The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  “Hmm?” Seamus glanced up from the mechanism, which was now in pieces. He held a silver spring in a tiny pair of tweezers.

  “He had a fat lip, as if someone had hit him.”

  Seamus looked troubled for an instant, and then shrugged. “Henry is a tough lad, and lads fight. He’ll be fine.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “No idea. I sent for him at St. Aggie’s once. That’s the orphanage run by the sisters. But he doesn’t live there.”

  “So he lives on the streets.”

  “Presumably,” Seamus said.

  “And you have a big warm house and don’t let him stay with you?”

  He didn’t answer for so long that Felicia thought he wasn’t going to.

  “Miss Sanchez, may I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there homeless children in your world? Starving children?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And how many live with you?”

  “Well, I’m a student, and I can barely feed myself and pay rent and tuition. And there are government agencies that provide foster care and food vouchers.”

  “I see,” he said, and did not look up from his work. “And yet, you said there are still children in need.”

  “Yeah, but they live in other countries mostly. There’s not much I can do personally for them. We don’t have them running around alone and homeless. And we also don’t have slavery anymore.”

  “I am glad to hear it. But that is not the world in which you now live.”

  “I’ve seen that clearly. Tell me something. Is Mrs. Washington your slave?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “She is a free person of color, as her parents were before her.”

  “So you pay her.”

  “Yes. She is my employee.”

  Felicia was about to ask how much he paid her, but realized that she had no idea what a fair or unfair wage would be, nor would she know if a white servant would make more than a black one. It was almost a certainty, she thought.

  She moved beside Seamus and looked out through the window. Below was Pere Antoine Alley, no wider than a single carriage. Two black women were passing, carrying baskets with patterned cotton cloths covering the tops. They both wore long skirts and were chatting.

  “Are you an abolitionist?” She said it softly, both wanting to know and dreading the answer.

  “I am not.”

  Felicia noticed that his hands had stopped moving, but he had not looked up at her to answer. She moved away to examine a box near the door. As she pushed aside the straw inside, she noticed that her hands were shaking.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  He raised his head to look out the window, out over the top of the neighboring building. After a while, he returned to his work. She knew he had heard her.

  “So you are okay with slavery?” she asked. “You don’t mind people being bought and sold like animals? Beaten and abused?” she asked.

  He set the piece into a little vice attached to the edge of the table and spun the arm until it was secure. “No, I’m not, as you say, ‘okay’ with it.”

  “Then if you don’t support it, you’re an abolitionist.”

  “Not everyone who dislikes the institution is an abolitionist,” he said. “Least of all here.”

  “So you say nothing then. And it gets work done, right? You can keep your job at Tulane. And you can sit back in your nice house and let hungry children run your errands for pennies.”

  Seamus spun around so quickly and fixed her with a glare so fierce that she took a step backwards. He seemed to fill the room, and she was suddenly aware of his size. He was tall and strong, but his usual distracted manner made him seem boyish and harmless. Now he looked every inch the man who had folded the ruffians in half when she had been accosted in front of the pub.

  “You know next to nothing about me, Miss Sanchez. I did not invent the institution of slavery, nor have I ever owned a slave. There are starving children, women on the streets, war, disease and death. I take it those are a constant in any time. I have seen neighbors and friends die because of the potato blight. I’ve watched my sister bury her only daughter. She didn’t speak for a month. I’ve seen brother turn on brother for half a loaf of bread and sisters fight over whose child would receive a few spoonfuls of milk. And as for Henry, don’t you think I have asked Mrs. Washington to give him a sandwich or something to eat as often as she can? And don’t you think I pay him a little more than is warranted for his services?”

  “But he lives on the streets!” she shouted.

  A man came in through the door. Like the other brother, he wore a brown monk’s robe. He was short and stout, his rope belt tied up under his overhanging stomach. He looked from one to the other of them.

  “Hello, Brother Joe,” said Seamus. In an instant, he seemed to return to his normal size, complete with disarming grin. “I needed to come up here to work on something. May I introduce my cousin, Miss Sanchez.” He moved closer to Felicia and touched her elbow. It was just the right amount of physical proximity between cousins, and just the right tone of voice to introduce her. Felicia suddenly understood something. When the concierges had come and now with Brother Joe, Seamus had proven to be an excellent liar.

  Brother Joe pressed his lips together in disapproval. “I can see the resemblance,” he said. “Or hear it anyway, clear down the stairs.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” said Seamus. “Friendly disagreement. But forget about that. I need your help. Could you take a look at something for me?”

  “Now you know I don’t understand these things like you, Mr. Connor,” said Brother Joe, fitting one of the jeweler’s loops in front of his eye. The men bent their heads together and spoke to each other in low tones.

  Felicia returned to studying the automatons, and pushed open one of the larger boxes. Inside was a male automaton in elaborate Roman clothing. This must be Pontius Pilate. His glass eyes stared skyward, frozen in time.

  Chapter 10

  Hazel entered the Professor’s yard through the back gate and stowed her violin behind the trunk of one of the crepe myrtles. Mrs. Washington answered the kitchen door.

  “Hello, Henry.”

  “The Professor sent me,” Hazel said after glancing into the kitchen behind Mrs. Washington to make sure no one was there. “He needs a few things.”

  Mrs. Washington let her in and closed the door. “What sort of things?”

  “He wanted me to bring some money,” said Hazel. “He told me where to find it in his study. He said you’d know which book. And he also wanted an invitation from his desk. The desk in the study, not the laboratory.”

  “Well thank heaven for that. You wouldn’t find a thing in that laboratory. Now wait a moment. What sort of invitation?”

  Hazel shrugged. “I don’t know. Something about a party. He said it was the only invitation that would be on the desk.”

  Mrs. Washington looked thoughtful and Hazel knew she was wondering what sort of party was so important that the Professor would want an invitation while hiding out from the men from the McCullen Manufactory. Both of them knew that the Professor enjoyed music and dancing, but he wasn’t such a bon vivant that he would insist on attending if it was imprudent to do so.

  “Mrs. Washington? Why are the men from the manufactory trying to find the Professor?”

  The older woman glanced at the door, as if someone would appear and listen in. “The Professor was working on the machine that he bought. And those men don’t like it one bit. They don’t want it taken apart, so the Professor had to go on and do it.”

  “Yeah, that’s his way.”

  “Where is the Professor now? And is Miss Sanchez with him?” asked Mrs. Washington.

  “They’re both
at the cathedral with the brothers. The Professor told me to bring the things to him there.”

  Mrs. Washington led Hazel up the back staircase and into the Professor’s study. “The men left a bit ago, but said they’d be back. I don’t know when that will be, so we should try to hurry,” she said.

  The study was messy, but not nearly as bad as the laboratory usually was. Mrs. Washington and Hazel both rifled through the papers and envelopes on the desk. Hazel felt a moment of warmth inside, standing together with Mrs. Washington, both of them reading and sorting, stacking the papers between them.

  “Here it is,” said Mrs. Washington. She handed Hazel the envelope. It was high-quality paper, heavy and smooth with embossed lettering.

  “It’s from that McCullen fellow. I thought the Professor hated him,” said Hazel.

  “He does. I’m surprised he didn’t burn the invitation the day he got it. But mad as he is, the Professor sometimes surprises you by having reasons for what he does. Well, most of what he does.”

  The envelope was open already, and Hazel slid out the invitation. The script was very fancy and she had to concentrate to make out the words.

  “It’s to a mummy party,” Hazel said, wrinkling her nose. “What is that?”

  Mrs. Washington took the invitation, as if to verify, though Hazel knew that the woman believed her.

  The housekeeper shook her head. “They get a mummy straight from Egypt. And then they unwrap the pitiful thing.”

  “That sounds horrible.”

  Mrs. Washington did not criticize the behavior of the white people who chose to engage in such things, but the disgusted look on her face made her feelings plain enough to Hazel. “It’s for the day after tomorrow,” she said.

  “Do you think the Professor will be away from the house that long?”

  “I hope not.” Mrs. Washington placed the invitation back into the envelope and gave it to Hazel. “Now for the money.” She moved to the bookshelf, pulled out a brown and gold volume and flipped it open to reveal a cut-out rectangle inside. She took the stack of bills and hesitated a moment before handing it to Hazel. The girl noticed the hesitation.

  “Don’t be worried,” Hazel said. “I promise to take it straight to him and not steal a penny.”

  “I know you will. It’s just a good bit of money. It’s not safe to carry so much. Do you want me to go with you?”

  “Naw, I’ll be fine.”

  Mrs. Washington didn’t look so certain of that. They descended to the kitchen and Mrs. Washington went to the pantry. Hazel waited. She wasn’t about to leave so long as there was a chance at getting something to eat.

  “Did the Professor say you had to come back to the cathedral right away?” said Mrs. Washington, her voice muffled behind the pantry door.

  “No, I can take a while.” Hazel leaned forward to catch a glimpse of whatever Mrs. Washington was going to offer her.

  “You can bring supper with you then,” said Mrs. Washington. She brought out a metal pail and proceeded to fill it with bread, sliced meats, a wedge of cheese, three small sweet cakes and a large mason jar of iced tea. She tucked a checkered napkin over the top, poking the edges down around the contents until she was satisfied that they wouldn’t rattle.

  “Take that to the Professor and Miss Sanchez. Those poor brothers can barely afford to take care of themselves. No sense adding more mouths to feed. And you make sure to eat some too.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Washington,” said Hazel. She let Mrs. Washington hold the door for her and, after retrieving her violin, gave a wave to the housekeeper who was watching her through the kitchen window.

  It was only mid-afternoon, and she wasn’t hungry yet. The food in the pail would keep until suppertime. She headed down the alley and toward the cathedral.

  By the time she knocked on the back door of the cathedral, she thought she would be ready to eat, if the Professor and Miss Sanchez wanted to eat right away. And if she was very fortunate, the brothers might offer her something to eat as well. She remembered the half baguette and bottle of milk that Alistair had eaten, and she felt a flash of anger. Still, she would be eating twice in one day, three times if the brothers had anything, and that wasn’t too bad.

  Brother Stephen answered the door, recognized her and let her in.

  “Afternoon, Brother,” she said and removed her cap. Her hair was getting too long, and she worried that it might make her look feminine. She needed to remember to set aside a little money for a visit to a cheap barber. Either that, or she could purchase some scissors and do it herself. Looking a bit rough wouldn’t hurt any.

  As she climbed the stairs, she thought of the night she had cut her hair, the night she had run away. It had been more difficult to cut it than she would have thought. Her hair had been in a single light brown braid down her back, and she had worked the scissors over and over at nape of her neck. Each slice of the scissors cut a few more of the hairs, until the heavy rope of hair had fallen to the floor. She remembered looking at it through her tears, and she had almost left it there. But then she gathered her wits. Leaving it would let her aunt and uncle know that she had cut it. She had picked it up and had thrown it in a rubbish can as she raced down the dark street, her arms filled with her violin and her small black dog, Mandy.

  The door to the work room was ajar, and Hazel saw Miss Sanchez sitting on a crate while Brother Joe and the Professor worked on something at the table. Miss Sanchez looked nice in her dress, and Hazel felt a flush of pride in knowing that she had been part of obtaining it. The woman’s dark hair was pinned up properly now.

  “Hello, Henry,” said Miss Sanchez. She seemed genuinely pleased to see her. She patted the crate next to her.

  “Mrs. Washington sent some supper,” Hazel said. She was about to mention the other things, but she didn’t know if the Professor wanted Brother Joe to know about the money or the invitation. Hazel took a seat next to Miss Sanchez and set her violin behind her. The room was too small for four people to move about comfortably, and she didn’t want to risk someone kicking the instrument.

  The Professor looked through the contents of the pail and placed the cloth cover back over it. Hazel would have to wait here if she wanted some of it, which meant that she would lose valuable daylight hours that could be spent playing for money in the square. She was contemplating whether she should ask for some of the food now, come back inside every half hour or skip playing altogether when she realized that the Professor had asked her something.

  “Did you get the money and invitation?” repeated the Professor.

  “Sure, sure,” Hazel said and pulled out both. The Professor handed the invitation to Miss Sanchez and slipped the money into his jacket pocket.

  “Professor?” Hazel asked. “What exactly is a mummy party? Mrs. Washington said that people buy mummies in Egypt and bring them home to take them apart.”

  Brother Joe turned from the work table and Miss Sanchez looked up from the invitation. She looked like she had never heard of such a thing either.

  “They don’t take apart the mummy,” said the Professor. “They just unwrap it. Sometimes mummies were buried with jewelry or other valuables. It’s a bit of a treasure hunt.”

  “Desecration of the dead, I call it,” said Brother Joe. Miss Sanchez looked like she agreed.

  Hazel wondered if mummies wore clothing under their wrappings, but imagined that any clothing might be rotted away, leaving the shriveled mummy naked.

  “But under the wrappings, do they have—” She stopped herself. She drew in a breath and locked her eyes to the floor. The Professor shifted his weight, and she thought he must be keenly aware that he was in the room with a woman, a child and a man of the cloth.

  “Now then.” The Professor waggled his eyebrows and rubbed his hands together. “The mummy party is our secondary plan. I
will be paying Oren McCullen a visit tomorrow, but if I know him, the likelihood of me getting answers or another engine will be slim. Still, I have to try.”

  He must be talking about trying to find a replacement engine. She knew he was obsessed with mechanicals and was known to be quite the eccentric by the townsfolk. When they called him the Mad Irishman, it was sometimes with affection, and sometimes not. But why would he go speak with McCullen? It must be very important. Miss Sanchez fiddled with the invitation, and Hazel had a flash of understanding that it had something to do with her.

  Brother Joe and the Professor went back to their work, and Miss Sanchez turned a little toward Hazel.

  “Do you want something from the pail, Henry?” she asked. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, thank you. I had a little something earlier. But I’ll be grateful to have some of it around suppertime.”

  “Where are you going to stay tonight?”

  Hazel froze. How did Miss Sanchez know that she had nowhere to stay? There was no way for her to guess. Brother Joe had never given her any trouble before about not staying at St. Aggie’s, but with all three adults, they might insist that she go there tonight.

  “It’s okay. I might be able to help,” said Miss Sanchez very softly, low enough that the men could not hear.

  “Okay?” said Hazel. She had never heard this term.

  “I mean, it’s all right.”

  Hazel nodded and looked at her hands. If the Professor liked Miss Sanchez, and Miss Sanchez was willing to help her, then perhaps the Professor would let her stay with him. She could imagine living with the Professor, in one of the spare guest rooms. Even in the attic. She could help Mrs. Washington with housework and the Professor could afford to send her to school and maybe she could even have a music teacher again. She imagined sitting at the table with Mrs. Washington and the Professor, eating like a family. Tears stung her eyes, and she turned away so Miss Sanchez would not see. Hazel so wished that she had a kind uncle like the Professor, mad and unpredictable as he was. But no, it was too much to hope for. She had to get the thought out of her mind. She blinked until she was certain that the tears were gone and fiddled with her hat.