by Gini Koch
The handwriting wasn’t as adept as Adele’s, but Moira’s cursive was elegant. Practiced and precise rather than relaxed and routine.
Dearest Uncle Sandy,
Washington D.C. is lovely in the summer. And while it’s entirely true that the Capitol is an aesthetically pleasing site, I find no joy in it.
Dear Millicent has taken up piano. Her stubby fingers make an appalling racket for such a finely tuned instrument. I’ve offered to tutor her, but Mother insists that I learn to paint instead. Honestly one can only stare at trees for so long before one would rather take the brush to her own eyes rather than canvas. Baby Willard is walking now, a fact that vexes his nanny no end.
While my younger siblings indulge in playtime and walks in the park, I am mired with the minutiae of society. Scads of names I’m supposed to commit to memory and titles I should care about. Vapid young ladies meant to be my peers, but I find we’ve nothing in common.
It bores me!
If I dare voice this opinion, Father dismisses me. Or worse, curses you for putting such foul thoughts into my head. He has agreed, however, to take me with him on some of his jaunts with President Roosevelt this season. I should enjoy being able to see new places in our fine country.
Father speaks of you sometimes, and it’s never fondly. But I think that’s because you did something he doesn’t understand. You gave up this silly game of pawns and politicians. The rules and niceties that come with wealth and status. You gave it all up and went to a place where our family name means nothing.
I think I understand that, Uncle Sandy.
I think you would understand me. You always did.
I know that your schedule is rather full—delightfully so! But I do hope that you might find the time to write back. Or better still, visit us. I would so love to hear all about your adventures. Perhaps you could come for Christmas! The capitol is rather lovely when the snow falls.
Your faithful niece,
Moira Grace Haus
“Why didn’t you go?” I asked, carefully stuffing the letter back in its envelope.
Crash’s attention was on the ends of his hair as he unspooled a curl and pulled it down before his eyes. Absently, he replied, “Go? Go where?”
“Home. To visit your family. Christmas was last week, Crash.”
“This is my home.”
“This,” I said, holding up the letter, “is your kin.”
The look Crash gave me, you’d’a thought I held him at gunpoint. He eyed the envelope warily and narrowed his gaze on me. “And what of your family, Jim? If it’s so important, why were you here with the rabble for Christmas?”
“Only family I’ve got are ghosts or them that don’t want to be seen.”
“Well you can count me in the latter group where the Haus family is concerned.” His voice was tight, with an angry hiss. His eyes blazed. “I want nothing to do with my brother or our lineage.”
“But Moira?”
Sanford turned his back to me and pounded a fist against the wall. Cans and boxes rattled.
I softened my approach. “This niece of yours sounds lonely, man. She needs somebody.”
Silence stretched between us, filled only by the crackling of the fire and Crash’s tense, trembling breathing. I waited while he worked his fingers into fists. Squeezing. Releasing. Fidgeting a bit before squeezing again.
Finally, he tossed a few scraps of conversation over a quaking shoulder. “She’ll find better than me.”
I couldn’t help the smirk that came over me. “You’re saying there’s better than Crash Haus in the world? Mark the date and color me surprised.”
This lightened his mood a bit, and his familiar bravado returned as his mouth hitched up in a grin. “Not today, there isn’t.”
Crash snatched the letter from Moira out of my hand and placed it gently in a cigar box over the stove. This one, unlike the rest of my roommate’s stashes, was filthy with dust and soot. I’d never seen him bother with it before. I wondered just what else he kept in there that he didn’t want to look at.
two
HE TOSSED THE stack of letters from Leland into the fire and watched the paper curl into cinders, then went back to sorting out the rest of the mail. We’d nearly finished with the small piles when Crash’s head jerked up. Those piercing eyes squinted, and his pale skin flushed.
“No!” he called to no one in particular.
In a flash, he was out into the blistering cold on a scent of something he clearly didn’t like. He looked a damn fool in nothing but his trousers, suspenders and a sleeveless undershirt, waving his arms and carrying on like a howling loon.
I followed him as fast as my prosthetic leg would allow. When I caught up with him, he was staring down a black horse pulling along a wagon not dissimilar from our own. This one, though, was well-kept; bright blue with white canvas in the windows. The boxy thing wasn’t as ornate as some of the vardos around the lot, but the paint was fresh and something about the clean lines drew the eye to it with wonder and curiosity. Lanterns creaked and something in the undercarriage wheezed as the wheels ambled over the snowy path.
“Get gone!” Crash shouted. “You’re not welcome here.”
The horse didn’t seem to care one way or another if it was welcome or not. The driver—a bundle of black coats and scarves—seemed even less impressed by my friend’s assertions. But he drew the horse to a halt all the same. Clouds of breath steamed out of the folds of the driver’s coverings, from the horse’s nostrils as it snorted and tossed its mane.
“Get out!” Crash continued to bellow. He stomped along toward the rear of the wagon, banging his fist against the slats as he went. “Go on, turn this heap around!”
“Did you miss me?” a voice shouted happily from within the wagon. The door flew open and a long-legged skeleton launched out. He wore a purple coat, a top hat, and a smile that dashed away when Crash punched at the wall again. “Do not lay another finger on my home, Haus,” he said, his accent fine as Queen Victoria’s.
Crash simmered so hot I thought he’d boil right through the snow around us. “Get out,” he repeated, voice low and menacing. “Get off my lot.”
The stranger leaned his elbows against the railing of his wagon and brought his face down closer to a level with Crash’s. “I’ll do no such thing. This berth has been my home longer than it’s been yours, gaucho.”
“Gaucho?” I asked.
His handlebar moustache twitched as he spared me a quick glance. “Oh, fantastic, you’ve spawned another of your kind.”
Crash crossed his arms. “I’m owner of the show. I decide who takes up with us.”
“Is that so? Or maybe you’re chasing off the real talent and all you can muster is a gaucho like you. And a gimp-legged one at that.”
I didn’t know what a gaucho was, but I didn’t like the way this pompous vermin tossed the word about at me. “And just what’s that supposed to mean to me, limey?”
“You weren’t born into the circus life. Neither of you.” With a glare in my direction, he spat, “Pretenders.”
“What does it matter?” Crash tossed in. “You were born to it, and it certainly didn’t help you foster any sort of talent. And if we’re such a rotten show, why bother with us? No, Professor, you want something.”
Professor? I thought.
“As it happens,” Professor Skeleton said, smoothing his moustache with spindly fingers, “I am on the run from nefarious persons unknown.”
“And you mean to bring trouble to me and mine?”
“On the contrary, I hope to evade these ruffians by putting myself in the least of likely places: with you, Crash, my most stalwart foe.”
Seeing that my friend was still dubious, the Professor added, “Besides, try as I might to discern the meaning of certain messages left behind, it seems I’m just not clever enough for the task.”
The Professor dipped his chin, a liar’s smile sparkling in his eyes as he waited for Crash to rise to the bait dangling bef
ore him.
Crash stroked the stubble on his chin. “Messages, you say?”
“Oodles of them,” the Professor purred, stare keen. His fists tightened around the railing.
The chill air tightened with anticipation, waiting for Crash to give a yea or nay on the matter. Contrary to my expectations, my roommate stepped forward and said, “Fine. You park your wagon and stay here until I get this little matter of yours solved.”
The two men shook hands.
“Thank you, Crash. Perhaps you’re not such a ridiculous man as I’d thought.”
“Ridiculous or not, I wouldn’t get too cozy. I’ll likely have your messages deciphered by sundown, at which time you can feel free to swing on down to Hell.”
With a wry smile, the Professor brought his hands together and bowed. “We can only hope you’re so quick-witted, Master Haus.”
As he ambled back to our wagon, I snatched Crash by the suspender. The strap snapped against his skin and he winced. “What’s that about, Dandy?”
“What’s that about?” I said, hooking a thumb to the Professor’s vardo.
Behind us, the Professor shouted, “Maeve! Swing the wagon ’round and try not to get us stuck in the snow. Last time it took you three hours to dig us out!”
Crash pawed at the air. “He’s nothing.”
“He’s baiting you with that fish story about ruffians and messages, Crash. And you’re taking it. Never pegged you for a mark.”
He whirled on me then, features becoming frosty and sharp. “Listen here, Walker.”
I flinched at the use of my actual surname.
“I know exactly what that man is. Better than you. Better than at least half the people on this lot, truth be told. I know damn well not to trust him with so much as a cabbage. But I’d have him where I can see him rather than lurking somewhere behind me. Savvy?”
“Enemies closer,” I muttered with a nod.
“Something like that. Now you can hand down advice on my family. You can tell me to put the damn violin away at three in the morning. But what you won’t do is tell me how to run my business. Never take me for a mark, Jim Walker.”
Crash stalked away then, his footsteps crunching through the snow.
three
THE MOOD IN our cart was only slightly warmer than the outdoors, but I think that was more on account of the fire than anything else. We quietly set to our task of sorting out the rest of the mail. When every envelope had been put into a pile, I tied each of them up with a bit of twine and grabbed my coat off the hook by the door.
Crash shrugged into his moth-eaten coat and threw the scarf around his neck again. “I’ll take this half, you take the other.”
I doffed my longshoreman in his direction. “Aye, Cap.”
He shook his head at me, expression still grim, then barreled out into the cold. As I trekked from tent to wagon, I praised the strong backs that had carved out the paths through the snow. The drifts were knee-deep in some places and if I’d had to gimp my way through them... well, the whole Wonder Show would’ve seen a one-legged man freezing his ass off while he flailed about in the powder. Would’ve made for one helluva snow angel, but I prefer living to dying of hypothermia.
Anyhow, I got the letters to their folks and trudged along the slush toward Mrs. Hudson’s cart. Right about the same time, Crash trundled up with the Professor and his driver.
Said driver was much smaller on the ground than when manning the horse. I guessed him to be about four and a half feet tall. And that was about all I could say on the matter. He was still wrapped head to foot in heavy black clothes, a massively long scarf, and a fedora. He took tiny, brisk steps to keep up with the others.
The Professor still wore his purple tail coat, but had chosen to leave his top hat behind. Snowflakes clung to his handlebar moustache, and a red tinge kissed his nose and bare chin. Getting a better look at him, I judged him to be hungry. Oh, sure he kept his dark hair and moustache immaculate, the nails on his hands clipped to precision. But with cheekbones that could slice a man’s throat, and a sallow complexion, the Professor looked about as starved as a hyena in Heaven. I wagered that if I pulled back that coat I’d see the man’s ribs.
Crash’s expression was surlier than it had been before we set out on our deliveries.
“Breakfast,” he grunted, the word billowing out of him on a cloud of mist.
“Oh, vittles do sound good. Don’t they, Maeve?” The Professor looked to the black shadow behind him, but didn’t bother waiting for a response. “I don’t know that we’ve had a hot meal this week at all, since someone can’t seem to keep a fire lit.”
He spat something through his teeth as he pulled off the driver’s hat and snatched off the scarf. While the Professor wound the muffler around his own face, the driver was revealed to be a young waif with dishwater-grey hair and skin like a new pearl. She turned her grey eyes to the ground as she bundled into herself for more warmth.
“Sorry, Mr. McGann,” she murmured.
“Sylvestri!” He shouted. “I’ve told you a thousand times, girl, when we’re out of the wagon, it’s Professor Sylvestri.”
“Sorry, sir.”
He didn’t hear her second apology. Instead, he’d turned on the charm and fixed me with a gleaming smile. “Ah yes, you are Crash’s friend. We weren’t properly introduced earlier. I’m Professor William Patricius Johann Petroff Christobol Sylvestri. Man of the world, harbinger of fortune, and proprietor of elixirs and restorative tonics.”
He offered his hand, but I didn’t take it. Crash thrust a pile of letters into my palm. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you neglected to take Mrs. Hudson’s mail. Now turn around, Dandy, and give the woman what she wants.”
Haus gripped me by the shoulders, spun me around and shoved me toward the crum car, where the ample Mrs. Hudson waited for us, her customers.
“Good morning, good lookin’,” she hollered at me. Her plump face spread into a smile that could melt the iciest of winters.
“Good day to you, too, Mrs. Hudson.”
That smile of hers faded only slightly, but the joy in her expression doubled. “Darlin’, how many times am I going to have to tell you to call me Martha?”
Before I could stop the words from comin’ out of me, I said, “Maybe I just like callin’ you missus.”
Lily white skin blushed the color of summer peonies, and the freckles splattered over her nose burned. Hers could never be mistaken for typical beauty. Small of height, but round of virtue, Mrs. Hudson had more curves than a spring has coils. Dark, redder than wine, the curls of her hair whispered against the softness of her chin.
“Mail for you, Ma’am,” I said quietly, passing her the stack of envelopes.
She accepted them, but tossed them to a chair behind her. “What can I get for you today, my dear, darling Dandy?”
Taking out my wallet, I held out a couple of dull coins. “Toast, bangers and coffee, if you please.”
“Mrs. Hudson!” The Professor chimed in as he barged up to the rear of the Missus’s cart. “Have you really stayed with this rabble since Haus took over?”
Martha’s comely face darkened with disdain. “McGann.”
“Sylvestri, madame.”
“Your name’s McGann, and I’ll have none of your arsing about. What do you want?”
“What is the soup of the day, good lady?”
“Whiskey. And if you flash me an extra ace I won’t piss in it first.”
“Mrs. Hudson, you spoil me,” he said, thumbing through a tattered billfold. He gave the dwarf two crisp bills and ordered up a plate nearly identical to mine. When Mrs. Hudson served up our food, though, I’d received two sausages more, and my toast dripped with butter. My coffee was piping hot, while McGann’s idled without a wisp of steam.
Crash and I took ourselves to one of the benches over by the fire pit. McGann soon straddled the bench next to us, leaving his young shadow to stand in the cold looking for something to do besides shiver.
The Professor straightened his tie. “Clearly, the lady is having a discomfiting morning.” I cocked my head and listened as he spoke, his accent wavering. “Why, she’s probably suffering from her monthly courses and is so overwhelmed by the joy of seeing me after so long an absence that she has no clue how to respond.”
So as to not have to look at the git’s gaunt face, I let my gaze drift to his shadow. The girl stood staring at the snow, her expression distant. A fact not lost on Crash.
“Maeve, is it?”
She looked to the Professor as if seeking approval. When he didn’t take his attention away from his breakfast, she gave Crash a meek nod.
“Won’t you sit down? And where is your breakfast? Surely you’re hungry, too.”
Maeve remained silent as snowfall, her grey, haunted eyes darting about for a response.
“Mrs. Hudson!” Crash called out. When the dwarf’s curls bobbed into sight, Haus held up two fingers. She nodded and disappeared back into her crum car.
“Now!” the Professor said jovially. “Haus, my good man, shall I tell you all about these mysterious events?”
“How old are you, Maeve?” Crash asked.
She burrowed deeper into her overlarge coat and murmured, “T-t-twelve, sir.”
“And how did you come to be in the company of Mr. McGann, here?”
“Haus,” the Professor interrupted, “I’ll have you not encourage poor behavior in my ward, here. She already has the unfortunate habit of using my Christian name in public, and I’m trying to break her of it.
“And if you must know,” he added indignantly, “I caught her trying to steal food from my wagon. She’d taken to some of the more hospitable hobo trails, but had not learned that there is a code of ethics among their ilk. So I, being the kind soul I am, took in the waif, gave her a hot meal and the promise of an honest wage.”
