LEAH MAGGIE KATE THE FOX SISTERS STOP
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On the third day of loitering about Grand Central Terminal, I doubt our plans. Spirit could be right.
Lass, yes. We are.
We’ve lost so much time in our march toward Blanck’s soiree. “Where in Grand Central?” I toss my arms wide with frustration. We stand under the expanse of the station’s massive train shed, a web of glass and steel. Blue sky arcs behind the structure, and I consider how orderly it is to partition the heavens, tidying the universe triangle by triangle. The terminal itself is under construction—has been for nearly a decade—and many parts are inaccessible and covered in dust. “Do we know where?”
“Stead’s last letter only says that we’ll likely find Kiyoko here,” Pax sighs, flipping his suspenders in a way that makes him appear much younger than twenty. “She works here, but no one I’ve talked to has heard of her. She’s good at keeping a low profile.”
I must look disconcerted, because Pax offers me his hand, and as always, I hesitate. My thoughts always leap toDaisy no longer gets to hold someone’s hand. But I take it, because this revenge is about Julia. His fingers immediately interlace with mine. Entangled. “A low profile is a good thing, Stella. We wouldn’t want to work with someone who is too obvious.”
I slip my hand from Pax’s. “You’re right. I only wish we could speed the process.”
The time we have to prepare for Blanck’s party slips away faster and faster. The clockworks shop next to our storefront—where we plan and prepare, when we’re not here—isn’t helping matters.
Train passengers shuffle by, toting hat boxes and trunks, skirts swishing, clutching caps to heads. The women look at Pax, then look again, tracking his movements like animals track prey. The men look at Pax, then look again, and slide their eyes to their wives to see if they’ve noticed the handsome stranger. The women have; the men grow irritable.
The crowds here are crushing, both physically and in my mind’s eye.
It’s my daughter! Over there, Stella. In the smart traveling overcoat. Go!
Oh, look. My brother. I miss him so. Please, Stella?
Oi, Stella! It’s my husband! And he’s with a new woman, the louse! What a hussy!
I rub my temples. Places crowded with living souls bring forth the loudest dead. They are smothering. Ismellthem: cologne and body odor and garlic. Ifeelthem: strangled and swollen and gasping for breath, aching bones and liquid-filled lungs.
We stroll to the moist train platforms, choking us with steam and ash. We walk to the ticket counters, where lines of people wish to be anywhere but here. We climb the vast number of stairs, asking, “Kiyoko? Kiyoko?” to passersby.
None of them pause.
We are leaving, strolling past the oyster bar on the lowest level, when Nirav stops, tilts his head. He ducks behind a dusty construction canvas, and the sounds of the city muffle as the canvas shushes shut behind us. Nirav faces a corner of the room, ear cocked. He waves me over.
I walk up and face the corner, too. A whisper crawls down the wall: “Stella? Stella?”
It’s a voice inside my head, yes? “Hello?” I whisper back.
“Stella, you’re here!”
No. That voice is now.
“Stella,” the voice says, sliding down the corner of the station to me. “Boy, is your cat ever mad at you.”
Cat? “A whispering gallery,” I say. “I’ll be damned.”
Pax shifts uncomfortably.
It appears our boy is not fond of whispers.
They do tend to be about him.
In the diagonally opposite corner of the terminal is a young woman, maybe eighteen years old, who spins face-out from her corner. Her left eyebrow is sliced through with a scar, which gives her a look of near-constant cynicism. She wears a white, flowy dress and holds a large bouquet of tulips; the creamy green leaves, the dozens of colorful blossoms draped over her elbow give her the feel of a bride. A fairy. A goddess.
She glares at us sidewise, then strides over.
“What is this about?” she demands.
