Jack winces.
Ritchie does not take his eyes off him. “Is that a yes, Mr. Gibson?”
The air in the tavern’s back room feels thick and stale, and when Jack tries to get out the wordyes, his voice breaks into a thousand pieces. From across the room, Anderson glares at him.
“Good,” says Ritchie. “In that case, we’ll start with you.”
GILBERT
Once Kemp and Price aregone, Gilbert takes a deep breath and tries to think fast.
He’s got to get word to Della that Price knows—or at least suspects—the truth. And together, they’ve got to get Cecily out of town as quickly as they possibly can.
He thinks the stagecoach idea can still work. Price and Kemp will be out looking for Cecily—no doubt about that—but as long as she’s got a good pass and a ticket to wave in the face of the conductor, there’s no reason anyone will give her a second glance.
He casts his eyes around the shop. Nick and Ned are at their forges. The apprentices are engaged. Ibrahim is bringing in coal, and Marcus is at least pretending to distribute it.
A basket sits on top of Kemp’s writing desk, and in it are a number of dies for decorative work. Gilbert makes like he’s going to pick out one of the dies, but when he gets over to the desk, he swipes a couple pieces of letter paper, the ink bottle, and a pen. Then he heads straight for the stairs, which lead to the loft.
In the loft, he makes a beeline for his cot, where he finds the slit in the mattress that he cut open and stitched back together upon his arrival at Kemp’s. He rips at the stitches until the hole is as big as his hand, then he shoves his arm inside and feels around until he locates the tobacco pouch. The weight of it brings him a sharp sense of relief.
He counts the money quickly, and after he’s tucked it and the writing supplies in his pants, he heads back down the stairs, out the back of the shop, and around the side of the building to a shed, which is usually kept unlocked. Inside, there is an unused workbench, where he spreads out his supplies. He dips the nib of the pen in the bottle of ink, blots the pen on an old rag, and quick as he can, writes himself a new pass.
The slave Gilbert Hunt has my permission to pass to and from the smithy of Cameron Kemp, so long as he remains in the city proper and does not cause a nuisance.
Gilbert doesn’t have time to practice Kemp’s signature, but he’s seen it on enough invoices and receipts to make a decent attempt at it. As he shakes the paper dry—no pounce to hasten the process—he congratulates himself on the fact that this pass doesn’t look much different from the one Kemp tore to pieces. Kemp, of course, would recognize it as a forgery, but none of the other patrollers will.
When the pass is dry, Gilbert folds it and puts it away in the same leather sleeve Kemp so recently emptied. Then he sets to work on a pass for Cecily. He gives her a new name and a slaver who lives far enough away it’ll take anyone who stops her at least a week to confirm the document’s authenticity. He also confirms she has permission to travel across state lines.
When Gilbert is finished, he puts this pass in the leather sleeve, alongside his own. His hands shake as he stows the ink bottle and the pen behind a bucket, then reaches behind his back to untie his apron.
The door to the shed opens, and he hears Marcus’s voice behind him. “I was wondering where you got off to.”
Gilbert jumps a mile. “Lord, you scared me.”
“You writing yourself a new pass?”
“Can’t say I am,” says Gilbert, but Marcus is already eyeing the bottle of ink, which peeks out from behind the bucket. He reaches for it, holds it between two fingers, studying the sunlight as it bounces off the glass. “I can return this for you if you want.”
Gilbert doesn’t know what to say.
“The pen, too?” says Marcus, and Gilbert just nods as he watches him fish it out from the same hiding place.
Gilbert prays Marcus will leave, but he doesn’t go anywhere.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your niece?” he asks.
Gilbert realizes his mistake—he should have told Marcus about Cecily’s death yesterday, as soon as he was done talking to Della. Now it looks like he was hiding the information from him, and he scrambles to explain. “Della gave me the news when she came by, but I didn’t want to say anything until I’d told Sara.” This is not a complete lie.
“So, that’s where you were last night? At Sara’s?”
Gilbert nods.
“And how’d she take it?”
Is Marcus playing with him? It’s hard to tell. “I couldn’t talk to her. She’s still all wrapped up with her mistress, who’s grieving mightily.”
Marcus looks like he’s chewing on every word. “So, I suppose it’s Della you’re going to see now?”
