“I can feel a connection, but…” The spirit shook her head, looking so lost that I couldn’t help pitying her, in spite of everything. “I don’t understand any of this.”
That made two of us.
“Perhaps we should focus on what you do know,” Thomas said. “I take it from what you’ve said that your husband was abusive, and you’re afraid for your children now that you’re gone.” When Matilda nodded, he went on, “That’s most likely what caused your spirit to fracture—the force of that anxiety. Until it’s resolved, you will remain a shade.”
