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

Brin shrugged off her defeat. “I never imagined you’d still be here, but when he said you were ...”

He stood to leave, motioning for Quill—who’d hung back, jaw clenched and face dark—to do the same. “I’ll be in touch.”

“As will we,” Brin said to the Hobo King as he headed towards the theatre’s side entrance. “Thanks for hearing me out.”

“Thank you,” Neva echoed before refocusing on the Irishwoman. “Did you know he was here?”

“Quill? No, but I’m not surprised. He wore out his welcome in Pullman Town pretty fast. Wore out my patience, too. Pulling the same tricks here, is he?”

“Trying to. Wherrit has a pretty firm grip on things.” Neva folded her arms across her chest. “Why didn’t you come earlier? On Chicago Day?”

Brin looked out at the empty seats. “It was a bad day.”

“All the more reason to come!”

“The Pinkertons were thick on the grounds. And after they nabbed Pieter ... I couldn’t risk it.”

“You couldn’t lose yourself in the largest crowd of any non-military event in history? Seven hundred and fifty thousand people?”

Brin turned back to Neva but gazed around her more than at her. “It was too dangerous.”

“Later, then. The next day. The next week. Why didn’t you come later?”

“They were still looking for me.”

Neva shook her head, at herself as much as Brin. This had all happened months ago; there was no reason to get worked up about it now ... But she kept picturing herself lying next to Wiley—in Wiley’s blood—for hours, too weak with shock and grief to move, waiting for one of the anarchists to return and help her. Roland, or Quill, or Pieter would have been difficult to manage. She would have had to make something up.

But Brin would have understood.

“Why didn’t you send word?” asked Neva eventually, in a flatter tone.

Her pause must have allowed Brin to do some thinking of her own—something had changed in her face. “Shame,” she said after another moment.

“Because you didn’t dynamite the Wheel?”

“Because I didn’t try.” Her words were agonized, and the something in her face clarified into self-loathing. “After Wiley’s service, we came back to the Fair, and I thought about what you said—about how blasting the blasted Wheel wouldn’t change anything—and it didn’t feel right. So I left.”

She clenched her fist. “I left Quill, and Roland, and Pieter, left them on their own, without a chance. Then Pieter got himself caught. And Roland went and shot the mayor.”

Neva nearly gave in to the urge to say You left me too. But she’d already carped about that enough, and Brin’s pain seemed genuine. “They’re still in jail?”

“Awaiting trial—in a brick prison. A friend says the doors are heavy wood. Nothing I can mold apart.”

Neva bit her lip. Roland deserved no better, but Pieter had been a good sort. “You’re organizing now, though? Not trying to put your stick babies to work again?”

Brin smiled ruefully. “Just organizing. You and Wiley were right on that count—it’s got a better shot this way.”

Swallowing at the mention of the Boer, Neva finally let herself ask the question most on her mind: “How was his service?”

“Officious. His family’s still in the South African Republic, so it was only guardsmen and some Fair notables. The Commandant said some pretty words when he pinned Wiley with a ‘posthumous medal for extraordinary service rendered to the Exposition.’ That almost made me laugh.”

Neva leaned against the stage and considered asking Brin to confirm that the funeral had been open casket—that she’d actually seen Wiley’s body—but decided against it. Her description suggested nothing had been visibly out of sorts. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Wasn’t much to miss.”

“Still.” Neva forced herself to think of something else ... like what it would have been like to dance here, on the stage Little Egypt had made so famous. Probably not that different from dancing in the Algerian Theatre. “So the organizing—you’ve been to Pullman Town?”

“I stay there now and again.”

“Have you seen Derek?”

“A few times. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

That hurt. She hadn’t seen Derek since the afternoon before Chicago Day, hadn’t even sent word. She knew she should have reached out before now, to let him know she was alive if nothing else, but ... making contact would mean making explanations. And making explanations would mean admitting horrific, unspeakable things.

Perhaps it was time. “Are you headed there now?”

“I can be.”

Neva took a deep breath and pushed herself away from the stage. “All right. Let me take care of a few things, and then I’ll meet you at—what’s the best rail station?” The connection from Pullman Town to the Fair had been discontinued shortly after the latter closed.

“Just find me at the 59th Street entrance. If you’re all right to walk a bit.” Brin gestured at Neva’s leg. “That’s all healed?”

“Good as new. Thank you. I’ll be there in half an hour.” She stepped toward the door she’d come in through.

“Neva?”

When she turned to look back, she found Brin staring at her.

“Why are you still at the Fair?”

She concentrated on sounding casual. “There are people here who need me. Children. I can’t just leave them.”

Brin regarded her a moment longer. “A good reason. I’ll see you at 59th in half an hour.” She sounded just as casual, but unconvinced.

There was no help for that. Not yet. Not until it was time to explain and admit. And since that time required Derek, Neva merely waved at Brin and left the theatre.

NEVA’S FIRST TASK WAS to check on Dob. For once, he was exactly where he was supposed to be: on the promenade of Manufactures and Liberal Arts, peering into the Court of Honor. The soldiers were gone, though, and Dob seemed a bit sullen. But he’d waited for her, as she’d asked.

He was such a good boy.

“Here,” Neva said to him after she’d mussed his hair. From her pocket, she pulled out a short strip of jerky—her wages for sweeping a rich woman’s house earlier