by M. K. Hobson
Farley whistled. “That’s the rough end of the Bowery. I’d catch hell for taking you there, excuse my saying so.”
“And I’d catch hell for going,” Emily said. “But neither one of us have to catch anything if we keep our mouths shut, right?”
“Right enough,” he said. “And better someone you can trust taking you down there than one of these rummy b’hoys who’ll leave you to get your throat cut.”
“And I do need to go.” She reached for his hand and pressed a gold piece into it. She felt that she’d gotten quite skilled in the niceties of bribery, and knew that gold usually smoothed over any objections most democratically. “Will you take me?”
“Sure thing, miss!” he said, looking at the gold piece with astonishment before climbing up into his seat and clucking to the horses.
The area surrounding Chatham Square was lively and rowdy, even at that early hour of the morning. Straggling merrymakers from the night before clustered before bars and saloons; newsboys with satchels full of papers darted past penny-cup-rattling veterans in tattered uniforms. Soot-bricked lodging houses shouldered up against museums featuring mermaids and sword swallowers. Advertisements for magical nostrums, boxing matches, politicians, and brands of tobacco had been pasted up on most available surfaces. Everything was designed to be seen by night; by the light of day the colors were brassy and overbright. Above the street, the black, greasy cast-iron framework of the elevated railroad hulked like an Aberrated centipede.
Farley pulled up to a stop at an intersection where a police officer stood directing traffic.
“Hey, Mack!” Farley called down.
“Aye?” The police officer strolled toward the carriage.
“You ever hear of such a thing as a Faery Reader?”
“Faery Reader?” The police officer tilted his hat back with his billy club and tried to peer into the darkened carriage. “Why, ain’t noon of ’em left, save old Pearl.” The officer gestured with his stick. “Block and a half oop on the right. Look fer the sign; red hand, gold-colored eye, ye’ll not miss it.”
The driver tipped his hat to the officer, and clucked to the horses.
Emily sank back in her seat as the carriage lurched forward. Red hand, gold-colored eye. Many Witches and Warlocks in trade used the sign of the open hand with an eye winking from its palm to denote the services they provided; the individual businesses differentiated themselves by changing the color of the hand and the eye color of the orb in the palm. Just driving the block and a half, Emily saw a blue hand with a black eye (that was a curse worker), a black hand with a red heart (love spells, the fool), and, finally, a red hand with a gold-colored eye hanging outside a dilapidated shop. Surrounding the image was flowery script in faded gold letters:
Abner S. Pearl, Warlock De-Lux.
Palms Read, Fortunes Told, Faery Writing Decyphered.
Emily lighted from the carriage, pausing before the front of the shop. The sidewalk before the building was piled high with boxes and furnishings, around and on which a half dozen children of varying ages climbed and swung and played. A plump older woman in a neat white apron came out of the shop, bearing a box that she set with the others. She gave Emily a friendly smile.
“Abner Pearl?” Emily inquired, looking up at the sign.
“Just inside,” the woman said with a pleasant Irish lilt. “Ye’ll have to hurry, though. The movers will be here presently, and then he’ll have no time for ye.”
The door creaked as Emily entered, and somewhere above her was the tinkle of a bell. The shop was high ceilinged but dark nonetheless. It was dusty and smelled of old lacquer, and had a freshly emptied feeling; it was obvious from the bright shadows where pictures had once hung, and the walls where shelves had once rested, that the owners were just packing up shop.
From the back room came the sound of hammering.
“Hello?” Emily called. The hammering stopped and a late-middle-aged man emerged from the back. He wore a black eye patch. The frayed hems of his cuffs showed past his too-short jacket sleeves. He wiped his hands on a dirty-looking cloth as he regarded Emily with his one bright eye.
“Can I help ye, miss?”
“My name is Emily Edwards. I’m looking for a Faery Reader,” Emily said.
The man threw the dirty towel over his shoulder, grinned at her.
“Abner S. Pearl. But if you’re looking for a Faery Reader, I’m afraid you’re a few days late on that score,” he said. “Shop’s closed.”
“Closed?”
“No custom from folks wanting Faery Reading anymore, and too much competition for all the other work. The swells with the money go to the fancy hand-and-eye shops on Broadway. And with times tight like they are, the poor folks in Chatham Square can’t afford such extravagances.” He paused, leaning forward onto the counter. “Family and I are movin’ west, out to California.”
“Why, I’m from California!” Emily said. “What part are you going to?”
“San Francisco,” Pearl said. “You know it?”
“A little,” Emily said. “I’ve been there once or twice. But aren’t you worried about—”
“The earthquakes and Aberrancies?” Pearl waved a hand, made a scoffing sound. “And how do you think we got ourselves a place out there so cheap? I got my rifle and my silver bullets. If I have to dispatch a few of the slimy beasts for a chance at a better life, then that’s just what I’ll do. Mrs. Pearl!” Pearl raised his voice in a shout, and the plump woman ducked her head in the front door. “This lady here’s from California. Knows it right well, she does!”
“You don’t say.” Mrs. Pearl stepped into the shop, hands on her hips. “Well, perhaps ye can answer me a few questions. I’m thinking of starting a dressmaking concern when we get there, but I haven’t the first clue what ladies in that area might like.” She looked Emily up and down, scrutinizing her costume. “Fashion minded, are they?”
“Some are, I’m sure—” Emily began, thinking that the Pearls would probably be better off opening an ammunition supply store, but Mrs. Pearl broke in, eagerly.
“Many dress shops? I’ve heard that it’s all gold miners and horse thieves and crazy men, but then I said to Mr. Pearl, crazy men got to have wives like anyone else, ain’t they?”
“I suppose,” Emily said. She wasn’t quite sure why Mrs. Pearl was staring at her with a such a puzzled expression, until the woman blurted:
“Why, it’s a downright boggler! I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere before, but I just can’t place you. What did you say your name was? Emily Edwards?”
Emily nodded.
“That sounds awful familiar,” Mrs. Pearl said, shaking her head. “Can’t place it, though. You sure we haven’t met?”
“I couldn’t say,” Emily said. “But I doubt it.”
“Hmm.” Mrs Pearl shrugged. “Well, perhaps it will come to me. Mr. Pearl, are you coming out? The movers will be here shortly.”
“Coming, Mrs. Pearl, coming …” He looked at Emily. “Now, if there’s nothing further—”
“But there is!” Emily said. “I came here for Faery Reading services. Is the shop really closed for good?”
“Closed for good,” Pearl said with finality. “I’ve had it up to here with the headaches.”
“Is there anyone else in the neighborhood I could go to?” Emily asked.
Pearl gave a great laugh. “Anyone else in the neighborhood? Sure, there’s no one left in all New York does Faery Reading anymore. No call for it. I’m the last.” Pearl fell silent for a moment. “Makes me feel right-out old, it does. Last of a generation.”
“Enough of yer moonin’, Mr. Pearl,” Mrs. Pearl said. She tilted a confiding head toward Emily. “He does take on about things.”
Two children thundered in the front door, whooping their way through the shop. They leveled fingers at each other and made shooting sounds.
“They’re here! They’re here! Movers are here! Off to California! Hooray!”
Mrs. Pearl laid
a hand on her cheek and clucked.
“Oh dear, they’re starting to run wild already. Boys, calm yerselves.” Mrs. Pearl glanced out the front window. A large moving van was parked at the curb, horses stamping and shaking their harnesses. “Mr. Pearl, tell your sons to behave.”
“My sons?” Pearl lifted his hands with good-natured incredulity. “Heavens, woman! My sons when they run about like wild creatures?” He gave Emily a kind smile. “I’m sorry, miss. I wish I could help you, really I do. But I’ll have to bid ye good day now.”
Emily caught his sleeve as he began walking past her.
“Mr. Pearl, please. I know you’re busy, but—”
“Careful with the china now, that was me Gran’s!” Mr. Pearl shouted past Emily, at the movers who were already beginning to load boxes under Mrs. Pearl’s efficient direction.
“Mr. Pearl—”
“It’s out of the question,” Pearl said. “Me and me whole family, we’re on the ten a.m. train tomorrow morning. And anyway, all my tools are packed up. Nothing to be done.”
“I’ll pay you well,” Emily said, but Pearl just shrugged.
“Got all the money I need for the trip,” he said. He was still watching the movers, wincing as he heard a box rattle when they lifted it. “Have a care, now!” He shouted past her again. “I’d better get out there, or they’ll smash me things to bits—”
“Wait.” Emily’s voice was vibrant with urgency; it made Pearl stop and look at her. Quickly, Emily dug in her black silk reticule for the hair sticks. She showed them to him in the palm of her hand. They gleamed in the low, dusty light. “There’s something written on them, I know there is. Something my father wrote. I never knew my father, and this is the only way I’ll ever be able to find out anything about him. Please, Mr. Pearl. If you’re really the only one who can read them … Please help me.”
Pearl looked at the hair sticks, and then at Emily. For the first time, he seemed to see her. Gently, he took the hair sticks from her hand and examined them, holding them up to the light and peering at them closely.
“Well, if there’s writing on these, there’s not much,” Pearl said, examining each long side of the square-sectioned, tapered sticks. He tapped his finger on the widest, thickest end of one of them. “And see all this engraving near the top. Ye can’t write anything over engraving. But there’s a smooth bit just below it, I suppose there could be something …” He paused, stroking his chin. Then he smiled at her again. “Well, I must say. I know about fathers, and I know about secrets. It’s a shame when one gets tangled up with th’ other …”
He shook his head sharply, then handed her back the hair sticks decisively. “No. I’m sorry, but no. I’ve promised the kids that I’ll take them out for ice cream. One last bit of fun before we leave New York forever. I can’t disappoint ’em. I promised. I’m sorry, Miss Edwards. Good day to you.”
Emily was turning to go, bitter disappointment burning under her breastbone, when Mrs. Pearl reappeared in the doorway. She was goggling at Emily.
“Emily Edwards!” she breathed, pressing her hands against her red cheeks. “Why, that’s who you are! Miss Emily Edwards, in my shop! And me going to California in the morning, or I’d have the whole neighborhood in to see. Of course I know you; your picture is in the window right next door!”
Emily stared at the babbling woman.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“Why, your picture’s on sale at the photographer’s shop right next door, up there with all the pictures of last season’s debutantes! Mr. Pearl, this is Emily Edwards, the girl who’s to marry Mr. Stanton of the credomancers’ Institute! Surely you’ve heard of her?”
“Why, sure,” Pearl said. “The papers say the Investment didn’t go too well, though.”
“Well, never mind that!” Mrs. Pearl waved a hand. “All any man needs is a good woman to straighten him out. Are you to be married soon? What will you wear? Do you have a dressmaker yet? Oh, what am I saying, I’m off to California in the morning … Mercy! To think that you’re in my very shop!”
Emily was suddenly struck by an idea.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said, looking at Mrs. Pearl. “If they know about me here, they’ll surely know about me in San Francisco. If I buy one of those pictures you say they’re selling next door and sign it … sign it ‘To my most esteemed dressmaker in New York’ ”—Emily turned to Pearl—“will you read my hair sticks?”
“Why, that would be a boost for business,” Mrs. Pearl said, looking at Mr. Pearl. “Having a famous customer would be as good as money in the bank!”
Emily looked at Mr. Pearl. “Furthermore, if anyone writes me for a reference I will write them back on Institute stationery, and assert that Mrs. Abner S. Pearl is the most talented dressmaker in New York, and that her moving to San Francisco is a loss from which I have yet to recover.”
“Oh, Abner, please!” Mrs. Pearl said.
Pearl sighed. He reached up one finger to scratch the skin under his black eye patch. He thought for a long time.
“I promised the children,” he said. “Ice cream, remember?”
“I’ll take them,” Mrs. Pearl countered swiftly. “Please, Abner. Please!”
“You know I can’t say no when you call me Abner,” Mr. Pearl said, reddening and smiling at the same time. He shrugged. “Well, then, get along, Mrs. Pearl, and tell the movers not to pack the green box. I guess I’ll be needing it.”
The green packing crate was retrieved from the sidewalk and carried into the big, empty backroom. Pearl picked up a hammer and started prying up the wooden lid. Iron and pine squeaked. When he’d gotten the lid off he set it to one side. He took off his jacket and rolled his sleeves, holding them up with black elastic garters. He reached into the box and pulled out a black velvet charm cap, decorated with cheap decorations of stamped and gilt pot metal. He adjusted this on his head. Then he reached into the box and pulled out newspaper-wrapped pieces of brass. These he assembled swiftly, slotting and tightening wing nuts. Assembled, the brass pieces made up a kind of stand, like the kind a jeweler might use. Two clamps stood ready to hold a piece for examination, and on the sides were two lamps with shades to focus their light down on the work. Pearl set this apparatus up on a swept-clean worktable, then returned to the green box. From it he pulled a large metal case, enameled with black and girdled with a pencil-thin gold pinstripe. It had a lock on the front. He unlocked it with a key that he wore around his throat. As he opened it, a faint glow escaped from beneath the lid.
All of this was done with an air of quiet solemnness that was abruptly shattered when two boys, both with black hair and blue eyes, thundered in and seized their father’s elbow.
“Everything’s loaded up, Dad!”
“The boxes have gone down to the station!”
“You promised to take us for ice cream!”
“Hold on!” Pearl bellowed at the boys. He held down the lid of the box, obviously nervous of spilling any of the contents. He gave the boys a fierce look. “You hooligans will upset the whole works! Off with ye. Go find yer mother—”
“Their mother’s right here.” Mrs. Pearl stood by the doorway, hands on her hips. “Boys, don’t annoy your father. Go on upstairs and tell yer sisters to get cleaned up. I’m taking the lot of you over to the ice cream parlor.” This news set the boys whooping up the stairs. Mrs. Pearl gave her husband a conspiratorial smile, and he smiled back gratefully. He gestured her over, gave her a fond peck on the lips.
“Wife, yer a marvel,” he said.
“One good turn deserves another,” she said, winking to Emily as she followed the boys upstairs.
Once silence had returned to the room, Pearl lifted the lid of the black enameled box. Inside were many small brushes and glass pots of powders in variously glowing colors. Oranges and pinks and blues, shimmering like gold at the bottom of a stream.
Pearl took one of the hair sticks and fastened it into a clamp on the brass apparatus. Then he lifted his h
ands to both of the lamps and muttered the words lux ingens.
Emily had to shade her eyes against the violent brightness that flared from the lamps. While most of the glare was directed downward, toward the scrutinized object, it still was bright enough to make her eyes water. The light was perfectly clear and white. The hair stick shimmered under the brilliant illumination, and Emily fancied she could already begin to see something more on it than the simple surface engraving.
Pearl lifted three of the pots of glowing powder from the black-enameled box. He unscrewed the top of two of the pots, then selected a pair of brushes—a large one and a smaller one. Then he pulled out a long, soft leather case. From this, he withdrew a long loupe, about nine inches long, wider at one end and narrowing to the size of a dime at the small end. Emily watched with fascination as he fastened the loupe over his head with a strange kind of head harness. He did not drop the loupe over his good eye, though; instead, he lifted his eye patch and gave Emily a wink. She stifled a gasp.
She had assumed that he wore an eyepatch because he’d lost an eye, but this was not the case at all. The eye beneath the patch was not destroyed. In fact, it was perfectly normal. But where his right eye was blue and correctly proportioned, his left eye was gold-colored, much larger, wider, and fringed with red lashes. It was an eye that did not belong in his face.
“Have to keep it covered up, or Mrs. Pearl gets after me.” He brought the loupe up over this strange eye. “Gives her a turn. She never liked the idea of me having someone else’s eye.”
“Then it’s not … yours?”
“Sure, it’s mine! I paid enough for it. See, me own eyesight wasn’t never that good, and you have to have good eyesight to be a Faery Reader. In one eye, at least.” He fussed with the loupe until he’d gotten it just as he liked it. “So back in the Old Country, before I come over, I bought it off a young man with the consumption. He’d always had the best eyesight in the village.”
