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

left, though. Not until some minutes later, when Augie slid off his chair and climbed up next to Neva on hers.

Then they just sat there. Quiet. Still.

Alone.

MONDAY MORNING, THOUGH—THE morning of Chicago Day—Neva had company: Brin. The Irishwoman was sitting beside her when she woke in the back of the storage room, lying atop the anarchists’ makeshift mattress. They said a muted hello, and then ...

“Mr. DeBell’s dead, love,” Brin whispered.

Neva winced but nodded. Her father’s end had been abundantly clear after Copeland finished firing—Mr. DeBell’s ribs had been showing in too many places for things to be different. Others’ fates were less clear, though. “And Wiley?” She spoke the words evenly, yet her stomach clenched as if bracing for a blow.

It hit hard.

“They got him to the hospital,” Brin said, squeezing her hand. “But that late, there was only a skeleton staff, and they couldn’t stop the bleeding. Maybe Kezzie could have, but ... I’m sorry, Neva. He’s gone too.”

Neva shuddered and closed her eyes. But the Boer kept falling in her mind—falling to the floor as Mr. DeBell’s warbling notes compelled her to walk by. Wiley fell, she moved to catch him, he kept falling. It was like losing Augie all over again. Except she’d been right there, easily within reach. And he’d gone down anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Brin repeated, her words partially muffled as clangs and bangs started emanating from outside the storage room—the Irishwoman had already explained that it was early morning on Monday, which meant the Fair was coming to life after being closed all day Sunday, per the usual schedule. While Neva slept, the authorities had used the break to clean up the Administration Building, finish dragging the Lagoon (unsuccessfully), and hush up Saturday night’s events as thoroughly as possible. The anarchists had spent the time finalizing their plans. “We’ll avenge him today.”

Neva opened her eyes. “You’re going through with it?”

The Irishwoman nodded grimly. “After his service.”

Service—a word that conjured the image of Wiley lying in a casket, cold and morbidly composed. Picturing that was almost as bad as seeing him fall in the Administration Building. “Why? You heard him. It’s not at all what he would have wanted.”

“It’s what’s needed.” Brin looked at a crate labeled “Pulleys,” but the lack of focus in her eyes suggested she saw something else. “My da worked at the Yards for ten years. Packing meat twelve hours a day to provide for us ... Until his hand got caught in a grinder, and the bosses tossed him without a second thought.”

She hunched slightly. “We’ve been struggling to make ends meet ever since. I’m out of the house now, but I send what I can spare from shifts at the Palace and molding metal trinkets when I have the chance ... It’s not enough. I’m a poor artist; they don’t fetch much.”

She straightened. “And it’s not right. We’re just cogs in the capitalists’ machines. Parts they can replace when we get old and broken. It shouldn’t be that way. It can’t—not with the bust that’s coming and so many more families about to be ruined.”

Neva tried to summon a counterargument and found she didn’t care. All she could think of was Copeland shooting Mr. DeBell, then Wiley, then Mr. DeBell again ... as her father welcomed each bullet into his body. “Where are they burying Wiley?”

“Havenwood’s cemetery, but you can’t come.” Brin motioned to Neva’s heavily bandaged leg. “For one thing, you’ve no business putting weight on that yet. For another, Copeland’s looking for you: I’ve heard guards asking after ‘Neva Freeman’ on the grounds. Why is that, by the way?”

She shrugged.

Brin wouldn’t let it go. “What happened in there? No one’s saying much, but Copeland’s claiming Mr. DeBell wrested a pistol free and shot Wiley and the other guard. How do you figure in that? Who shot you?”

No help for it; she might as well tell someone. “Bog—the other guard. He and Copeland came in to kill Mr. DeBell. I think his whistling unsettled them.” She summarized the rest as quickly as possible: how she’d bent her way in and what had happened after.

It still hurt. Still dredged up the image of Wiley falling again. Which conjured Augie’s fall. Which left her breathless with pain.

“I’m so sorry,” Brin said quietly when Neva finished. “But it’s not your fault.”

She shook her head, hoping the motion would toss off her tears—dear God, she was sick of crying. “Why was Wiley there?”

It was the Irishwoman’s turn to shrug noncommittally.

“Please: why was he there? Why did he go to the Administration Building so late?”

“Neva ...”

“Just tell me!”

Brin stared up at the ceiling. “I think he was trying to find you.”

Neva slumped back into the improvised bed. “So it is my fault.”

“You didn’t know Copeland and Bog would do what they did. And Wiley certainly couldn’t have predicted—”

“No, it’s fine. Just ... say something at the service. For me.”

Brin gave her a long look, then stood to leave. “I will.” She tapped a basket that smelled faintly of apples. “When you’re ready to eat, there are some morsels here, along with the necklace and that pretty doodle you were clutching when we found you.”

“Thank you,” Neva murmured, as much for Mr. DeBell’s drawing as the necklace and the food. She wondered briefly if Brin had felt—and overcome—the shells’ pull. Or maybe one of the other anarchists had handled the cowries, and the Irishwoman had never been tempted? ... It didn’t matter.

“There’s a pot there,” Brin said, gesturing at a bedpan that didn’t smell of apples. “I’ll try to duck in before we deal with the Wheel. If I can’t, well—you’ll hear it. Even in here.”

“I’m not sure I want to, but ... I appreciate the rest.”

Brin squeezed her shoulder and headed for the front. “Oh,” she said, turning back. “A man’s been looking for you: Derek DeBell. Would he be Mr. DeBell’s son?”

“One of them. Did you tell him I’m all right?”

“No, but I will. He’s been in the Machinery Hall