The librarian crooks her finger in afollow memotion. We follow her back down two flights of stairs to the opposite side of the building. Inside this room, magazines line long, wooden shelves, and newspapers hook over wooden dowels, hanging in rows like laundry.
Wow! I didn’t know there were this many words in the whole world!
However are you going to find what you’re looking for, Stella?
Spirit cannot talk me out of this quest by simply pointing out how vastly impossible it seems. The librarian must see the overwhelm on my face, because her expression loosens.
“What topic can I help you find?” she asks.
My stomach clenches. “I’m looking for information on Max Blanck.” The name of that man tastes like bile.
Whatever grace this librarian had given me when I looked lost among these periodicals is now gone. Her face screws tight like she’s tasted lemon, her arms cross her chest.
“He’s… uh… the owner of—” I begin.
“The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory,” the librarian spit-whispers back. “I know.”
I size her up, quickly. She’s young—maybe twenty or twenty-two—and obviously smart. I decide to take a chance. I lean close to this stranger. She smells like bergamot, orange and spicy. I whisper:
“I am seeking revenge.”
Did my Team of Light pull a tad away from me?
The librarian inhales sharply, leans back. Her eyes are dark brown and hard as she studies me. She turns on her heel and marches away.
I shrug at Nirav. “I guess we’ve…”
The librarian tuts at me over her shoulder, shushing me. She jerks her head,come. We fall in step behind her. She lifts several loose-leaf pamphlets off a shelf,The Readers’ Guide to Periodical Literature. She silently shows me how to scan the typewritten list for the topics of interest:Max Blanck. The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire. The City of New York versus Max Blanck.
This list leads us to dozens of magazine and newspaper articles. I whisper that we’re seeking the most recent information on Blanck, so we work backward through the list. The librarian silently pulls them all, then directs us to a table. She sits with us, scanning the articles alongside me (Nirav is not reading and I assume does not know how). After thirty or so minutes, she sits upright, slides a newspaper toward me, and taps a column twice.
She leans back and folds her arms over her chest with a look of satisfaction. The article is a gossip column, one of those ridiculous blathering pieces written by Hedda Hopper, published just yesterday. The headline reads, “Blanck to throw lavish celebratory post-trial party—will host the world-famous Hope Diamond debuting on U.S. soil!”
I look up and a grin splits my face. “I’m Stella,” I whisper.
“Laura,” she whispers back, and extends her hand.
We shake hello.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
May I borrow this paper for a few days?” I ask. She does not smile—she does not seem like the type of person who smiles often—but her face quirks.
“No,” Laura says. Her eyes dart around the room quickly. She shakes her head, but she leans over me and tucks the newspaper into my satchel. “We don’t allow patrons to borrow periodicals. I’m sorry.”
Nirav and I leave the clean, new-wood smell of the library and head back to our boardinghouse. Pax is outside, awaiting our return, practically bouncing on the toes of his shiny wingtips. I don’t wish to be happy to see him, but I do feel something warmly familiar that he’s waiting for us. For me. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone anticipating my return.
We both speak at once: “Wait till you see—” “I have exciting news—” “Ha! You go—” “No, you—” I nibble my lip.
Nirav huffs heavily and points at Pax,you go first.
Pax grins. “I found our storefront. Right this way!” he sings, and his expensive shoes clack northward. I find his exuberance questionable.
I slide my eyes to Nirav. His head ducks to hide his grin.
“Right this way!” I shout, and march after Pax.
Pax falls into step with me, and I notice our stridescomplement one another’s nicely. Ithennotice that that’s an odd thing to notice. “That woman—Miss Cambridge?”
