by Beth Cato
“That proves you’re telling the truth. My foot didn’t shatter.”
She glared at him, but it was a fond sort of glare. Strings hummed from the pit below. Cymbals crashed, and trumpets burst out in triumphant fanfare. Young Lincoln strode onto the stage. Ingrid settled back in her seat.
It was strange, really, how the pleasure of the opera made all the terrible events of the past few days fade away. Mr. Sakaguchi had been so fond of Lincoln he practically wore out his Graphophone records, and arranged daily schedules around anticipated broadcasts of live shows over the Marconi. She knew every song and so much of the dialogue that she mouthed key lines with the actors.
Tears brimmed in her eyes, and not simply because of the fine performances onstage. Oh, how Mr. Sakaguchi would have loved this production.
It also comforted her that no blue fog haunted the Damcyan. Her thin slippers didn’t even transmit any movement. She surmised there were multiple floors beneath her seat, and likely substantial metal supports.
Fully gripped by both joy and longing, she didn’t feel any annoyance when the serving girl sauntered by during a quiet moment. The woman slipped a note into Cy’s hand, and he returned the favor with a coin. Ingrid leaned over to read the folded paper.
Will talk at Quist’s. Need status reports. —G. Aug.
“It’s his handwriting,” Cy whispered.
Ingrid slipped her hand against his and squeezed. Gossip be damned. This was a minor thing compared to their intimacy over the past day. He’d seen everything from her bloomers to her body soaking wet, not to mention the fact she’d worn his own clothes for a time.
Then there was that kiss—oh, that kiss. She felt all hot and shivery at the very thought of it. But being in public or not didn’t matter. Right now he needed some support, and by God, she’d give it.
Cy’s thumb rubbed the back of her knuckles in a slow circle, his coarse skin sending a tingle up her forearm. He didn’t let go, not until the curtain dropped for intermission, and they joined the masses in the lavish corridors. Circumstances required they go their separate ways for a few minutes. As Ingrid returned from the powder room, she paused to look down at the orchestra.
The Damcyan was designed to awe, and it succeeded. Elegant sandstone columns stretched so high she had to crane her head to take in their full length. Realistic stars dappled the ceiling.
When she looked down at the stage again, she spied Victoria Rossi with her camera.
The woman had set up her gear on the far side. She wore a plush red gown that matched the rich shade of the upholstered seats. Her wavy black hair was coiled atop her head like a resting snake, perfect ringlets drifting by her ears. She looked like a model for a Pre-Raphaelite artist.
Miss Rossi angled her camera toward the magnificent pillars, then the drapery of the curtains, and then out to the seats as they began to fill again.
Strange, how that woman had been found over the past few days in so many places that seemed like quintessential San Francisco.
Despite Miss Rossi’s rudeness the last time they spoke, Ingrid wouldn’t mind talking to her now. The simple fact was, Miss Rossi was probably the most knowledgeable person she knew in regard to local fantastics in the wild, especially within the bay. She had even carried photographs of California selkies in her shop, though they hadn’t sold that well. “Too native-looking,” an adept from the auxiliary had commented as he browsed. Imported postcards of fair-skinned Scottish and Irish selkies sold better.
Ingrid retreated to her seat. Cy greeted her with a smile as he politely said farewell to yet another concerned customer of the auxiliary. It was as if word of their presence had spread.
That realization sent a cold chill through her.
“Cy,” she murmured as she sat. “If these customers know to approach us here, what about Captain Sutcliff?”
He considered that for a moment. “There’s no warrant out for your arrest—or no notice in the paper, at least. I checked today. A fellow a few minutes ago inquired about Mr. Sakaguchi, said he’d heard of a fuss at his house. I told him the warden was in protective custody and not to worry.”
“Protective custody.” She flinched. “I suppose that’s true, in a way.”
“Sorry.” Sympathy warmed his eyes. He tugged at the outer seam of his pant leg, smoothing some invisible irritation. “My gut feeling is that word will spread quickly once the opera’s done.”
“We’ll need to watch our shadows, then.”
“Did we ever stop?”
The opera resumed with the mournful wail of clarinets. The performance reached an emotional crescendo at Lincoln’s death as singers from the shadows sang “Sweet Freedom, Take Me Home.”
Ingrid’s lip quivered as she fought back emotion. Mr. Sakaguchi adored this aria. She had asked him once if it made him think of Japan, and he had shaken his head. “No,” he said. “It makes me think of people, not places,” and with fondness gazed across the room to the kitchen, where they could barely spy Mama through the door. She kneaded dough with the brutality of an Ambassador in an interrogation.
Ingrid started to bawl. She fumbled open her satin clutch, belatedly remembering that the Chinese woman hadn’t included a handkerchief. Ingrid had, however, brought Mama’s revolver. Priorities.
“Here,” murmured Cy, pressing a red kerchief into her hand. Her fingers, wet with tears, squeezed his. He squeezed back. She dabbed the cloth at her eyes, and discreetly noticed Cy’s quiet little sniffles. Was he thinking of Atlanta or his childhood plantation in Alabama? Maybe some other place had captured his heart during his years of wandering.
Home. Ingrid thought of fog-shrouded hills and the low moan of foghorns and the cries of seagulls. No blue tint to the ground. Just dampness and drifting gray.
God, please don’t let the city come to harm, not because of me, she thought.
As the audience dispersed, she and Cy hooked arms so they wouldn’t lose each other in the crush. His body felt so warm and solid alongside hers. People jabbered and jostled around them, some still wiping tears from their cheeks.
The thickness of the crowd couldn’t mask the tension of the earth, though. Ingrid felt it building with every step she took as they crossed the lobby, as they neared more solid ground. They exited onto Market Street. The night sky was clear for the first time in ages, vivid as if she could reach out and pluck diamonds from the heavens.
Ambient heat coiled around her foot. She stopped walking. Someone bumped into her from behind, cursing. Cy angled his body to partially shelter her from the mob.
“Another one?” he murmured.
“No, it’s . . .” She hesitated. “Not a wave. You know when children blow up a pig’s bladder to toss around, and if you fill it with too much air it gets that particular sheen to it?” He nodded. “That’s how the ground feels. That’s the only way I can think to describe it.”
She walked on, but with every step tendrils of heat stroked and pulled at her as if she walked through a field of grass. It wasn’t as if the earth wanted to pull her in—more like it sought an outlet, like it would climb up her body. She shuddered. For ages she had craved thin-soled shoes so she could readily pull in energy. Now she had been granted her wish, eerie as it was.
The sign for Quist’s gleamed with white and blue bulbs. Ingrid and Cy joined a queue. People pressed too close to allow any semblance of private conversation. Cy’s lips were a tight line, his body taut as a bowstring. At last they reached the door.
The doorman appraised her at a glance and frowned. She recognized the man—he always looked at her this way, like she was a dark stain on a white marble floor. Ingrid ducked her head in a deferential manner. “I’m Ingrid Carmichael, secretary for the Cordilleran Auxiliary. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Sakaguchi,” she murmured, as if she wore her usual, more muted attire.
“Ah, yes. I remember you. This man is . . . ?”
“Mr. Dennis,” Cy replied smoothly. He’d given the same name to some of the customers who ha
d approached during the opera. “Here after the unfortunate events on Sunday.”
“Oh yes, of course. Our sympathies.” His attention focused solely on Cy. “Mr. Sakaguchi’s usual table is set.”
“Thank you,” Ingrid and Cy said in unison, and entered. “Follow me,” Ingrid added.
The scent of pungent cloves mingled with the mouthwatering fragrance of seared steak and fried fish. The first room was decorated with the heavy, dark woods of a public house. People clustered around booths or stood at high tables.
The next room recalled the austerity of a different continent.
The people here were quieter, too, barring the occasional boisterous laugh. Guests sat on plush pillows around low tables, their shoes stashed in cubbies at their booths. Serving girls replicated geisha. Their kimonos weren’t stylized like Ingrid’s; they were true to Japan, with narrow skirts that caused the women to walk with small, precise steps. Rice-paper sliding doors blocked off private rooms along a balcony above.
“This is my usual table.” Ingrid stopped in a back corner. No other servants lingered there; they had arrived too quickly after the show. “Mr. Sakaguchi sits over there.”
“It’s impossible to know if Fa—Mr. Augustus is even here yet,” Cy said, glancing at the private rooms above. “I reckon there’s only one way to find out. Pardon me.” He stopped one of the waitresses, his smile warm enough to thaw an iceberg. “Could you inquire if . . .”
Ingrid slipped off her shoes and knelt on her usual cushion to survey the rest of the room. A moment later, Cy claimed the zabuton across from her.
“You really shouldn’t sit here,” she said.
“Neither should you.”
“Cy, it’s okay. I don’t—we don’t need to cause a fuss.”
“I have no intention of causing a fuss, nor do I intend to let my companion for the evening sit alone. I sit here, or we’re at that other table together.”
The view from the other table was excellent. Ingrid felt out of place, rather naughty—and giddy at the act of rebellion. The waitress came around. They deferred ordering, to wait for Mr. Augustus, and she went on.
“The waitress may not say anything about my presence, but we are getting attention,” she murmured. She was getting attention. “Is that wise?”
“No. But word is already out. People would have talked no matter what. Now I just pray to God that we’re not kept waiting long.” A grim current deepened his voice.
The strain of the earth resonated through the room, as it abounded in straw, bamboo, and other natural fibers. The conductivity of the place—and the excellent fare—were why wardens favored the restaurant when they were entertaining guests.
The blueness of the fog had deepened, too. Ingrid could feel that difference. Power trickled into her. Not the tidal wave of a tremor, but energy just the same. She breathed it in, eyes half shut, and basked in the buzz. The gun in her purse might be more reliable if she had to defend herself, more easily explained, but this power was hers. She needed whatever she could muster.
Cy was right. People might murmur about Ingrid’s presence, exotic—oh, how she hated that empty term—as she was. But the attention would have arrived even if Cy had come alone and used Mr. Sakaguchi’s seats. And Mr. Sakaguchi always visited Quist’s after the opera.
Captain Sutcliff was no fool. If he got word of Ingrid’s presence, he’d know where to search for her, for Cy. She casually looked around the room and noted doors to the front, to the kitchens, and to the lavatories. No uniformed soldiers in sight.
George Augustus could betray them, too. Cy’s anxiety, though, stemmed from meeting his father at all. He drummed his fingers, his gaze scouring the room. A waitress asked again if he wanted something to drink. He shook his head.
A man in a white suit approached them and bowed. “Mr. Augustus will receive you now, sir, madam.”
He carried their shoes and guided them up stairs that emitted cricket chirps with every step. No blue clouded the floor this high up. The man slid open a door to a small chamber.
A silver-headed man with a bold forehead sat at the end of the low table. Ingrid vaguely recognized him. Mr. Sakaguchi had definitely met him at Quist’s before.
With his parchment-frail skin, he looked old enough to be Cy’s grandfather, not his father, but the resemblance was certainly there. They shared long, angular faces and the same noble bump to the nose. The older man’s blue eyes were surrounded by deep wrinkles, giving him the perpetually sad gaze of a basset hound.
“I know you, ma’am. You’re from the Cordilleran Auxiliary?” Mr. Augustus asked. His voice was softer than Cy’s, wispier. He stared at Cy a few seconds, frowning as though confused, and then looked at Ingrid.
Ingrid glanced at Cy. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he seemed to have utterly lost the ability to speak.
“I am,” she said.
“I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced, but Mr. Sakaguchi spoke highly of you, pointed you out to me.” Mr. Augustus’s forehead creased in thought. “Ah, yes. Miss Carmichael, is it?”
She was surprised but pleased. “Yes, sir.” She motioned to the open door behind them. “Can the three of us speak in private, Mr. Augustus?”
At that, his eyes narrowed. “No, but four of us can, my dear.” He tapped his pocket. Footsteps whispered down the hallway behind them. Dread brought a small flare of power to her skin.
Reddy entered the room. His close-cropped white hair was a stark contrast to his ebony skin. His gaze immediately snapped to Cy. With a deft move, he shut the door and shuffled to stand to Mr. Augustus’s left, but his gaze didn’t leave Cy. A rosy glow rounded out his cheeks as he smiled. “Sir?”
Mr. Augustus frowned, clearly puzzled. “The lady asked for privacy for us to speak. What are you smiling about, Reddy? Do you have a joke to share with the class?”
“I think the lady’s right to ask for privacy, sir.” Reddy granted Ingrid an abrupt nod. She smiled back and wondered if he remembered her. Regardless, she couldn’t help but like a man who had such evident fondness for Cy.
Reddy pulled a small box from his pocket. The object was lacquered in black, the small lip of a hinge barely visible. He set it on the table and compressed the lid. A buzzing sound escalated in volume like record static.
“The walls are terribly thin here,” said George Augustus. “This device prevents our conversation from being recorded. I’d also appreciate it if you set your weapons on the table. The purse and the rod, if you will.” He said this sweetly as if he asked them inside for afternoon tea.
An observant man; like father, like son. Ingrid set her clutch on the table. With a slow movement, Cy flared open his jacket and removed the Tesla rod from its loop. He set it alongside her purse.
“Much obliged,” said Mr. Augustus. “I’m not fool enough to expect anyone to walk around unarmed in this day and age, but it makes meetings go a mite smoother if the weapons are all out and open like a July window. That done, what can I do for y’all today?”
She glanced between Cy and his father. Well, tommyrot. He looked as tongue-tied as ever. “It seems as though introductions are in order. Mr. Augustus, here’s your son.”
“Father.” The word emerged as a squeak from the tall man beside her.
Mr. Augustus’s eyes went impossibly large. “No. It can’t be. Here? All grown up? But you . . . you’re . . .” He stood, shoving back the table as he did so. Reddy caught him and steadied him upright. “Barty? You’re alive?”
CHAPTER 14
Father and son studied each other for a long moment and then rushed into an embrace. Reddy stepped out of the way, a brilliant smile lighting his face.
“I knew I shouldn’t believe them. I knew it. Your mother said as much.”
“You were told I was dead.” The words were ragged.
“Yes. Porterman crash in Virginia. I had men look into it. We had all the proof but your body. Last autumn when you didn’t come to Maggie’s funeral, it seemed more cer
tain that . . . that you were truly gone, my boy.”
“Maggie.” A wave of grief passed over Cy. “I didn’t know she was dead until weeks later. But if you expected me to show up, they did, too.”
“Yes, yes. They. The UP. My best customers.” Anger replaced his grief even as tears streamed down the man’s cheeks. Reddy flicked a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over.
“How’d Maggie . . . how’d it happen?” Cy asked. “She was always either in the office or her laboratory—”
“It was the laboratory. An accident, fire. Her and five other engineers. Spontaneous combustion. Fast. Thank God for small mercies.”
Cy didn’t look comforted by that, but how was a person supposed to take the loss of their twin? “Figures it’d be in her lab. That’s where she was most at home. I’d always tell her to be sure and remember to make something to save the world, not destroy it.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Losing her—losing both of you—scorched us like hellfire. Look at you, my boy! A dozen years have passed. Last I saw, you were all of fifteen, that caterpillar mustache on your lip. Oh, your mother! If only she were here!”
Cy touched his upper lip as if to reach for the past. “How is she, since . . . ?”
Emotion flickered over the older man’s face and vanished in a blink. “She’d be so proud of you. Good God. Look at how tall you are. No wonder I didn’t recognize you.” He stared in awe at his son. “You went to school that last Christmas and you were a sapling with some baby fat to your cheeks. Your head only this high.” He held a hand at midchest and glanced at Ingrid. “Your pardon, ma’am! Listening to this old fool going on.”
“There’s no need to apologize, sir.” Her voice was thick with emotion. She couldn’t help but think of Mr. Sakaguchi, and the kind of reunion she hoped to have with him.
Mr. Augustus clapped a hand on Cy’s shoulder. “Sit! Please! Reddy, our security . . . ?”
“In place as always, sir.”
Cy looked at Ingrid as he knelt on a cushion. “Augustinian invented all of the spy technology used by the Unified Pacific, which also means they know how to defend against it. That buzzer on the table is all most people will see, but knowing my father, there’s a lot more in play.”
