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

Brin lowered her gaze back to Neva. “And if we don’t?”

At first, it felt like a choice: threaten to expose the anarchists’ plans—and risk them doing the same to her—or keep quiet. But Neva only needed a short pause to realize she’d already made up her mind. Family came first. “I won’t say anything unless someone gets hurt.”

“Fair enough. We’re not looking to make martyrs. Here: maybe this will soothe your conscience.” Brin ran her hand over the support she’d been resting against and opened a small pocket in the metal, as effortlessly as if she were parting a pillowcase.

Neva’s rashes grew warm and angry in response, but she suppressed their aggression without much difficulty. The pocket was far more interesting: one of Brin’s stick babies was nestled inside.

“They’re laced all through this leg,” she explained. “And on the other side as well. Strung on a fuse I threaded through the plate beneath the ticketing counter, so that the wick comes out the other side of the wall—wonderfully kind of the engineers to design me a long run of metal like that. All I had to do was create a wee tunnel and pock it with air holes so the spark can breathe. Only took me a half hour last night.”

Neva scrutinized the rest of the support, trying to find signs of the air holes or the other embedded sticks of dynamite. But the holes must have been infinitesimal, and there were no bulges or deformations to suggest the Wheel had been altered in any way. Brin had done her work well. “This is supposed to set me at ease?”

“The boys don’t know about it—couldn’t very well explain it, now could I? But the charges I’ll give them won’t do much; this is the real thing. I won’t light it unless Quill’s plan to empty the Wheel comes off, and we’re able to keep the crowd back.”

“And how will you manage that?”

Brin raised an eyebrow. “Not sure you get to know that anymore.”

“Fair enough.”

The Irishwoman reached in to pat the dynamite. “Would you like one?”

“No. I don’t want anyone hurt in my escapade either.”

“Suit yourself.” Brin withdrew her hand and closed the dynamite back over. “Go see to your father, then. I’ll speak to the boys.”

“Tell Wiley I’m sorry.”

“It’d be better coming from yourself ...”

“But then he’ll just want to follow me.”

“Ah. Well, I’ll say what I can. Good luck.”

“You too.”

Hurrying off, Neva crossed to the other side of the wall, slipped over, and headed toward the Algerian and Tunisian Village—as if she were turning in for the night. But she bypassed her quarters entirely and went straight to the back alley. Sleeping would have to wait for another night.

She kept to the shadows as best she could, scurrying and darting her way down the Midway and then through the Fair to the Court of Honor. She needn’t have bothered: no one was about. And while the Administration Building still had a light on, not a single soul came in or out during the five minutes she watched from behind the nearby Chocolate Menier stand.

Yet there had to be at least one guard on duty. Surely they wouldn’t leave Mr. DeBell alone while they debated what to do with him? Unless he’d cast everyone out with his whistling ...

She still wore the Columbian Guard uniform—should she just walk in? Of course, instead of one guard, there might be three or four now. And they were unlikely to let her see Mr. DeBell, no matter how much she made herself look like Arthur Johnson.

Perhaps it would be best to revisit her original plan.

After circling to the other side of Administration, Neva estimated where the drunk tank stood, hardened her first into a cone, and punched a hole through the wall. Luck was with her: she’d struck between two wooden laths, and the staff overlaying them gave easily. The impact still made more noise than she would have liked. But no cries of alarm went up, and Neva bent through the small opening within seconds.

Once inside the wall, she realized her miscalculation. She’d chosen the right spot—the drunk tank looked to be directly in front of her—but it had been built more securely than the rest of the Administration Building, with iron plates in addition to wood and staff (no doubt the work of a contractor who’d billed the Fair for everything he could imagine). She should have brought Brin after all.

Neva felt along the iron, slithering back and forth between the furring strips that constrained her to either side. Just as she was about to give up, she found a gap: an uneven join that must have been deemed inconsequential. To fit her body through the narrow seam, she’d have to contort herself more than she ever had—more even than that night she’d escaped the anarchist’s lair in the Machinery Hall. To pull this off, she’d have to damn near liquefy.

As if it could read Neva’s thoughts, the cowry shell necklace chose that moment to reassert its pull.

The shells would certainly loosen her enough—she’d almost become a puddle when she’d worn them the previous day. They must have magnified her ability; they would no doubt do so again if she let them. Was that wise? Would she be able to take them off in time? And what about her promise to Derek?

Neva decided she didn’t care. This was the way forward, and she’d already come too far to turn back. It took a moment to wriggle out of the Columbian Guard uniform; there was no point keeping it on when the fabric would just snag. The next step was to reach a sharpened finger through the gap and cut away the staff on the other side.

But first it would be prudent to warn her father.

“Mr. DeBell?” she whispered. “Are you there?”

“Neva?” he replied after a moment, his voice equally hushed but much more confused. “Where are