Knucks abandons his post, his brass knuckles flashing, the horseshoe tattoo a blur. I snatch the Buddha vase and toss it to him.Do not engage an adversary; feed it. The man catches the vase, but fumbles it. A loud and expensive-soundingcracktells me it’s not so easy to catch pottery while wearing brass knuckles. I shoulder past Knucks and throw open the door, running headlong into... Nathan?
With a growl, Bear lunges at Billy. The man recoils, yielding Bear a mouthful of robe. Nathan pulls up on the leash, his face growing grimmer as he takes in the situation. “What’s going on here? I shall have you arrested!” Nathan demands in a voice full of thunder and wrath, a flash of fangs behind his curling lip.
“How gallant, newspaper boy. But Miss Kuan soughtmeout,” Billy says, seething. A murderous look contorts his face. “Next time, perhaps I shall pay a visit to her charming hideaway.”
I hardly hear Bear’s barking as the wordhideawayechoes through me. Surely Billy couldn’t know where I live?
Bear tries again and again to pounce, a blur of gray fur.
The noise and the steam and the sight of Billy’s obscenefigure churn my innards. I shall be sick if I stay in this room any longer. I stumble toward the hallway, nearly tripping on my hat. My fingers shake as I retrieve it.
“If I learn you have mistreated Miss Kuan, you shall be hearing from me,” Nathan’s voice cuts across the din. “On the front page.”
I edge past maids, the thick carpet grabbing my feet. A woman shoulders past me, her hooded figure reminding me of someone. The reek of hot lilacs fills my nose. I don’t catch her face, and I continue toward the exit as fast as my feet can carry me.
Twenty-Six
“I should’ve sicced Bear on that amphibious scoundrel. Taking a bath? My God, you’re as pale as the page.”
“I’m quite all right.”
I draw a breath of the Collins Street air, which, though putrid, is still fresher than the air inside Billy Riggs’s cathouse.
“No, you’re not. Did he hurt you? I happen to be good at fisticuffs.” He stops and looks back at the Victorian for the fourth time.
“No. I am fine.” I hold my stomach and barrel on, remembering the time Nathan broke someone’s nose over the spelling of the wordpotatoes.
Nathan matches my brisk pace. “Are you in trouble? Can I do something? Is it money? We know some officials.”
I shake my head. I cannot risk Nathan finding out about us living under his house, even if he could persuade an official to care about outsiders like Old Gin and me. Then again, if Billy knows where I live, the game may already be up.
Nathan was right. To win the hand, I have lost the deck.
I kick a cigar stump out of my path, and rein in my catastrophic thoughts. Old Gin always says if there are troubles on the ground, then look up. The changing sky reminds us that our troubles are not here to stay. Tonight’s contains a peach of a setting sun floating in a dark lake. I’m reminded of his story about the son who gave the water nymph the fruit meant for the bats of good fortune.
Bear nudges me from the side, herding me away from a broken bottle I didn’t notice.
Old Gin said the story hadn’t ended yet. I’d guessed the father’s crops die without the peach to bring the bats back, but what of the father and the son? Life keeps going, doesn’t it? The only real ending is a shovel of dirt in one’s face. Until then, you have to keep on planting and sowing, sowing and planting.
I hardly feel Nathan tuck my hand into his arm. We clear Collins and reach Five Points, the center of the Atlanta pie since even before the war, where two Creek Indian trails converged. We merge into the traffic that draws a circle around a seventy-foot-high artesian well, then take the point that shoots us toward the print shop.
“Goddamned fungus! No information can be worth that,” Nathan grouses. His voice becomes pleading. “I implore you, tell me how I can help you.” The pleading drops away and anger rushes in. “I’ve been itching to tie that worm into a knot.”
Before we reach the print shop, I stop in front of a livery supply smelling of leather and hay. “Mr. Bell—”
“Nathan.” His grimace unfolds, and the warm and steady grip of his eyes anchors me in place. “I know a place that makes good beef stew. Soothes the nerves.”
“I want to apologize for making you perpetuate a falsehood.”
“Actually, it’s truly good. Nice chunks of carrots, potatoes—”
“I meant the Miss Sweetie column. I would understand if you no longer want them.”
“No.” He straightens the notched collar of his loose-fitting sack coat, which I’ve pulled off kilter. “Of course we want them. As long as you want to keep writing them.”
“Yes,” I say, a little too quickly. “I—”
“Nathan?Jo?”
