by Rae Carson
“Folks say you destroyed Hiram’s Gulch with nothing but gunpowder and grit.”
“Gossip spreads awful fast for an unsettled territory,” Jefferson grumbles, but I can’t help feeling gratified. It’s a whole heap better than everyone knowing the truth, that I crushed the mine to smithereens using my witchy powers.
“That’s what we get for going around Sacramento,” Mary says. “News traveled ahead of us. Now people want to meet you, Lee. Take your measure.”
Tug says, “The peddler who stopped by two days back said the mine exploded in a cloud of gold dust. He called you the Golden Goddess.”
I groan, but Tom laughs. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Course it ain’t nothing but tall tales,” Tug says.
“Course,” I agree quickly.
“But it’s enough to make a bunch of rich, uppity men curious, don’t you think?”
“It’s probably a legal matter,” Tom says. “Hiram Westfall owed these men a lot of money. He also had a lot of property in his name. You’re his only relative. If something happened to him, they might need your signature on some papers.”
“What if I ignore it?” I ask. “Just because they send me an invitation doesn’t mean I have to attend.”
“I like that plan,” Jefferson says.
Tom shakes his head. “Lee, you must take this seriously. I wouldn’t be surprised if your uncle’s patron, the one to whom he owed thousands of dollars, will insist you make good on your uncle’s debt. If you don’t go to him, he could come to us. The law regarding property is still unsettled here, and he could find a way to take everything we’ve built. Everything.”
I look around at their anxious faces. “I won’t let that happen.”
Becky Joyner reaches over and squeezes my hand gratefully.
James Henry Hardwick, I say to myself. I frown at the invitation. It’s not from Hardwick officially, but it might as well be.
“It feels like a trap,” Jefferson says, echoing my thoughts.
“Whatever you decide, be wary,” Jasper says, and there’s a murmured chorus of agreement.
And that gets me thinking.
Maybe I’m the one they should be wary of. Maybe I’m the one who will spring a trap. And maybe being surrounded by friends is making me brash, but an idea has come knocking, and I know I have to try. All I need is money. Lots of money. Money is no trouble for a witchy girl, right? But even a witchy girl needs time, and I have none.
I lift my head from the letter and look at everyone in the group, meeting them eye to eye, and I make up my mind.
I say, “I’m going to need your help.”
We spend all of the next day feverishly preparing. Everyone wants to come with me, except Becky, who doesn’t want to leave her children or her thriving business, and Hampton, who has no time for “dancing and frippery.” It turns out, he’s going to go broke buying his wife’s freedom and paying for her passage on a steamship. Her name is Adelaide, and Tom thinks he can arrange to get her here by next year. Hampton wants to have his stake built back up by then.
Becky gives me a gown she brought west for a special occasion. “I’m glad I saved it from the fire, but it’s no good to me now,” she says, holding it up against me to eyeball the fit. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, made of sheened yellow silk, with a tiny pointed waist and a full swishing skirt. It will practically shimmer by lantern light, almost golden.
“You might need it someday,” I insist. “We still have to make that trip to San Francisco, remember? To get your home out of impound.”
She smiles. “I am home.”
The way she looks at me, her eyes shining but a little bit shy, her smile questioning, it’s like she needs me to take this dress from her. I wonder if it’s a bit of an apology, for everything that happened along the trail. “In that case, I thank you, Becky.”
“Maybe I’ll go to the ball next year, when Olive and Andy are a bit older and I don’t have a baby who wants to nurse every waking moment.”
“I’d love that,” I say, giving her arm a squeeze.
Her face grows serious. “Let’s just hope this gown helps you do your business.”
Together we take in the dress a smidge at the waist, and take up the hem an inch. We work in silence, each of us too aware of all that is at stake.
Jefferson, Jasper, and the Major are in charge of taking up a collection. They visit every single person with a nearby claim to tell them the plan and ask for a donation. The town seems to have acquired a few folks not interested in gold at all, like a dentist and the new blacksmith. Almost everyone cheerfully donates, but I can’t imagine it will be nearly enough.
But we don’t have any other choice. It will have to do.
I will have to do.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In the afternoon, as the sun is arching down toward the big valley, Jefferson and I steal away to our claims. We make sure no one is around to see, then we sit down together beside the creek.
“You don’t need to do this, Lee,” Jefferson says, and he has a smile on his face, like he knows something I don’t.
“I do,” I insist. “I need the money. Badly. And I have to know whether or not I can control it. I can’t let anyone else get hurt.”
“If you say so.”
I close my eyes and call to the gold. I’m careful this time, selective. I don’t rumble the gold in the ground under my legs or in the cliffs to our left. Instead, I reach for surface gold—powder and specks and a few tiny nuggets.
“It’s working,” Jefferson says, his voice full of wonder. “You’re covered in gold again.”
I open my eyes. Gold coats my arms, my skirt, everything. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I ask, peering into his face. Last time, I’m sure I injured people as the gold flew through the air, impacting or maybe even piercing skin.
“Not even a little. But look.” He points to the grassy creek bank. It’s no longer a smooth, round hill, but rather a series of smaller hillocks, as though the mud tried to ripple toward me. “You’ll get better with practice,” he says.
Together we scrape the gold from my skin and shake it from my hair. We lose a bit in the process, but it’s no matter. We’ll just mark the spot and pan it out later. I suppose we could retrieve it with mercury, but truth be told, after what happened to the Indians, I may never use mercury again.
“How much do you think we got?” Jefferson asks.
I heft the bag of gold dust in my hand, reaching with my witchy sense to get a feel for its purity and weight. “About three hundred dollars’ worth,” I guess.
Jefferson whistles. “In just one day!”
“I might have to witch up some more along the way,” I say glumly.
He laughs.
“What?” I say, frowning.
“You don’t need it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Our collection. The good people of Glory donated everything you need. And more.”
I gape at him.
“Becky herself gave five hundred dollars. Said she’ll earn it back in a week. Turns out, people are coming from far and wide to visit the Worst Tavern.”
I can hardly breathe. “That’s so much money,” I choke out.
“Old Tug and the Buckeyes put together about six hundred between them. The college men each gave a hundred. The Major gave a bunch, even Hampton. And then all these strangers, people who wandered into town after we left, well, they gave us a heap of money and gold, too. Lee, we raised more than four thousand dollars. At least I think so. I’m not as good at estimating gold value as you are.”
My legs don’t seem to work right, and I’m forced to plop back down onto the ground. I let my face fall into my hands, and I just concentrate on trying to breathe. Four thousand dollars. And people just gave to us.
“Lee, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy!”
“I’m fine! It’s just . . .” Another deep breath. “I’ve spent my whole life witch
ing up gold. It’s how I fed my family. It’s how I was supposed to become rich. I thought . . .” My voice turns sheepish as I admit this. “I thought my magic would save us all. But it turns out, all the magic in the world is rubbish compared to good people who take care of their own.”
Jefferson has this maddening grin that make my toes feel funny. “Well, that sounds like wisdom to me.” He reaches a hand for me. “Come on. Let’s head over to the Worst Tavern for supper.”
I allow him to drag me to my feet and lead me back toward town. We’re almost there when Jefferson grabs my arm. “Wait. Lee, there’s something I’ve got to say.”
My eyes are level with his shirt. He’s finally patched up that bullet hole, with clumsy black stitches. And he desperately needs a new pair of suspenders. He deserves a nice, new set of boughten clothes. Maybe he’ll let me buy it for him.
“Lee?”
I look up. He’s gazing down at me with such pleading, such yearning, and it feels like I’m not getting enough air, because if he asks me to marry him again, I’m not sure what I ought to say.
“I know I’ve asked you to marry me a few times,” he begins.
“Just a few.”
“And that offer is still on the table; don’t think it’s not.”
“All right.”
“It’s just . . . you should know . . . all this talk about California becoming a state soon and us getting a proper town charter and all . . .”
I reach for his hand and squeeze it tight. “Go on.”
“I’m not sure I want anything to do with it.”
“What?” Is he saying he’ll leave me? How could he not want to be part of our town?
As if reading my mind, he says, “I mean, I’m not going anywhere. But . . . My mother’s people were forced to leave Georgia so white men could get rich. And when we left to head west, I thought it would finally be my turn. I would be the one getting rich for a change. I deserved it, right?”
“You do deserve it, Jeff.”
“I don’t. No one does. Not that way. And now, after what I saw at Hiram’s Gulch, I’m not sure what to do.”
“So what are you saying? You won’t mine? You won’t be part of the town?”
He frowns. “I don’t know what I’m saying exactly. I’m still figuring it. I’ll probably do some mining, I’ll hunt, a lot of the things I did back home. But I don’t think I’ll ever own property. It’s not my land, Lee. And it wouldn’t be right to just . . . take it. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I can’t own land free and legal, anyway, being half-Cherokee. But I thought you should know, on the off chance that you’re considering becoming my wife. I mean, maybe you’re not. But if you are . . . I may never own land. I’ll probably never be rich.”
I’m not sure how to respond, or if I should. It’s too much to think on to let any old thing come out of my mouth. I settle for squeezing his hand again and saying, “Thank you for telling me.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tom, Henry, Jefferson, Mary, and I ride into Sacramento on Christmas Eve. It’s a muddy, busy town, and even though it’s new, it’s already bigger than Dahlonega. It snugs up against the water, just south of the convergence of the Sacramento and American Rivers, which creates a wide, watery highway that isn’t nearly as awe-inspiring as the Mississippi, but respectable just the same.
The river is muddy brown with autumn flooding, filled with detritus and boats. Most are sailboats of various sizes, but a few are large paddle steamers, and for the life of me, I can’t figure how they can all maneuver without crashing into one another.
“Town’s built too close to the river,” Jefferson observes.
“Yep,” Tom agrees. “If we’d built Glory this near the creek, it’d flood come spring for sure.”
“It’s bigger than I expected,” I say. Though regular two-story buildings make up the heart of town, tents and shanties extend east almost as far as the eye can see.
“They say San Francisco is even bigger,” Henry says. “Four or five times bigger.”
We all turn to stare at him.
“Cross my heart!” he says.
“We ought to find a hotel,” Tom says, so we follow his lead and urge our horses forward.
The hotels are all booked full for the holiday, and we are forced to try a saloon, but Tom comes back outside with a frown, saying, “No place for young ladies.” Finally a kind soul points us in the direction of a boardinghouse one block off the main square. The gentleman running the place insists we pay for two separate rooms—one for the men, one for Mary and me—which is a ridiculous expense, since we’ve all been sleeping side by side on the trail for days. But now that we’re in a city, I guess we have to start behaving in city ways.
Becky’s gown, along with a corset and petticoat, has been folded up in my saddlebag. I don’t have an iron, and I’m not sure how to take care of silk, anyway, so I just shake everything out and hang it on a peg to air, hoping it will be suitable enough.
In the evening, we begin to get ready. My hair is almost long enough to put up, but not quite. I settle for parting it down the middle and pinning it smooth over my ears. Becky gave me a little bauble of lace and yellow rosettes, and once I pin it in place, it almost looks like I have a proper bun.
The gown is still a bit wrinkled, but not too badly. It slips over my corset and petticoats with ease. Mary helps me lace up the back and ties a perfect bow.
“You sure you don’t want to go to the ball?” I ask her as I give the skirt an experimental swish. I’m delighted with the way it moves around my ankles, like flowing water. “I’d love to have your company.”
“I’m sure. It’s bad for business, to show up at these sorts of things.”
I have no idea what that means, so I just shrug. Then I remember something else.
“Is Mary your real name?” I blurt clumsily.
Her eyes narrow.
“I mean, is there another name you’d like me to call you? A Chinese name?”
Maybe I’ve overstepped my bounds. Maybe, where Mary comes from, a name is an important thing, like it is among the Maidu. A meaningful thing not blithely shared.
But her gaze softens, and she says, “When I was in China, my name was Chan Suk Yee, or Suk Yee Chan, in the backward way you do names here. But I’m not sure that girl even exists anymore.”
“Oh.” I think I know what she means. The Leah Westfall of Lumpkin County, Georgia, feels like another life, another girl.
“How did you get here? To California, I mean.”
“I walked across the ocean. On water, like your Jesus.”
It takes a split second to realize she’s funning me.
“On a ship, you dolt. In the hold, actually. I stowed away. But I was caught a week before we hit San Francisco.”
My eyes widen. “That sounds terrifying.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday.” She gives the ribbon at my back a finishing flick and shoves me out the door before I can ask any more questions. I vow silently to ask them soon, though. After what happened to Therese, I won’t waste an opportunity to have a friend.
I haven’t been this dressed up since Mama and Daddy’s funeral, except this time, I’m wearing a bright, happy color. It feels right, like I’m finally in my own skin. Which is not to say I’d wear this getup to bag a deer; Lee-in-trousers is an important part of me, too. But for tonight, I like the way I feel in a fancy dress.
We convene outside the boardinghouse before walking to the hotel together. Sure enough, Becky’s gown ripples like liquid gold in the light of the gas lamps. Jefferson eyes widen when he sees me. “Oh, Lee,” is all he says, but it makes my skin warm all over.
Jefferson stands tall in a new suit he bought at Mormon Island, and with his hair combed back and his fancy lace cuffs, he is as handsome as I’ve ever seen him.
“You look very nice,” I tell him.
He grins wider than the Mississippi. “You never give compliments,” he says.
“Only wh
en they’re well deserved.”
Tom also wears a nice suit, a little less fine perhaps, but he looks every inch the college-educated lawyer.
Henry is the last to join us, and I gasp a little because he wears the finest black vest and trousers I’ve ever seen, set off by a bright blue silk cravat. His face is cleanly shaved, and his scant hair is covered by a shining black top hat. He beams with such delight that I say, “That’s a lovely color for you, Henry. Your eyes are as blue as I’ve ever seen them.”
Henry beams. “Truth is, I love to dance,” he says. “I never run out of partners, so long as I’m dressed like a duke.”
“You can take all of my partners,” I say.
“You have the invitation?” Tom asks me, but his eyes are on Henry so I wave it in front of his face. “Let’s go, then.”
Each of us carries a fair bit of gold—we decided it would be safer to divvy it up—so as we walk the single block toward the hotel, stepping carefully to avoid mud, I feel as though I’m surrounded by a miasma of light and buzzing warmth.
We arrive at the City Hotel—built brand-new just last summer—at precisely seven o’clock in the evening. Before we enter, I pause to take a deep breath.
“You can do this, Lee,” Jefferson whispers as others pass us, waving their invitations to be let inside.
“I can,” I say. “And I will.” I have one goal. Find the man who loaned my uncle so much money. James Henry Hardwick. He’s sure to be here. He might even find me first.
The doorman lets us pass, and we wander through a large carpeted lobby that smells of tangy pine boughs and the giant Christmas tree at its center, decorated in gold ribbons. Beyond it are double doors leading to the ballroom. There, another doorman asks our names. I tell him, and he turns to announce us.
My heart pounds as he booms, “From Glory, California. Miss Leah Westfall! Mr. Jefferson Kingfisher! Mr. Thomas Bigler! Mr. Henry Meek!”
I hold my head high and sweep inside as if I belong. The ballroom is packed, and all eyes turn toward me. Perhaps they’ve all heard of the Golden Goddess and her motley friends. I expect hostility toward us. Suspicion. Maybe even anger.
