by S. E. Grove
Theo did not say any of this. Instead, he said what Peel wanted to hear: “‘Look west and conquer!’ It is such an inspiring message. This is what people really need—a strong leader with a bold plan.”
Peel allowed his face to relax slightly. “The other parties also have leaders with plans. Why not support those?”
Bligh’s party, the New States Party, had chosen Gamaliel Shore, a rope maker from Plymouth, as its candidate. Like Bligh, Shore wanted to overturn the border closure because it isolated New Occident and made it a poor trade partner. This was true, but it did not sound as daring as Broadgirdle’s argument. Shore also wanted to grant the Indian Territories statehood, which would have benefitted the nation as a whole but did not have quite the same ring to it as “Look west and conquer.” Those who bothered to listen carefully realized that Shore’s policies, as a continuation of Bligh’s, were prudent and wise, while his competitor’s were brash and delusional. But not many people listened carefully.
The third party, the vigorous but small Remember England Party, had chosen Pliny Grimes. Their campaign rested on a simple premise expressed aptly by its name. Dedicated to preserving the memory of that vanished colonial power—which, of course, had ceased to rule the states well before the Great Disruption—the Remember England Party made its decisions based entirely on the speculation of how England would have wanted it. This was a frequent refrain in their debates and discussions. “England would have wanted us to stop the pirates at all cost.” Or, “England would have warned us about the dangers of paper currency.” Or, “England would have said, ‘No land, no vote!’” In reality, the party strained its imagination and credibility at every turn, attempting to envision what an England that had not existed for more than ninety years would have done in crises trivial or extreme, none of which was conceivable in 1799. And, in any case, it was unclear who or what they meant by “England.” Surely all of England did not think the same way? As critics were keen to point out, England had itself been a hotbed of highly contradictory politics at the moment of the Great Disruption, before it was plunged into medieval obscurity.
“I believe the entire foundation of the Remember England Party is questionable,” Theo said truthfully. “And though I have tried, I cannot understand how their plan for New Occident is even feasible. MP Gamaliel Shore,” he continued, less truthfully, “seems to me weak-willed in a situation that requires force. New Occident must take a commanding role with its neighbors.”
Peel, who had stopped taking notes, sat back in his chair. “Very good, Mr. Slade.” He considered for a moment. “Let me see if the MP is available. I would like him to meet you briefly, if he is.”
Theo knew that this meant he had done well, and yet his mouth had suddenly gone dry. He forced the words out. “Thank you.”
While he waited for Peel to return, he looked around the office. A second desk—bare apart from a lamp—had been added for the new assistant. The walls were lined with tall wooden cabinets labeled carefully in what Theo already recognized as Peel’s hand. A door at the rear of the room led to a narrow corridor and an inner office. It was from this corridor that Peel now reemerged, pressing his mustache with satisfaction. “The MP has a moment to see you. Follow me.” He tucked his small wooden writing desk under one arm.
Theo watched Peel’s retreating back, unsure that he would be able to move forward. His legs felt as though they were filled with water. He closed his eyes and imagined his escape route: back through the door of the office, down the corridor, down the stairs, out through the colonnade, and across the common. Then he opened his eyes and stepped forward, following Peel’s gaunt figure into the narrow corridor.
Peel turned into an office on the right. Graves—Broadgirdle, Theo told himself firmly—was there. He sat behind a massive desk, his back to the doorway, contemplating the view from the window. “Here is Mr. Archibald Slade, sir,” Peel said.
Broadgirdle turned in his chair. Theo’s first impression, seeing him at close range, was that he had not changed so much after all. The clothes and teeth and beard were new, but it was still the same face, the same expression, the same penetrating eyes. “Mr. Slade,” Broadgirdle said smoothly, putting out his hand. Though he had long arms, he barely leaned forward, forcing Theo to step up to the desk and stretch across it.
“It’s an honor, sir.” Theo noticed, as they shook hands, that Broadgirdle glanced at the kidskin gloves. “Please excuse the gloves,” he added apologetically. “I have a skin condition.”
“Nothing contagious, I hope?” Broadgirdle asked, smiling faintly.
“Oh, no, sir. Nothing contagious.” He smiled back, feeling suddenly a little sick. “Just unsightly.”
“Well, as long as it doesn’t get in the way of your writing and filing.”
“No, certainly not.”
Broadgirdle gave a lavish smile, showing all his white teeth. “Peel tells me you believe in forceful leadership.”
“I do, sir. I think New Occident needs a forceful leader. Now more than ever.” Theo knew he was saying the right words, but he felt that if required to think or elaborate upon them, he would be unable to. Broadgirdle’s grin was dizzying. The too-familiar way he tapped his hand upon the desk—pattering against the surface with his third and fourth fingers, as if sending a message to the underworld—made Theo want to turn and run.
“The opinion speaks well of you. Let me ask you the question I asked Peel when I hired him, which I like to ask of anyone who works in this office.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Pretend that you are already employed here. You are walking down the corridor, and you overhear an MP from one of the opposition parties discussing a measure that would surprise and undermine our plans. The MP sees you. He demands your word that you will not mention what you have overheard to anyone. What do you do?”
Theo knew that there were only one or two right answers, and he felt with relief that in this instance, his past knowledge of Graves—Broadgirdle—worked to his advantage. Some might think that he wanted an ethical reply. But Theo knew that Graves valued shrewdness greatly and ethics not at all. He took a deep breath. “If the MP is demanding my word, I would give it. Then I would report to you what I overheard. Finally, if the MP protested later on, I would say that he had spoken carelessly to let his words be overheard, and that he had not given me a choice in promising to stay silent.”
Broadgirdle raised his heavy eyebrows and gave a slight smile. He sat without speaking. “Well said,” he finally replied. Theo felt gratification at the compliment and then a flood of nausea for being gratified. He sensed Peel relax slightly. “Working in the State House raises all manner of ethical dilemmas. It is important to know where one’s loyalties lie and to not be overly nice with one’s virtues.”
“I understand, sir,” Theo said. “Thank you for the explanation.”
Broadgirdle gave him one last, appraising look and then turned to Peel. He nodded slightly.
“We’ll return to the front office now, Mr. Slade,” Peel said.
“Thank you for the interview, sir.”
Broadgirdle acknowledged him and turned to the window once again.
“Mr. Slade, I will contact you soon about the position,” Peel said when they reached his desk. He glanced at the sheet of paper on his writing desk. “Care of the South End Post office?”
“Correct.”
“Thank you for coming in.”
“Thank you.” Theo felt too shaky to say anything else. His legs carried him along his escape route: down the corridor, down the steps, and out through the colonnade to the main entrance. When he reached the common he tried to remove his gloves, but he found that the sweat had glued them to his palms. He shook his hands furiously, suddenly desperate to take them off. Finally, pulling them inside out, he was able to yank them from his fingers. He walked unsteadily across the common, feeling great relief and som
e surprise that he had survived.
—June 12: 13-Hour 45—
THE LETTER FROM Broadgirdle’s office arrived on the eleventh, announcing that he had been offered the position and asking him to present himself for work on the twelfth. Theo tried to visit Nettie’s house to tell her, but the inspector was home. He left her a note addressed To Nettie from your friend Charles in the mailbox. He spent the rest of the day preparing himself, and on the next he did what he once would have considered impossible: he worked his first day in the offices of MP Gordon Broadgirdle.
He realized, as morning gave way to afternoon, that his contact with Broadgirdle would be limited. For one thing, Peel was fiercely jealous of his time with Broadgirdle, and he tried to be the sole point of contact with the powerful MP. Theo did not protest. Moreover, Broadgirdle spent very little time in his office; he spent most of it moving stealthily through the halls of the State House, meeting with various members of parliament and no doubt applying his leverage in as many places as he could.
Theo tensed every time someone turned the doorknob, but by the end of the day his tension had begun to lessen. The avalanche of busywork deposited on his desk by Peel helped, too. When a young woman in a pinstripe shirt and sharply creased trousers came in, Theo welcomed the interruption with relief. “Can I help you?” he asked, getting to his feet. Peel had scrambled out of the office with his writing desk some time earlier in response to a summons from Broadgirdle.
“I just wanted to introduce myself,” the young woman said, putting out her hand. “Cassandra Pierce. I work down the hall in MP Gamaliel Shore’s office.”
“Archibald Slade. Very nice to meet you.”
She gave a firm handshake. “How are you settling in?”
“Fine, thank you.” Theo gestured at the pile of paperwork on his desk. “I have plenty to do already.”
Cassandra smiled, tilting her head slightly. “It seems I was spared.”
“How do you mean?”
“I applied for your position, but was not chosen.”
“Ah. Very sorry.”
“Not at all.” She tucked her short black hair behind her ears. “It can be overwhelming here. All the little snubs and things that go unspoken. Let me know if I can help.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.”
Cassandra paused and looked around the office. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. The assistants all have lunch together on Fridays, if you’d like to join us.”
“Maybe I will—I appreciate it.”
She gave him a brief wave as she left. Theo looked down at his desk and realized it was almost fourteen-hour. He tidied the papers on his desk, took his jacket from the coat stand, and left the State House.
He felt exhausted, but the day had been a tremendous accomplishment. Though he had learned nothing new, he had successfully implanted himself in Broadgirdle’s office. He felt suddenly, exultantly certain that this would work. Broadgirdle had no idea who he was. In a day or two, he would start searching in earnest, and he would find something that explained the presence of the Sandmen, or pointed to the location of the Weatherers, or proved Broadgirdle’s involvement in Bligh’s murder. It had to be there. With luck, he would have what he needed by the end of the week.
Distracted by these thoughts, Theo did not notice that he was being followed.
The boy was easy to overlook. He was barefoot, because the soles of his boots had given out that winter and the way they slapped the pavement made it difficult to walk around unnoticed. Untidy did not begin to describe his hair, which looked more like a pile of crushed straw than a covering for his scalp; dirty did not begin to describe his skin, which was so covered with dust it was impossible to determine its color; and torn did not begin to describe his clothes, which seemed in danger of disintegrating entirely. His pants were held up with twine. His shirt had only one sleeve. At the very top of this bedraggled arrangement perched a very fine and well-made cap, which he had acquired the day before and was sure to keep for only a day or two longer. The best pieces were always bound to be stolen.
The boy padded silently on his bare feet, receiving only the occasional look of pity or disgust from passing pedestrians, and he followed Theo all the way through the Little Nickel to the South End and onto East Wrinkle Street. The boy observed how Theo tousled his hair with a rather desperate movement and accelerated his pace. Running up behind Theo, he scurried around so that he was standing in front of him and stood in his way, arms crossed.
“Uh . . . hello,” Theo said, eyeing the diminutive figure in his path. The boy had large ears and freckles, which made it difficult for him to appear menacing, however piercing his glare.
“Hello, Archibald. Or should I say Charles. Or should I say Theodore.”
Theo squinted and eyed the boy thoughtfully. He looked familiar—not familiar in the sense that Theo knew this particular boy, but familiar in the sense that Theo himself had once been very like this boy. It was like seeing a younger version of himself. “Scram,” he said, not unkindly. He moved to walk past him.
“You don’t want to do that.”
“What? Go home?”
The boy scowled. “Ignore me. It’s a bad idea.”
Theo smiled. It was true, he reflected. Ignoring himself when he was this age would have been a bad idea. “Okay. I’m not ignoring you. You figured out that I have three names.”
The boy seemed momentarily disconcerted. “I did,” he asserted, attempting to keep his tone confrontational.
Theo shrugged and looked away. “Probably someone told you. And now you want to pretend you figured it out all by yourself.”
“No one told me! I did figure it out all by myself.”
Theo gave him a skeptical look. “Prove it. How did you know?”
“Easy. Saw you leaving the State House. Followed you here. Saw you sneak in. Saw you sneak out again the next day. Saw you leaving love letters over in the Little Nickel. I’ve got eyes and ears, and I’m just about invisible. It’s a good way to figure things out.”
“All right,” Theo conceded. “But you don’t know what I’m actually doing or why I’m doing it.”
“No, I don’t,” the boy replied stoutly, “but it seems to me that whatever you’re doing, you ought to calculate me into your expenses if you plan on staying undercover.”
Theo laughed. “Not likely. Nice try, though.” He tried to walk away, but the boy stuck out a dirty hand to stop him.
“I know what he has on Shadrack.” He looked up at Theo, his eyes sharp.
“What?”
“Broadsy made an agreement with Shadrack. I know what it is.”
Theo made an effort to appear mildly impressed rather than desperately curious. “What is it, then?”
“Ha,” he replied dryly. “No chance. You and I agree to terms. Then I’ll tell you what I’ve got. If you don’t like it, the terms are only good for one week. If you do, the terms are good indefinitely.”
Theo tapped his chin, speculating. “All right. Let’s talk. What’s your name?”
The boy looked suddenly greatly relieved. The tough talk had proved something of a strain for him. “Winston. Winston Pendle. Go by Winnie.”
“And you’re one of the boys who work near the State House, right?”
“Right.”
“How many people know about this?”
“No one, just me,” Winnie said with a touch of pride.
“All right. First part of the terms. That’s how it has to stay.”
“Obviously. Second part. I want a nickel a day.”
Theo’s eyes narrowed. “Are you blackmailing me like ‘Broadsy’ does?”
“No!” Winnie said heatedly. “I want a nickel a day for my work. I can take messages, I can hear things no one else does, and I can follow people. Like I said. I’m invisible.”
“Okay. But we k
eep it at a nickel, even if things get a bit rough—which they might. No haggling.”
Winnie looked down at the cobblestones in an attempt to conceal his glee. A nickel a day would mean three meals and maybe a pair of shoes, if he saved up. “I can handle rough work. But it can be expensive.”
“I said no haggling.”
“Fine.”
“It’s a great deal and you know it,” Theo said.
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is,” Winnie agreed.
“All right. Let’s hear what you’ve got. I’ll go in this way, and you go around and knock on the side door of 34 East Ending Street in five minutes. I’m going to introduce you to Mrs. Clay. First test for you. Mrs. Clay has no idea what I’m doing at the State House, see?”
Winnie nodded.
“It’s for her own good. She’s a worrier. She thinks I’ve been spending all my time hanging out like you do on the common. We’re going to keep it that way, all right?”
—15-Hour 34—
MRS. CLAY WAS more than a little shocked by the state of Winnie’s attire, and for several minutes, while Theo explained who he was and how they had met lingering near the State House, she could do little more than stare at him. She had seen such children on the street before, of course, but she had the vague sense that their state was always temporary, and she had never had the chance to speak to one of them to ascertain whether this was true. Nodding absently as Theo finished his introductions, Mrs. Clay frowned. “And where do you sleep at night, Winnie?” she asked.
“You know, here and there.”
Her frown deepened. “Where are your parents?”
Theo rolled his eyes; this line of questioning was all too familiar, and he knew it would lead nowhere. Winnie squirmed. “No idea about my father. My mother’s upstate.”
“What do you mean, ‘upstate’?”
