Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1), Nick Wisseman [best novels for students .TXT] 📗

“Gladly.” Yet she restored her teeth first, so she could grit them while she withdrew the horns into her skull and made it whole again. Next she set about smoothing her face and her hips. The puncture wounds didn’t seem as large once the bone receded and the surrounding skin folded back down, but they were still ugly. She’d be lucky not to have scars—the type of telltale mark Augie had always warned her not to leave. And her hair was clumped with blood. “Sorry. That’s further than I’ve ever gone with it, but it was the only thing I could think of ... Proper witchcraft, I suppose.”

Brin snorted. “I’d call it inspired. And better than what I had going.” She gave Neva’s injuries a brisk appraisal. “Want me to bind those?”

“With what?”

Brin pointed at one of the crimson-stained Indian blankets hanging on the walls. “No one’s going to notice a little more red on that.”

Neva grimaced. “No. Let’s just leave.”

They turned the skull lamps off as they went. After making sure the alley was empty, Brin darted two blocks over and down another side street. “Saw this on our way here,” she explained as she neared a jumble of iron that might have been a broken printing press. “One of the papers must have gotten new equipment.”

“Good for them?”

“Trains won’t be running back to the Fair this late,” Brin elaborated. “We need somewhere to sleep for a few hours.” She knelt by the scrap metal and trailed her fingers over it, coaxing the busted parts into a cave shape as Neva’s rashes screamed at her to regrow her horns and gore the Irishwoman from behind.

“You must have liked that coffin.”

“Not a bit.” Brin glanced at Neva, no doubt noting how twitchy her hands had become. “But it’s as safe as we’re going to get unless you have extra coin on you.”

She shook her head.

“This one’s yours, then. I’ll make my own. No need to share again.” Brin beckoned inside the crude opening. “Come on, you need the rest.”

She was right. It had been a hideously long day—two hideously long days. Time for a nap. Neva slid inside the opening and shifted around until she found a tolerable position.

Behind her, Brin molded a few strips of stray metal into what looked disquietingly like prison bars. “Not a fan of cages myself, but this will keep the riffraff out, and I imagine you could wriggle through them.”

“I imagine so. Good night ... Irish girl.”

Brin’s lips twitched. “All right, colored girl. Let’s pretend it is one—good night. I’ll wake you at dawn.” Chuckling, she withdrew to the other side of the press and began fashioning her own little cave.

Neva fell asleep within four breaths.

“DON’T LET LUCRETIA catch you reading that.”

Augie moved to slap shut The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but Neva caught his hand.

“We didn’t steal it, Mr. DeBell,” she said softly. “We borrowed it from Derek.”

Mr. DeBell nodded, his head seeming oddly bereft without its customary bowler hat. “And you’re performing it quite well. I’m sorry, I should have knocked.”

“It’s all right.”

He took another step into their candlelit servant’s room, his shadow jiggling like a robe on a laundry line. “It’s just that when I heard you taking turns with Twain’s colorful prose, I realized what a good teacher we lost in Quill—his politics aside.”

Augie grunted. Neva looked down at the book.

Mr. DeBell studied the small room for a moment, his eyes lingering longest on a worn copy of Charles Upham’s Salem Witchcraft, another book they’d asked Derek to procure for them—and the one Augie had been more insistent they read.

Neva rested easier when Mr. DeBell’s gaze found its way back to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I know my being here is a ... break with custom. But I wanted to let you know that I won’t be hiring another teacher. Abiah has all the schooling she needs—and more than she wants, it seems—while Jasper will be old enough for university in the spring. Derek, I think, would be best served by an apprenticeship with a draftsman.”

“And what of us?” asked Neva.

“That’s up to you.” Mr. DeBell tucked his arms behind his back. “You’re welcome to stay on, of course; you always will be. But you’re sixteen now, and I’ve seen you dance,” he said, unfolding one arm to point at Neva. “And I’ve heard you throw your voice,” he continued, gesturing at Augie. “If you’d like to try something new, I could write a letter of recommendation to James Bailey.”

Augie sat straighter. “The ringmaster?”

“And cofounder of Barnum & Bailey Circus. He’s an old friend of mine. Once he sees your skills, I’m sure he’d be happy to take you on.”

Augie shot Neva a look of pure enthusiasm.

She shut The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn slowly enough that the pages rippled down a few at a time, creating a smooth, fleeting waterfall of parchment. “We’d be performers?”

“That’s my hope. What do you think?”

“We say yes,” Augie answered in a near-perfect—but not too perfect—imitation of Neva.

She pretended to hit him with the book. He ducked playfully.

Then Neva grew somber. Going to the circus—the circus!—meant they’d be on their own, leaving the only home they’d ever known ... But they’d be on their own, no longer servants at a white lady’s beck and call. “We say yes.”

Mr. DeBell smiled. “I’ll write the letter in the morning.”

“Thank you,” she said as he turned to go. “For everything.”

He paused at the door. “It’s nothing—your parents earned it. Good night.”

TRUE TO HER WORD, BRIN woke Neva at first light. “Sleep well?” the Irishwoman asked after they were both free of the printing press.

“Not really. Did the bites make you dream ... memories?”

Brin wrinkled her nose. “Vivid stuff, isn’t it? It’ll pass, except for the occasional wit-smearer: last night I dreamt that Bat fellow conned us—that he was the one directing the insects. Had me shaking when I woke. Breakfast?”

“Thank you, but no. I need to look into something.”

“Seeing