by Lydia Kang
For all she knew, Leah still made plans for her death. Cora looked around. This wasn’t a home to her anymore. She gathered a blanket from her room, dragged it downstairs, and sat in front of the locked front door with a chair propped up under the doorknob. She wore every knife she owned—all four—and closed her eyes with her fist wrapped around the largest one.
And still, she didn’t sleep.
Someone was knocking on the door.
“Jacob! Miss Cora!”
It was a child’s voice. George, the neighbor boy. Cora’s hand was still gripped around the knife, and she sheathed it at her waist as she pushed herself off the floor. Glancing through the window in the parlor, she saw indeed that it was George, and only George.
She opened the door a tiny sliver.
“Two letters. Have you any for me?” George asked.
“No,” Cora said, her voice coarse and gravelly to match the clothes she still wore as Jacob. She fished out a few coins from her vest and handed them to the boy.
“Also, someone came by this morning. A man. He was looking through the windows.”
Cora tried not to groan. It was probably Theo, looking to make amends.
“Did he have brown hair? About this tall?” She held her hand a few inches above her own head.
“No ma’am. Looked like one from those gangs. I can’t remember the name. Dead Rabbits? Swamp Angels? It was odd to see one of them so far uptown. My sister and I were outside playing rounders, so he asked us who lived here.”
Oh no. Please, tell me you said nothing, Cora thought.
“And what did you say?” Cora asked.
“He said he had a gift for the pretty young lady, the one with Chinese blood in her. I said that the only pretty young lady on this whole street was Miss Cora, and that she had dark hair and dark eyes. So, I said I’d take it, but he wanted to talk directly to Miss Cora. But then he cussed and went away.”
No, no, no.
They were looking for her. A girl with two hearts, with the right heritage. A five-hundred-dollar prize was worth knocking on doors, to search her out. And now they’d guessed her abode.
“George, I want you to tell any strangers who come here that we’ve left. Because we’re leaving, forever. Leah is already gone.”
“Leah’s gone! Where are you going?”
“Paris,” Cora lied. “We have relatives in France. We’re leaving on the next boat tomorrow night, and we’re staying at the hotel on Eighty-Fourth Street.”
“So far away?”
“Yes.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a quarter-dollar coin, a week’s worth of pay for the little boy. “Here you go. Thank you for being such a good postman, George.” She smiled sadly and closed the door, sitting back down on the floor after she’d relocked it.
Cora was stiff and bone weary. The night had passed wretchedly, but she had things she needed to do—speak with Alexander, for one. Much as she loathed the idea, she would have to borrow money in order to flee New York. She would have to tell Suzette that she could not pay her back, at least not for a few months until she could get settled. But these thoughts did anything but soothe her. The rumors would still follow her.
Cora opened up the envelopes George had given her. They were from two physicians, Dr. Neville and Dr. Orford. Both had patients she had been following, a gentleman who’d contracted elephantiasis after traveling in Africa, and another patient with leprosy of the face. She opened the first letter.
My Dear Miss Lee,
I have been informed recently of a rumor that you have a cardiovascular ailment that might be of some concern. Several physicians and I invite you, with the utmost respect, to our amphitheater at the College of Physicians and Surgeons for an examination. Our most preeminent physician in our department, Dr. Willard Parker, would waive his fee of five dollars for a thorough evaluation. I only wish you had confided in me earlier, as I would have discouraged the overexertion through your line of work—
Cora crumpled the letter. She went to the hearth and immediately set the letter aflame with a taper. She peeked at the other letter, and this one only gave an update on the lady with leprosy. As if her job mattered anymore. Cora’s identity was out in the world. Everything that Charlotte and Alexander had done to protect her was for nothing.
There wasn’t much to do here. She drank down the last of the coffee (she wondered if the little bean inside her belly liked coffee). And then she ate some stale bread from the bread crock, but it was drier than hard tack. It managed to soothe her stomach enough that she could wash up, dress in another set of clothes as Jacob, and leave through the back door.
As she walked southward, she didn’t feel like Jacob anymore. He felt like a cheap costume, too transparent, and her brother’s persona was no longer one she could comfortably own. Cora seemed to catch the eye of every man she passed by. With Jacob’s dirty cap and stubble, she knew that she wasn’t much to look at. But now that her identity was no longer a secret, it seemed like the whole world had its acid gaze on her.
She must be brutally careful with every step from here on out. Saving her coins, she eschewed the omnibus, walking as quickly as she could. But when her pace picked up, a wave of nausea came upon her, and she had to slow again. The little parasite inside her was already dictating its wishes to her, she thought ruefully, patting her stomach again.
“Not your fault for being a dictator,” she murmured.
Finally reaching the museum, she surreptitiously slipped down the alley to Alexander’s studio, but it was locked. She knocked, and no one answered; then she peered through the lone cellar window. There were no lights on past the storage room. Where could he be? She walked back to the sidewalk, considering checking the shops she knew he frequented. But just then, Alexander emerged from a store down the block with several wrapped parcels under his arm.
When Alexander saw Jacob, his face lit with surprise and a smile. Cora couldn’t return the smile—she was too anxious to tell him everything. That she had no home. That Leah was gone. Oh, everything. She walked toward him, passing a rum shop where several drunken men and a woman were perched on upended barrels, laughing over a joke. A wagon carrying a dead horse rolled by, and children chased it, throwing stones at the head, the animal’s tongue lolling over the wagon’s edge. But as she dodged the crowds on the sidewalk, she stumbled against a man walking in the opposite direction.
“Jacob. Jacob Lee. That’s you, init?”
Cora stepped back quickly. It was Puck. The cheese-eared resurrectionist who stole William Timothy’s body and abruptly left her and the gang that night weeks ago. In the bright light of day, he was even uglier than she’d realized. His eyes were small and curranty, mouth wide with yellow teeth like a dried corncob. He was with another man, shorter, thinner, but with a sparse black beard and a missing eye. His eyelid sagged over the empty socket, the edge of his eyelashes raw and red.
“I’ve no business with you,” Cora said roughly. “I hear you’re doing fine without us.” She tried to veer around them, but Puck stepped to the side and blocked her. Her pulse quickened, and suddenly she thought, I’m with child. I can’t risk a physical altercation. Her panic made her think slightly less clearly—if she could just dash down the alleyway, she could escape. So, she moved toward the alley.
It was the wrong direction.
“A word,” Puck said, and hooked Cora’s arm hard, pulling her easily into the dark corridor. Cora yanked her arm free and pivoted back toward the street, but Puck threw his meaty hand out and caught Cora’s cheek hard. She heard the crunch of her cheek splitting against her molars and tasted the salty tang of blood in her mouth. A hand encircled her throat, then a second. Puck was choking her, only just enough so she couldn’t escape. She kicked his groin, hard, and kicked it again, but Puck simply spun her around and instead locked his elbow around Cora’s throat. His hand rummaged around the inside of her jacket, finding the pockets, the small collection of money there, but after throwing the handful of coin
s to the ground, the meaty hand had kept rummaging.
“You like your sister, then? You got some extra thumpers in here for sale? They say a girl who looks like her’ll fetch five hundred dollars. And I don’t know another girl, young, with the China look about her, like yours. She must have the two hearts, eh? You’re so ugly, you’ll only get half that, but it’s still worth it, init?”
“Let him go.” Alexander stood in the entrance of the alleyway, a tall shadow that darkened the scene further. His clothing showed that he was a tradesman, and a reasonably well-to-do one. Puck thrust his chin out.
“Go on. You’re not wanted here. I don’t work for that museum anymore! I make my own way now.”
“Release him,” Alexander said. A vein throbbed at the side of his temple, and he put his parcels down. Puck tightened his stranglehold on Cora’s neck, and she could feel her eyes bulge. She kept forcing her elbows backward to hit his ribs, over and over again, and then thought, You silly goose, get your knife. So, she reached for the only one within grasp, but it was gone.
“Looking for this?” the smaller man said, holding up her blade. He’d pickpocketed it when they’d bumped into her. An old, old, trick, and yet she had been too distracted to notice. Distraction was the thief’s best friend, and it might be the end of her.
“I told you to release him,” Alexander said. “I’ve already alerted the watchman.”
“What? That useless old nut?” the smaller man laughed, his voice high and raspy. “He’s half-drunk all the time. You’d best be off.”
Alexander stepped forward, and the small man turned away, as if to ignore him and help Puck. But quickly, the small man spun back and jabbed forward with Cora’s knife in hand. Alexander dodged it far more quickly than Cora would have expected. With a surprising agility, Alexander snatched a broken piece of wood leaning against the alley wall, expertly sweeping it in an upward arc and catching the man in the chin. Next, he swung it down, the stick cracking over the apex of the man’s skull. As he fell, Alexander thrust the end hard into his belly. Just like that, Puck’s companion was unconscious and bleeding from the mouth along the gutter.
“Release him,” Alexander said again, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with his other hand.
“Old man, you should step aside,” Puck said. Cora’s eyes pleaded with Alexander.
Don’t. Leave. Run.
But Alexander simply swished his stick leftward and down, and proceeded forward. Cora was so winded from being choked that Puck simply threw her against the wall, and her head clonked against the brick. She panted for air, coughing and rasping. Between gasps, she saw Alexander strike Puck across the shoulder—so hard that the smacking sound reverberated against the alley walls.
Puck only smiled. Alexander recoiled, and raised his stick again, and smashed it against Puck’s arm. Again, Puck only smiled. Blood saturated his shirt where the stick had split the skin underneath. On the third swing, Puck caught the stick as it flew toward his face and wrenched it away. Alexander, who staggered back across the uneven landscape of the refuse-strewn alley, raised an arm to protect himself when Puck struck his right arm, then his right knee, buckling Alexander to the ground. Puck lunged forward, crushing Alexander’s right forearm under his boot.
Not once did Alexander scream or yell, but one last kick to the head and he was unconscious. Cora, finally able to breathe, scrambled forward and grabbed her knife from the thin man, and held it up as Puck turned and barreled toward her. She ducked, and with an efficient movement, brought it down double fisted on Puck’s booted foot.
He roared in pain, and just as he lunged downward to grab at Cora, she pushed her entire body weight onto the hilt of the knife, sinking it straight through his boot and hearing bones crack beneath the blade as she pinned his foot to the packed dirt between the cobblestones.
Puck screamed. He reached down to punch Cora in the head, and she swiftly removed another knife from her boot and sliced at his swinging arms. Red blood dripped across both his forearms.
The smaller assailant at the end of the alley began to wake up. He saw Cora and Puck, who was pinned to the ground and howling in pain.
“No more scouting, Puck. We’ve jammed enough for innocents!” And then he ran out of the alley and was gone.
The words brought clarity to Cora’s eyes. We’ve killed enough for bodies. So, resurrecting hadn’t been enough. Now she had an explanation for all the people on her ledger ending up dead before their time.
“You. You’re the one who killed them, aren’t you?” Cora hissed.
Puck only yelled, and Cora stood up enough to land a hard kick to Puck’s chest. He fell backward, foot still tethered to the ground. The fall made him howl as the knife sliced partway through his foot. She raised her other fist, and for good measure, stabbed him in his other thigh. A fresh scream shook the alleyway.
“The blonde woman with the tail! Did you kill her?” Cora yelled at him.
Puck lay on the ground, howling at the blood gushing through the dirty leather of his boot, and the new rivulet that stained his trouser leg.
“Yes,” he gasped. “They told me to use her ribbon and fix her neck tight.”
“Who told you?”
“I got a message from the museum, that they’d pay to kill her. But they wanted me to leave the body by Stewart’s, a gammy idea. I brought it straight to that Duncan fellow, and got paid extra.”
“Who else did you kill?”
“The fellow with the berry stain on his face. Owwww—”
William Timothy.
“That’s why you left our resurrection that night—you realized you’d already taken him?” Cora asked, pushing harder on the knife.
“Aye.” He blubbered. “Let go of my foot! I’m sorry, Jacob, by God I’m sorry—the price on your sister’s head is so big, I thought you’d be worth a try too.”
“Did you give strychnine to that old woman with the neck tumor? Did you kill that fellow, Hitchcock?”
“Who? What’s that? Na, I didn’t!”
He looked utterly confused, so she believed him. Why some, and not all, dead at Puck’s hand? Were the others only coincidence? A crowd had gathered around the entrance to the alley, and the watchman suddenly appeared, hollering for help. Cora let go of the knife, and Puck whimpered, hyperventilating like a trapped rabbit.
“This one,” Cora said, running to Alexander’s prone body. She cradled Alexander’s unconscious head. A large welt was raised over his left eyebrow, growing even as she held him. “He’s hurt badly.”
“We’ll take him to the dispensary; it’s only a few streets away.”
“Thank you.”
“The coppers will need to talk to you for questioning. Did you do that?” He pointed to Puck, who was blubbering over his impaled foot.
“Yes. He tried to rob me, and my uncle here.”
Just then, Alexander stirred. He looked dimly up at Cora, whose eyes were wide.
“Go away, Jacob,” Alexander said. “I’ll find you someday. Go far away. Now.”
Cora’s eyes watered as she held his head, but another wave of unconsciousness swept over him, and he sagged in her arms. She felt his pulse—it was quick and strong. He’d only swooned; he’d improve with rest and medicine.
She gently laid him down on the filthy dirt-packed alley. While the watchman’s attention was elsewhere, she slipped through the crowd of onlookers.
There was no hiding anymore. There was only one way to bring this relentless chase to a satisfying, inevitable end. Cora had to die. But death wasn’t a foe; it had provided for her all these years. It had whispered secrets under casket tops, and told her stories while wrapped in shrouds. There were many ways to die.
And Cora would, in fact, die—but on her own terms.
CHAPTER 26
There was only one other place to go for help. Maybe two.
Within the hour, after nearly running all the way there, Cora—with Puck’s blood on her hands and still dressed as Jacob
—raised the great brass knocker at Eighteenth Street.
The door opened, and the maid, clad in her proper black livery with a crisp white apron, answered. Her mouth dropped open at the sight of Cora.
“May . . . I help you?” she asked, recoiling.
“Please, I need a word with your young mistress, Miss Cutter.”
The maid’s eyebrows went up when Cora used her normal, feminine voice instead of Jacob’s.
“And you are?”
“I am . . .” Cora cleared her throat. There was no hiding now. “I am . . . Miss Cora Lee. I’ve been in the most unfortunate accident—” She tried to wipe the blood off her hands, but it was dry now and too late to hide. “Please. I need to speak to her.”
“Absolutely not!” The maid began to shut the door.
A voice called out from beyond the door. Suzette’s voice. “Who is at the door, Jane?”
“A vagrant.”
“Suzette!” Cora cried out, holding the door open before it shut completely. “It’s Cora!”
“Oh!”
Cora heard a patter of slippers on polished marble, and Suzette pushed her maid out of the way. Her eyes were enormous when she saw Cora in her men’s clothing, her hair dirty and shorn short.
“Goodness gracious me!” Suzette exclaimed. She simply stared, mouth agape like her maid’s, for quite some time. “Why are you dressed in such a fashion?”
“It’s a story,” Cora said. “A very long one. I have to leave New York, but I need your help.”
“Is that . . . blood?”
“Yes, but it’s not mine.” Cora realized too late that her comment didn’t improve the situation at all.
Suzette waved away the maid, hissing a quick warning, “Don’t you dare tell Mother or I’ll have you out of this house quicker than you can blink”; then she ushered Cora inside. Suzette brought her into the drawing room, and sat her down. She ordered tea and food, but Cora could barely eat.
