The Tombs

by Deborah Schaumberg

  The girls quickly got into a single-file line. Sadie-Mae ran her hands down sleeves and along bodices and even knelt down to feel under dresses.

  “Y’all don’t fret,” Delilah whispered. “Sadie-Mae wants this evening to go off without a hitch. Says it could be her ticket to future business.”

  After Sadie-Mae performed her search, she tied a red lace mask over the face of each girl and dismissed her to the waiting conveyances. Other than expressing displeasure at a flask strapped to one girl’s leg, which she tossed aside, Sadie-Mae made no comments. After my turn, the three of us waited at the door for Katalina. I watched her through the red lace over my eyes.

  Katalina shot me a troubled look as Sadie felt under her dress. Instead of rising, Sadie gathered the material and lifted it up. Katalina had her knife belt wrapped around her thigh, with three sharp blades attached.

  Mercy gasped, and Delilah gripped my arm.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Halloween Masquerade

  “Isabella,” Sadie-Mae hissed. “What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?”

  “Just in case,” Katalina stammered, “in case someone tries to hurt me.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Hold your skirts up, Isabella, and don’t you dare move.” She unfastened the belt. Before Katalina could protest, Sadie-Mae whipped the belt back and forth across her legs. I cringed at each crack of the leather. Katalina sucked in her breath.

  Sadie-Mae smiled lovingly at her and placed a plump palm on Katalina’s cheek. “No one hurts my girls, except me. But if they do, you keep your trap shut. Understand?” She smoothed Katalina’s dress back into place and, as if she were speaking to an ill-behaved child, shook her finger. “It is not nice to threaten a paying customer. It’s bad for business. You’re lucky I like your pluck, or I’d throw you back out on the street.”

  Katalina bit her lip as Sadie-Mae tied the mask on her face. The entire ride she sat simmering, like a pot left to boil.

  My mind drifted to Hurricane. What is she going through at this moment? I adjusted my dress, tugging at the waist to ease my breath. The weight of these clothes echoed the weight pressing down on my heart.

  Delilah leaned forward to peer through the window curtains. “The party’s at the Tredwell mansion. Since their mother, Eliza, passed, the three sisters let it for special events. I hear it’s fancy.”

  “How far is it? I feel claustrophobic in here,” I said.

  “Only six blocks. Y’all know the Bond Street area near Washington Square Park?”

  Just then, the coachman shouted, “Whoa, whoa.” He pulled the horses to a stop. I caught my breath as the coach door opened to the black-eyed mask of a crow-guard. My hand shook as he helped me down.

  A dense fog had settled over Manhattan. Yellow orbs lined the streets where gas lamps hovered on faintly visible posts. I squinted up, but even the airships had disappeared in the vaporous night sky. We’d arrived at a stately redbrick estate with an arched entranceway. All the drapes on the tall windows appeared to be drawn. Another crow-guard stood by the front door. He, like the others, wore the familiar black cloak and black brimmed hat. I peeked at each in passing, trying to recognize Horatio, but there was no way to tell if it was him. I couldn’t even see their eyes.

  We entered a shadowy vestibule, the mist creeping in at our feet. A man with a silver carnival mask shaped like the moon took our coats and hats and silently extended his hand to the even darker parlor beyond. Two crows stood flanking the passageway. They nodded to a guest who held up a hand bearing the gold crow-claw ring.

  Peculiar music—violin, maybe—drifted through the two-story space. Exaggerated shadows, cast by the flickering gas chandeliers above, danced along the undulating surfaces of the black-draped walls. Tables along the periphery held vases of bloodred roses. It was too dark to see how many men were there, but all of them were dressed the same: black tuxedo, long black hooded cloak, and a carnival half-mask, grotesque and monstrous, covering everything but the mouth. Black-suited waiters hovered around the periphery of the space. I noticed they wore no masks. As I passed one, he offered champagne on a silver tray. I gasped and stepped back: he stared ahead with milky-blue eyes. I approached another—the same. All of them were blind.

  My hand shook as I accepted a glass. I was about to take a sip but remembered what Mercy and Delilah had said about the laudanum. They had disappeared into the party with the rest of Sadie-Mae’s girls. A soft bubble of talk and laughter bobbed about the room. It could have sounded pleasant if it didn’t look so nightmarish. Katalina and I stuck together, doing our best to avoid eye contact.

  “Are your legs all right?” I whispered as soon as we were alone.

  She nodded and hissed, “I wanted to catch up my knives and cut that woman.”

  “Kat, what were we thinking? These people . . . this place . . . it’s far too dangerous.” My fingers felt numb from squeezing them so hard. A cold dread slinked up my spine.

  She nodded. “I fear you may have been right. But I will not leave without some answers.”

  Two men, their silver masks glinting in the candlelight, barred our way. The first, his mask shaped like a bizarre baboon face, took my hand and bowed low, brushing metallic teeth from the half jaw across my glove. “May we have this dance?” he said.

  “Oh.” I turned at Katalina. My mind raced. What do I say? Katalina gave me a fierce look. I turned back to him, setting my untouched drink on a table. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  The other man, with the mask of a fox, bent to whisper something in Katalina’s ear. She laughed and tilted her head coyly. Sadie-Mae was right; she’s a natural. While my insides are quivering like gelatin.

  The baboon held my hand up as he escorted me through the crowd to the dance area in the center of the room. A beautiful piano waltz floated around us as he placed his hand on my lower back. Thank goodness for large dresses. At arm’s length, we began to move. I did my best to follow his lead. The fox spun Katalina away, and they vanished into the clusters of other dancers.

  “What is your name, dear girl?” said the baboon. He let go of my hand momentarily and held my chin up, studying my face. “I don’t recognize you as one of Sadie-Mae’s regulars, and I visit the house quite often.”

  I lowered my eyes. “My name is Grace, sir.” Can he feel me shaking? “I’m . . . I’m new.”

  He laughed. “How refreshing. And young, I see.” He looked around as if to challenge any claim over me. “Not to worry, dear Grace. You’ll stick with me this evening. You may call me Mr. Bartholomew. I’ll take very good care of you.” His tone sent a chill down my spine. I wasn’t sure what he meant, and I did not want to find out. After a few more turns, the tempo picked up a little, and the baboon swung me faster.

  Time seemed to be enjoying my anguish, for it was languid one moment, lurching the next. I lost all clues as to its passage.

  A soft bell rang; a deep voice announced, “Dinner is served.”

  The baboon held my hand tightly until we were seated at a table with two other men, both of whom stared approvingly at me through their black leather masks with twisted, curling horns. The baboon introduced them as Mr. Otto and Mr. Jonas.

  “We use first names only tonight, isn’t that right, boys?” The three of them chuckled as if at some private joke.

  The baboon ordered a bottle of wine, then placed his meaty hand firmly on my thigh, pinning me to my seat. I pretended to sip at my drink as he rambled on about the banking industry, real estate, and fox hunting. But all I could focus on were his fingers, trying to squeeze my leg through the many layers of my dress.

  A waiter placed a steak dinner, complete with potatoes and greens, in front of Mr. Bartholomew. I glanced around, noticing that only the men had been served. Not that I’d have eaten anyway. The baboon tore into the meat, red juices running down his chin. “Delmonico’s steak—fabulous.”

  When he’d finished stuffing himself, he ran his hand up my arm, his thumb stroking my ski
n. The other men paid us no mind. Leaning closer, he whispered, “So quiet, dear Grace? No need to be nervous.” His voice was thick with the wine.

  I’d known this would happen, that I might be treated like a piece of property. But the trail of his touch made my skin crawl and my stomach roil. I pulled the fan out of my purse and snapped it open, knocking his hand away. “Oh, pardon me. It is so very hot in here,” I said with a quick smile.

  He laughed. “Yes it is, my little sugarplum. Perhaps a place less crowded, shall we?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know, I know. Don’t fret.” He patted his breast pocket. “I am a generous man, my dear Grace.” Abruptly he stood, lifting me with him. I scanned the crowd. Where is Katalina?

  Mr. Bartholomew turned me toward the stair, when a tall crow-guard stepped in front of us. I’d never before been glad to see a crow-guard.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Please take your seat. The host is preparing to speak.” Is it Horatio? I couldn’t recognize his voice, muffled as it was under the mask. The guard addressed me. “Miss, if you will . . .” He bowed slightly, and directed me toward the other girls.

  Gratefully, I nodded adieu to Mr. Bartholomew.

  “Don’t worry, dear Grace.” Again he pressed his metal muzzle to my hand. “I will come find you later. That is a promise.”

  “I will keep a sharp eye out for you, sir.” So I can run in the other direction.

  Sadie-Mae’s girls gathered to one side of the room, chatting and laughing as the men found their seats. I rejoined Katalina, Mercy, and Delilah.

  “Where did you go?” Katalina asked.

  “Me? You’re the one who waltzed away like you were with Prince Charming.”

  The music stopped, and a hush fell over the room. Katalina squeezed my hand. “Listen carefully and be calm. You are acting skittish.”

  I knew both of us felt anything but calm.

  From the head table where, presumably, the most important guests were seated, a large man pushed back his chair and stood. I’d noticed him greeting people all evening. He was hard to miss. It wasn’t just his paunch, which was the size of Bessie’s rotund belly; it was his commanding presence, like a steam train barreling into a station. His mask was the most terrible and macabre I’d seen all night. It was dark red, with monstrous ram’s horns curving down on either side. Whoever he was, he looked like the devil incarnate. But where was Spector? I hadn’t seen him at all.

  The man removed his mask and cleared his throat. “Welcome, industrialists, financiers, capitalists, and merchants. As you well know, we are at a turning point in the history of our great nation. Consider the American economy a giant web, connected by rail lines and waterways laden with cargo ships, all of which we own, by the way.” There was a smattering of laughter as he continued. “At its center sits the city of New York, and we, the people in this very room, are collectively, the spider.”

  This was greeted with applause.

  “Who is he?” I whispered to Delilah.

  “Why that’s Ogden Boggs. He’s a high-powered shipping magnate and philanthropist. He’s known for the money he donates to the poor people of the city.” Her southern accent made it sound like she was speaking of a kind uncle. She giggled and fanned herself. “He’s donated plenty to the House of the Scarlet Ascot, as well.”

  Boggs. He also donated our water fountain at the factory.

  Ogden Boggs smiled and held up a hand. “Not only has our government decimated the profits from our interests in the cotton industry, but if we are not prudent, the labor unions will empower our own workers. At past meetings of the Commerce League, we have agreed the best way to prevent this is to stimulate division amongst our labor force—using blacks as strikebreakers against whites, hiring Chinese against German and Irish, Protestant against Catholic—for only in their union may we be defeated. We’ve also paid the police and, in accordance with the law, called in the state militia to assault the strikers. And while such measures have successfully forestalled unionization thus far, they are not enough.” His voice grew louder as he spoke.

  The room responded; men leaned forward in their seats.

  “We have already lost control of our streets. We are forced to move further uptown as immigrants and vagrants flood into the city. How many of you stroll in the evenings as you used to do? And how many of you remember the Paris Commune of 1871? Do we want an uprising of the working class here in New York?”

  Jeers and angry objections flew around the room.

  “The strikes are increasing daily. The rallies are violent.” He raised a fist. “It is time to take control of our workers!”

  Everyone leapt to their feet. He had the room.

  Now he lowered his voice. He knew exactly how to manipulate these men. “I am here to tell you gentlemen, I have a way. My team of scientists, headed by the esteemed Dr. Ignatius Spector, has developed the answer to our problems.”

  Behind him, Dr. Spector emerged from the shadows. Katalina clenched my hand so tight it hurt. Cold sweat chilled my skin. My throat tightened and a wave of dizziness swept over me.

  It was Delilah who saved me. “Take a deep breath, honey,” she whispered. “You’re positively drained of color.”

  She handed me a glass of water. Breathing hard, I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. “It’s the corset. It’s—” I took a long sip. “It’s so tight.” I wished I could split the stays and swell my lungs with air.

  “Yes, they do take some getting used to.” She dabbed a handkerchief to my forehead and whispered, “I always have mine loosened halfway through the night.”

  Ogden Boggs held out his hand. “Doctor, if you will.”

  I noticed the men take a step back, shrinking from Spector’s hideous appearance. Something strange occurred to me. Spector was like the parasite worm my father told me many confederate soldiers had harbored. And Ogden Boggs was his host.

  Dr. Spector’s shrill voice snaked toward us. “As you may know,” he said, “I am executive director of the Temple of Mind Balance Studies. It is through science that one achieves the ultimate power. Education triumphs over ignorance, as science will triumph over commonality.” As usual, he was impeccably dressed, but the warm glow of the lamps above gave his pale white face the greenish hue of liquid absinthe.

  I shifted into my second sight. Each time it got easier. All the practice had certainly paid off. But the darkness I saw pervading these men was murkier than the shadows in the room. Boggs had stoked their anger like blowing a bellows over hot coals. I shivered. I let my vision return to normal.

  In a gloved hand, Spector held a glass vial, glinting in the light. “Tonight, I give you ultimate power. This serum, developed through years of experimentation, is your answer.” He presented it to Boggs.

  “Thank you, Dr. Spector. I will take it from here.” It seemed he knew Spector’s unnerving presence would kill any momentum he’d gained with the men.

  Spector bowed as Boggs took the vial and stepped in front of him. For a second his eyes narrowed at Ogden Boggs’s back, fixing it with a steely stare, then he retreated into the darkness.

  He resents Boggs. But it seemed as though he’d accepted his stage to be that of the Tombs.

  Meanwhile, Ogden Boggs pointed to something behind him hidden under a velvet cloth. “This past year I have presented most of you with a water source at your place of business.” With theatrical flourish, he gripped the cloth and flung it aside. It was a water fountain.

  “Katalina,” I whispered, “we have one of those at work—the Boggs water fountain. The owner of the Works, Tyber Malice, must be here somewhere.”

  I scanned the crowd. If he was here I couldn’t tell, with all the masks.

  Ogden Boggs continued. “A few drops a week of this serum, added to the water, will have a dramatic effect on your laborers. It will restore loyalty and suppress free will.” He pinched the dropper on the vial and discharged the serum into the water. “Now when you
ask for hard work and lengthy hours, that is exactly what you will get.”

  One of the men shouted out, “How can we ensure they’ll drink it?”

  “I’m quite sure you’ve noticed the lines,” Boggs replied. “The question is not if they will drink, it is who will direct them after they do.” He was right—we all lined up for the delicious, clean water daily.

  “Yeah! What about that?” another asked. “Someone needs to tell them what to do!”

  A short, portly man stomped forward. “This will never work, Boggs.” He stabbed a finger in the air. “I want my money back! You promised compliance, and now my men are loitering by this fountain of yours.”

  Boggs held his hand up again to calm the buzz, like a swarm of bees. “Ah, Mr. Booth, always a pleasure. Let us do a demonstration so you will see exactly how it works. I need one volunteer to drink the water, and since you, sir, are quite the naysayer, I appoint you.”

  The audience agreed and spurred the man on. “Fine!” he said. “I’ll prove this man is swindling us.”

  Boggs smiled, utterly confident. “I need another volunteer to act as the monitor—the man you’ve appointed to stand by the fountain and direct men to their supervisors after they’ve had a drink.”

  I recalled the man at the Works who had told us to leave the water fountain. He must be the monitor.

  A tall man stepped up. “I’ll do it.” He bowed, to the crowd’s mock applause.

  Boggs positioned the man acting as monitor next to the fountain. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne. After Mr. Booth drinks, you may tell him what to do. Be creative,” he added. “Say whatever you’d like.”

  The room quieted as we all watched the naysayer dip the tin cup into the water. He lifted it in a toasting gesture, then drank it down.

  Everyone seemed to hold his or her breath. Mr. Booth dropped the cup. “You see? What did I—” He stopped midsentence and looked around the room, as if he forgot what he was going to say.