I grin. “A dandelion.”
Nirav huffs and playfully tosses a sock at me.
“No, listen!” I laugh. “Society sees a scraggly weed when they see a dandelion. But it’s a scrappy plant. A survivor, growing in the toughest conditions. And dandelion is one of the most healing and useful plants in all the world.”
Nirav scrunches his face, then smiles:Okay, I’ll take it.
And even though it’s barely 8 a.m., Nirav curls over in bed and is snoring in mere moments.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next few days pass quickly. Pax peruses the city in search of a storefront to lease for planning purposes; we can’t exactly meet in each other’s bedchambers.
Or CAN ye, girlie?
Spirit offers me the sound of squeaking bedsprings, and I blush deeply at the mere suggestion.
Absolutely not! The impropriety!
Aye, don’t be such a prude, Helen. This is 1912, for heaven’s sake!
It tickles me to no end when spirits tease one another. If I must have voices in my head, let them at least entertain me.
The three of us also decide we can offset some of our expenses by me continuing to do readings, by Pax peddling Nirav’s paintings. I am quite comfortable with this arrangement; I’m not enthusiastic about the idea of getting something for nothing. Though when I give readings, Pax hovers nearby, rapt. I don’t understand his fascination. The thing that makes me feel borderline insane is the thing that Pax admires most about me. What terrifies me, charms him.
We fall into the habit of using the name Julia’s Bureau, and I hope that William Stead, wherever he might be, understands that our use of his name is a ruse, a bit of a joke, and not in spite of his wishes that it be disbanded. But as fond as Spirit is of teasingme, when it’s my turn to teasethem, they are silent.
Once we have a locale, Nirav will paint flyers and hand them out like a newsie, building our business. It’s a good plan.
Nirav. His skin sores heal with regular baths, his face softens with regular meals. He ate so much at the all-you-can-eat buffet at the diner, he had to dash outside to vomit in a gutter. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, walked back inside, and finished his plate.
And I? I continue my one-sided conversations with my dead sister: “I’m not seeking your permission to do this, Daisy,” I mutter, my boots clacking on the sidewalk. Nirav listens to my utterances all day now, and for the first time, I am unselfconscious about talking aloud to dead souls. Passersby think I’m talking to Nirav. “I’m doing this with or without you.”
I purposely did not phrase these thoughts as questions. And still, no Daisy. No word of Daisy from any soul on the other side. The silence weighs on me—Where is she? What did I do to her soul?
Nirav and I pound pavement up Fifth Avenue until we see them: the lions guarding the brand-new New York Public Library. The building is gleaming white marble and is an anchor in this city adrift. We climb dozens of wide, stout stairs toward the entry. A pull of voices comes from inside:
This building took me life, it did. I fell from scaffolding in the main hall and plunged to me death. Welp, enjoy!
Used to be an aqueduct, this spot. Not easy to drain a whole lot for the use of books!
Nirav is delighted by the tall, rotating doors, and I giggle as he spins through them five or six times. A guard nearby snorts at us. “No unattended children in the library, miss.” As he says it,two young boys race past, obviously lacking adult supervision. I arch an eyebrow at them, then back at the guard. He sighs. “Them’s the Fedeler boys, ma’am. They live here. Not much I can do to tame the superintendent’s kids. Believe you me, I’ve tried.”
We fully enter Astor Hall. This marble entryway! Spirit whistles, long and low, and then pretends to make the whistle echo, because it would in this massive space.
We turn right, pass the elevators and telephones…
Elevators and telephones!
In a public building! Wouldja lookie there!
… and climb two flights of stairs. I scan the gleaming-wood research room until I spot someone who obviously works here: a woman in a smart, straight, floor-length dress. Glasses on a gold chain. Hair in a tight chignon. Shushing a gentleman who mutters to himself while reading Walt Whitman.
Nirav and I weave around desks and card catalogs and approach her. I whisper, “Excuse me, ma’am?”
She purses her lips at me.
“We’re looking for recent newspaper articles. Where might we find those?”
