Where Cowards Tread: Ravenwood Mysteries, #7

1

Domestic Bliss

Saturday, October 6, 1900

Lewis J. Fletcher didn’t want to go home. But there he was. He slid his key into a lock. When it clicked he pressed the lever, but the door stuck. Even his key resisted the idea of home.

Empty-headed… he muttered.

He turned the key the other way, and this time the door opened. He stepped inside the cramped entryway and shed his hat and coat.

Ella, you left the door unlocked! he called.

What seemed a whole parade of running footsteps answered from downstairs.

Lewis clenched his jaw. He glanced in the hallway mirror and smoothed his black hair, then ran a finger over his chin. He’d need another shave before tonight.

An infant screamed from upstairs and a small child darted from the basement. The child wasn’t wearing a scrap of clothing.

Lewis lunged for the child as he tried to bolt past. Ella! Lewis called. Why is Bertie downstairs?

The boy’s face and hands were covered in honey.

Dammit, Lewis swore, holding the child at arm’s length.

Is that you, Lewis? a weak voice called from the second floor, fighting to be heard over the screaming infant.

Yes, mother, he hollered back. "Where is Ella?"

She’s gone out. I’m not feeling well.

Lewis frowned at his blond-haired half brother. Nineteen years separated them, and a father. He carried the child into the kitchen. It was a mess like everything else in his life. Bertie had gotten into more than just the honey. Flour was strewn about like confetti.

Lewis set the child in the sink and turned on the taps. Bertie screamed with outrage. It’s your own fault. I should let the dog lick you clean.

Now there was an idea.

Lewis ordered his brother to stay put, and opened the back door. A mop of a dog came bounding in, its eyes covered over by a layer of hair. It was a wonder the mutt managed to get anywhere.

A shrill ring joined the infant’s squalling and Bertie’s whining. Lewis put a hand to his head. What now? He started towards the hallway telephone, then stopped, remembering the child. He hastened to get Bertie out of the sink, turned off the taps, and set the dripping, naked boy on the floor. The mop of a dog immediately got to work.

Lewis hurried to the telephone. Hallo?

Lewis?a voice came back.

"Ella. His frustration with her came through the line. Younger by seven years, Ella was about as useful as Bertie at times. Why was she out so late? Why aren’t you at home? Bertie got into the kitchen, and the house is a mess."

Didn’t mother tell you?

I’ve only just arrived, Lewis said.

You know mamma wants me to find work. I answered a wanted ad she showed me.

Lewis sighed as he leaned back to check on Bertie in the kitchen. Mop was doing her job admirably. Then he checked the time: a quarter after six. Look, Ella, I have a board meeting at the Masonic Temple. Where are you?

I’m with Mr. Bennett at his house. His family are nice people, and so is he. They want me to start working for them right away. I’ll be paid twenty dollars a month.

Where’s the house?

Hesitation. Lewis pictured his younger sister trying to remember the address. She could be mindless at times. Eventually Ella dredged up the location, but as she did so, her voice trembled. With fear? Nervousness? Women were a mystery to Lewis.

Hold the wire, I’ll let mother know.

I—

Lewis didn’t wait to hear what Ella had to say. He set down the earpiece and bounded up the stairs two at a time. The last thing he needed was to be late to the Board of Relief.

His mother was lying in bed with a washcloth draped over her forehead. The room was dark and an infant screamed in its cradle. Lewis plucked the babe from its bed and attempted to quiet him, as he relayed the information.

Absolutely not, his mother said. I don’t know the family.

Lewis bit back a sharp remark. Then why had she sent Ella to interview for a position unchaperoned? Is James hungry? he asked instead.

Colic. It was close to a moan.

Lewis awkwardly patted the infant’s back, then gave him over to his mother. She took the babe, reluctantly. Lewis swore right then and there that he’d never marry.

Why his mother had married a second time after his father’s death, he could not fathom. The only thing Daniel Spencer had done for his mother was to give her bruises and saddle her with two wailing, intolerable infants before promptly abandoning them.

But then Lewis had an inkling of why she’d remarried. Bertie had been ‘premature.’ Lewis loathed his mother’s indiscretion.

"Tell Ella to come home at once. And to make sure to bring the groceries for tomorrow. That girl is the most absent creature in the world at times."

She got it from you, mother, Lewis bit back the words. Instead he fled the bedroom, and picked up the earpiece. Mother wants you home at once.

But the position—

"We need you here. Lewis glanced towards the kitchen. The child was gone and so was the mop of a dog. Come home now. Bring the groceries. If the Bennetts want to hire you, they’ll understand you need to arrange your affairs."

Silence. And a faint, I’ll come home. Click. Lewis stared at the earpiece, then hung it on its hook. He checked the wall clock, swore silently, and went to find his honey-covered half brother.

2

Welcome Home

Monday, October 8, 1900

Holding a newspaper grounded Isobel Amsel Riot for the first time in a week. It felt solid in her hands. Each crinkle of paper reminded her that the world kept turning and that she intended to rejoin it. Though sitting as she was on the window seat, with one bare leg dangling in the crisp air, she didn’t appear to be in any hurry to leave her bedroom. Their bedroom.

Isobel lowered the paper a fraction and gazed at a large bed. Atticus Riot still slept, his raven hair mussed and boyish, the sharp grooves of his breastbone melding with muscles and scars, covered by a scattering of dark hair. Her eyes trailed appreciatively from his chest, to his ribs, over his stomach, and down to the line of hair that disappeared beneath the blankets.

She leaned her head against the wall, and took a drag on her cigarette. Smoke seeped out the open window, mingling with fog. The air was brisk and the logs in the fireplace smoldering. And contrary to what the newspaper was reporting, the weather wasn’t warm in San Francisco. The Silver Mistress had her own ideas.

Isobel was tempted to slip back under the covers with Riot, but if that happened they’d never leave. She returned to her newspaper.

The war in the Philippines was still raging. President McKinley was up for reelection. Union strikes, baseball, an aeronaut whose balloon malfunctioned and parachute failed him, a dynamite explosion (she cringed remembering her own experience), a dead man found in an orchard—

Isobel sat up straight, her eyes narrowed on the short headline. She was overtaken by a momentary twinge of deja vu. But, no—hadn’t she read that very same headline at the asylum?

A soft scuff against wood, and Isobel looked up sharply. Riot hadn’t moved. She leaned out of the window. A small girl was balancing on a bit of decoration, a rope ladder in her hand. Sao Jin, the younger of their adopted daughters, was dressed in a cap, sweater, and trousers. No shoes. Her long black hair was divided into two braids that hung down her back. Despite the scars that crisscrossed her face, some might describe her as ‘adorable’. Isobel knew better.

Officially, in the Cantonese tradition of surname first and given name last, she was now Riot Sao Jin, but Sao Jin Riot would suit the pint-sized daredevil, too.

Cigarettes are disgusting. They stain teeth yellow.

Isobel flashed her teeth. I don’t smoke often enough. She smashed the stub into her ashtray, which was mostly ash. That rope ladder is only for emergencies.

I am testing it for emergencies. Jin balanced along the decorative ledge, over thirty feet off the ground, as she held the ladder with one hand, pulling it around the corner.

Isobel had watched the girl climb too many trees to feel overly concerned. Still, there was an annoying twinge of fear that Jin would slip and fall. As wild as Isobel had been, she’d never forced her mother to watch any of her mountaineering feats.

You’ve thoroughly tested it. Now climb back up.

I must practice. If there is a fire, I might get confused by the smoke. On the surface, the argument was completely logical.

Jin reached out to hook her hand around the window frame. Isobel raised an eyebrow, wondering what the child would do with the ever stretching rope ladder.

Don’t think about coming in here. Riot isn’t dressed.

Jin peeked around the window frame, and Isobel shooed her back with a raised newspaper. Jin, I’m serious.

I can never tell when you are lying.

I never lie.

The girl stared at her.

"Good morning, Isobel said crisply. How do you like your room?"

I like it.

Make a list of anything you need. Don’t you have school today?

It is only six o’clock. Sarah says we have to help Miss Lily with breakfast, and then do chores. School starts at noon.

Noon?

Did you expect Miss Dupree to wake up early? Jin asked.

I had hoped she would, Isobel muttered.

You know she is a prostitute. The statement should’ve been shocking coming from a young girl. In another, better world, it would be, but Jin, like so many girls, had not had a perfect life. Jin’s eyes were wise beyond her years and there was no going back.

Are you excited to start school?

I would rather you teach me.

I’m sure Miss Dupree will keep things interesting.

Jin looked dubious. Are you coming down to breakfast?

I suppose. Isobel resisted the urge to glance back at Riot. Sooner or later, she added silently.

What are you doing today? Jin asked in her clipped tones. The girl had a personal grudge against contractions.

We’re headed to the agency. And no, you can’t come.

Jin’s shoulders deflated.

So tell me, really, how was your visit with my mother and father?

She and Riot had picked up the children Sunday morning, or tried to. Marcus Amsel had not let the new couple leave until they were fed stuffed to bursting with sausages and sauerkraut, and semi-intoxicated with beer. It had turned into an impromptu Oktoberfest when the local Amsel clan conveniently turned up at her parents’ doorstep.

Isobel had sworn off food for the next week and Riot was currently sleeping off her father’s schnapps. She had only a vague memory of sailing the Pagan Lady home that evening, and suspected Jin had done most of the piloting.

I told you, Jin said. I liked it.

Isobel’s brows drew together. Are you sure?

I like your mother and father.

Isobel gave a small shake of her head. Amazing, she muttered.

"They took us swimming, but I jumped in the water and sank, and then Mr. Hop would not let me swim without a rope around my waist. Your father took us on walks, and showed us how to distill wine. We went sailing, to the theater, and Mr. Hop made me noodles and rice and pork buns, and Avó taught us how to make sopas." Avó, the Portuguese word for grandma.

I’m glad you enjoyed yourselves.

Jin leaned forward, searching her eyes. "So tell me, really, how was your wedding trip?"

It was relaxing.

"Are you sure? Jin asked, doing a fair imitation of Isobel’s earlier question. Or did you discover that Din Gau is fat and lazy and smells bad?" Din Gau was what the criminal tongs called Riot: Rabid Dog.

I can hear you, Jin. A deep voice came from the depths of the room. Riot’s voice wasn’t gruff. It was a smooth purr that made Isobel’s toes curl.

Jin jerked in surprise, and Isobel grabbed the child’s wrist before she teetered backwards.

I am fine, Jin protested, wrenching her arm free.

Think of it as a precaution.

Jin’s eyes narrowed to a calculating slit. A moment of thought, and the child stepped backwards off the ledge. It was fortunate Isobel remembered the rope ladder, or she might have followed the child out the window in an attempt to save her.

Jin’s left hand was solidly wrapped around the rope, and the child swung down and around the corner. The house shook with a bang.

"Yiu!"

The muffled curse reassured Isobel that Jin hadn’t fallen. But Riot hadn’t known about the rope ladder. He rushed to the window, and gripped the sill to peer down at the ground.

She had your ladder, Isobel explained.

Riot swore under his breath, putting a hand to his bare chest. The rest of him was bare as well.

Welcome home, Mr. Riot, Isobel said. She gave his flank a slap, and only narrowly ducked beneath his arms. But Riot was persistent. And quick. Isobel soon found herself back in the large bed by the fire, her laughter traveling through the open window.

3

Happy Returns

The kitchen in Ravenwood Manor looked like a somewhat courteous tornado had blown through. Dishes were stacked to one side, food wiped off, pots soaking, and even the crumbs were grouped into little piles waiting to be cleaned.

Mrs. Lily White ran a tight ship. She sat at the round kitchen table with her children: Grimm, Maddie, and Tobias. Sarah and Jin had joined the family, and Tim was leaning back in his chair with a mug in one hand and an unlit pipe in the other.

Watson sat on a stool, eyeing the remnants of bacon on a faraway plate. He had a calculating look in his feline eyes, and was measuring the distance with a wiggle of his rear end. No one was concerned that he would make the jump.

This was the lull in the storm—the quiet between breakfast and chores. …he was covered in honey and flour, pale as a ghost, his eyes wide, and naked as the day he was born—

Ma! Tobias tried to shush his mother, to no avail.

Lily didn’t miss a beat. I asked him what on earth he was doing. Do you know what he told me?

Tobias put his face in his hands, and tried to melt under the table.

He tells me, ‘I can’t figure out how white folks get the flour to stick.’

Laughter filled the kitchen as Isobel wandered inside. Riot was right behind her, a wooden box tucked under his arm.

Maddie wiped the laughter from her eyes. Toby had used up all the honey and flour, and we couldn’t get more because the snow was waist deep. But all ma did was laugh herself to tears. I thought she’d gone crazy that day.

A sure sign of someone cracked, Tim said, cackling.

You mean Miss Lily didn’t even scold him? Sarah asked.

Riot joined Isobel by the counter. She handed him a cup of tea, then poured herself coffee.

Maddie was finding it hard to talk while she laughed. No, ma’am. Ma put him in the stable with the sheep. They licked him clean.

And that is why Tobias won’t go near a sheep to this day, Lily said.

Tobias crossed his arms. That wasn’t right, Ma. That just wasn’t right.

Did they hurt you? Lily asked.

I was covered in drool! And they tried to eat— Tobias cut off, ears near to burning.

Bet you never did that again, Tim said. That’s cabin fever at its finest. Stranger things have happened, ain’t that right, A.J.?

Riot was leaning against the counter, blowing on his tea. Are you referring to the time you and some other miners decided to put on a Parisian fashion show in the middle of winter in the Klondike?

Tim beamed. I won, too.

When the laughter died, Isobel asked, Do you keep old newspapers, Miss Lily?

I do. Down near the boiler by the coal pile.

Without a word Isobel darted from the kitchen. Riot watched her leave, slightly puzzled. But then the woman was a constant puzzle.

Lily indicated an empty chair. Have a seat, Mr. Riot.

I’m afraid we’re running late.

Dam—darn straight, Tim hastily corrected, checking his watch. We have an agency meeting.

I do recall, Riot said.

Yet you missed breakfast. Tim eyed him with a knowing glint.

Riot ignored the older man, and sipped his tea.

What’s in the box? Sarah asked.

Riot had set the sleek wooden box on the counter. It had a red bow around it. I’ll let Bel explain, he said.

Tim pushed back his chair. Thank you, Miss Lily. A fine breakfast as always. The old man plucked up his own plate and hers, and carried them to the sink. There was no place for formality in the family kitchen. Everyone helped themselves.

Isobel soon came rushing back with her satchel stuffed to brimming and bumping against her side. Her hair was unruly, neither long nor short, wisps stuck out in untamed directions. A smudge of coal was on her nose, and her blouse sleeves had similar stains. Riot found himself smiling at her.

What? she asked.

You, he said softly.

Steely eyes narrowed on him, and he handed her the wooden box to distract her. Isobel turned to the table. Here. She set the box in front of Jin.

What is this? Jin asked.

It’s a birthday present.

It’s Jin’s birthday? Sarah exclaimed. I had no idea. How old are you?

Jin frowned at the long wooden box tied with a bow. I was born in the year of the Ox, but I do not remember the day.

You’re one step ahead of me, Riot said. He knew neither the day nor the year of his own birth. He figured he was either close to forty or a nudge past it, so he tended to make up an age on a whim. We would have given you the gift yesterday, but that would have put it on the seventh.

Why does that matter? Sarah asked.

Seven is considered unlucky. July is a ‘ghost month’ and… He paused. Regardless, many happy returns.

I’ll bake a cake for you tonight, Maddie offered.

I do not like celebrations, Jin said, though she held the box with reverence.

"That’s what we figured. You’re safe for this year," Isobel said, giving the girl’s braid a fond tug. Jin was too stunned to glare at her, or kick her shin.

Open it! Tobias ordered.

Jin scowled, but the other children took up the chant and Jin gave in. She set her gift on the table, removed the bow, and opened the box. Jin frowned down at the leather case inside, then picked up a card, and read it to herself. The girl swallowed. With eyes downcast, she snapped the lid shut, tucked the box under an arm and hurried from the kitchen.

She didn’t open it, Sarah said, dismayed.

She didn’t clear her plate, Tobias accused.

Is she all right? Maddie asked.

Isobel stared at a spot on the floorboards—a single water drop in the doorway. A tear. Without comment, Isobel handed her satchel to Riot and hurried after the child.

She’s likely overwhelmed, Riot explained. He nearly followed, but knew Jin had an easier time confiding in Isobel.

Grimm stood, his shoulders hunched. He always stood that way. The lanky young man either didn’t know what to do with his height or he wanted to hide from the world. It was easy to forget he was there. Grimm quietly picked up Jin’s plate, and set about doing the dishes.

Sarah sighed. "If anyone is wondering, my birthday is November seventeenth, and I love celebrations."

Noted. Riot said.

What did you get her? Sarah asked.

It’s a surprise, Riot said. He placated the girl’s arguments with a kiss on the top of her head. Sarah smiled up at him.

We gonna need the hack? Tim asked.

We’ll take the cable car, Riot said.

Lily pushed back her chair, and gave a look to the remaining children. They got to work without complaint.

Riot eyed the food, but his stomach hadn’t recovered from the Amsel’s feast. And his head was still throbbing from the effects of Marcus’s liquor cabinet. Riot finished off his tea, and went with Tim to wait in the foyer.

Isobel climbed the stairs to the very top of the manor. She tried to imagine an old man and his housekeeper living in this house alone. How quiet it must have been. No clicking of heels, no drifting voices, no creaky stairs, and definitely no child bolting up four floors like a gust of wind. Was she growing old at twenty-one? Or had she never been exposed to the exuberance of youth?

Isobel paused at the attic door. There was another flight of stairs behind it. She tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. Isobel poked her head inside. Jin? she called softly.

No answer.

Taking silence as an invitation, she climbed the last flight of stairs and gazed around the attic room. She would have loved the room as a child—private, with access to the roof and a rope ladder. Far away from parental supervision, and buffered by too many stairs. It was perfect.

Jin stood in front of the window, her body stiff and her shoulders set. Isobel knew by the severity of the child’s spine that she was struggling with emotion. The box lay on a desk.

This is why I never give anyone a present. It sends them running away, Isobel said lightly.

I cannot accept it, Jin bit out.

Isobel walked slowly across the room to stand beside the girl. Jin turned slightly, so Isobel couldn’t see her face.

I knew we should have bought you a frilly dress.

Jin crossed her arms.

Humor wasn’t helping. Isobel placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Jin, talk to me.

Jin took a step to the side. Her lips were set. Her cheeks dry. I cannot accept the gift, she repeated.

Isobel considered her adopted daughter. One thing she had learned about the damaged child was to never back Jin into a corner, figuratively or literally. And most especially, emotionally.

That’s all right, then. But I’d like you to keep it safe for me. For a time.

A lash fluttered. I might break it.

It’s been around the world at least twice. You’re a tempest, but it’s seen worse. Isobel touched the back of Jin’s neck briefly. I’ll see you tonight.

She made to leave, but Jin broke. The girl turned and slipped her arms around Isobel’s waist, burying her face against her blouse. Jin held on for a fierce moment. Isobel could feel the child trembling.

Isobel smoothed her hair, then placed a kiss on the top of her head. Deeply scarred, both mentally and physically, Jin had watched hatchet men butcher her parents, and then had spent years with a cruel woman. This wasn’t something that would be fixed overnight. Words wouldn’t heal the child, and so Isobel said nothing—only held her.

I am a bad daughter, Jin said, her voice muffled. She turned her head, and rested it against Isobel’s stomach.

I’m a bad mother, but then we haven’t been at this very long, have we? Isobel placed her hands on Jin’s shoulders and stepped back to catch the girl’s eyes.

Jin’s eyes flicked to the floorboards, and stayed there. Isobel studied the girl’s face. Scars crisscrossed her cheeks. Some made with a knife. Others with fingernails. Jin was always difficult to read. She churned with emotion but kept it all hidden.

Why do you think you’re a bad daughter?

The moment Isobel asked the question, she knew she’d get no reply. Jin had clammed up, and pressing her would only make her retreat farther.

Isobel sighed. She gave the girl another hug. Jin didn’t resist. "Remember, I chose you, she whispered. I won’t be mad, Jin. Whatever is going on. I won’t be mad with you. All right?"

Jin nodded.

Isobel waited. Hoping. But Jin only turned back to her window.

The old man rocked impatiently on his heels. We could bring Jin with us.

Bel and I considered it, but thought it best if she settled in here, Riot said, as he poked through the newspapers in Isobel’s satchel. There was no rhyme or reason to them. Some of the dates were years old.

Tim was shaking his head. I worry about that girl. I’ve seen soldiers with that same look in their eyes.

So do I, Riot said.

Either way, she’s a bright one. Before she ran off to that asylum, she picked up everything I showed her like she was born to it.

Riot turned slightly. What precisely did you teach her, Tim?

Tim paused. He put on his innocent face. But before he could think of an answer, Isobel appeared at the top of the landing. Without breaking stride, she hopped up on the banister, slid down sidesaddle, and hopped off before reaching the end post. She landed easily on her feet, and took back her satchel.

Riot helped her into a coat. Is everything all right? he whispered over her shoulder.

He felt her sigh. I don’t know. Love can sting, I suppose.

It could. It pierced armor and defenses and went straight for the heart. Should we keep her with us for the day?

Isobel gave a slight shake of her head. I think she needs some space to let things settle.

Riot nodded and got the door. Isobel and Tim headed through. As Riot turned to put his key in the lock, Isobel asked, What was the other reason for Jin’s birthday being on the eighth?

In Canontese the word ‘seven’ closely resembles a vulgar word for penis, Riot said.

Isobel laughed. You’ll have to teach me that one.

Gawd, you have a mouth on you already, girl, Tim said.

I can always use a larger vocabulary, she shot back.

A big gun works best.

Says the short old man.

Who’s still kicking.

The three strolled to Union Street, and crowded onto a cable car. Isobel stood on a runner just under Riot’s arm, crushed between a woman draped in furs and a grizzled man whose girth threatened to get him sideswiped by street traffic. Every time a wagon or cable car passed, the man had to suck in his gut.

Isobel seemed oblivious to the commotion of the city, her fingers drumming on the overstuffed satchel. She must have taken the entire burn pile.

They disembarked along Montgomery Street and followed Tim towards Washington Square, near where the new agency was located. Tim stopped in front of a run-down saloon-cum-whore house turned detective agency. Riot inspected the front, his stick clicking on the boardwalk as he walked along, eyeing the brick building.

I know it don’t look like much now, Tim said. But work has been busy, and I don’t have a whole lotta time on my hands.

I didn’t say a thing, Tim, Riot said.

Tim harrumphed. But you was thinking it.

Am I so transparent?

This girl here has ruined your cool hand.

Surprisingly, Isobel didn’t take his bait. She was deep in thought and Riot knew better than to disturb his wife when she had that look on her face. Something was gnawing at her mind, and she’d only come to it when she was ready.

The windows were a threat—easy to shoot through—so Tim had bricked most of them in, leaving only the two in the front that were next to the door. But they were large and new, with bright gold letters on them.

But Isobel wasn’t looking at the saloon-cum-detective agency. Her gaze was down the street on the whorehouses. Can I borrow some money from you, Riot?

Everything I have is yours, Bel.

Isobel glanced at him, and held out her hand. He gave over his billfold and she marched off with the whole thing. Riot stood somewhere between amused and stunned.

Tim chortled. What do you suppose… The old man trailed off as they watched Isobel corner a group of news boys. Riot couldn’t make out her words, but she offered them each a cigarette, and flipped them a coin.

The group scattered.

Riot leaned on his walking stick, waiting for her to return. She handed him back his billfold. You can take it out of my wages. Her eyes danced with amusement. Then she marched through the door, barely glanced at the room inside, and ignored the greeting of the ever cheerful Matthew Smith. Without further ado, She upended her satchel on the battered bar, and began sifting through her newspapers.

4

Sharp As A Knife

Sao Jin sat in a corner clutching the wooden box. She stared at the present. A gift for her, and her alone.

Jin had received a gift before—a wooden duck. It had happened in another lifetime.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to melt into the wall at her back. The wood under her fingertips was familiar. Painfully so. But instead of a box, she felt the grain of her little wooden duck. She remembered joy. It was a distant thing—like a long forgotten language.

To calm herself, Jin counted to ten in English the way Isobel had taught her. Then she counted in Cantonese, Latin, Portuguese, and finally German.

A full minute passed. She opened her eyes.

The attic room was vast by her reckoning. The wooden walls had been whitewashed by Sarah and Tobias. A warm rug sat on the floor by her bed, and downy blankets covered a plush mattress. A desk, a wardrobe, and even a trunk that locked. All hers.

She could decorate the room anyway she pleased, but Jin didn’t know what she wanted for herself. She had never had a room. She didn’t even know who she was. For the past five years, she had simply lived for the sake of survival with a smoldering fury deep in her gut.

Fury had kept her alive.

And now she held a present in her hands. Jin stroked the wood, tracing the path of its life—the grooves and knots and smooth patches, like Jin’s own skin.

Jin knew from experience that joy was fleeting. What if Isobel and Atticus were killed? She looked down at her present, but all she saw was a little wooden duck covered in blood.

Jin took a deep breath through a snotty nose. Annoyed that she had been crying, she opened the wooden box and stared at its contents.

She ignored the card for now. That was too painful.

Carefully, she picked up a battered leather case and slid out a sleek tube. Leather capped both ends. It was a spyglass made of brass and mahogany, she realized.

Jin removed the leather end caps, and extended the spyglass. She put it to her eye. Her whitewashed room jumped into high focus. She lowered it to study the wood. It was worn but well cared for. Many hands had held this spyglass. V.S. was etched in the grain.

Jin replaced the leather caps, and turned to the box. The note inside still stung. The words were like a dagger to her heart. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.

She placed the box on the floor, and closed her eyes.

Eventually a soft something rubbed against the back of her hand. Softness was accompanied by a loud purr. Then a low growl. Jin opened her eyes. A giant orange and white head nudged her hand, then nibbled her.

Ow. Get away from me, you stupid cat.

Watson fell on his side, rolled, and began batting the end of her braid. Jin snatched her braid away. The giant cat stretched, and extended his claws to grab her spyglass case. Jin hissed at him.

Watson narrowed his eyes. And sneezed. Twice. Then he rolled over, and with a flick of a tail sauntered over to her bed. For a large cat, he was surprisingly spry. One giant leap had him curled on her bedspread.

Jin set the box on her desk, and marched over to the feline.

"That is my bed. Leave. Now."

Watson purred at her.

Jin reached for the cat, and a split second later she leapt back with a bloody line across her hand. "Yiu!"

Watson squinted with contentment and began kneading the blanket, purring as if nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened.

He’s worried about you, is all, came a voice. Sarah stood on the attic steps, looking between the railing slats. She knocked on the wood, even though Jin was looking right at her. The southern white girl seemed unbothered by Jin’s glare. And before you say not to come in, I’m not inside your room.

"You are in my room."

I’m on the stairs. Not my fault there’s no door at the top.

There is a hatch at the bottom, Jin pointed out.

I knocked, but you didn't answer.

Jin was not about to get into an argument over door placement. The cat is not worried about me. He attacked me. Jin brandished her bloody hand.

Sarah rolled her eyes. Do you want him off your bed, or not?

Jin hesitated. After a moment’s thought, she gave a curt nod.

But instead of picking the cat up, Sarah sat beside it and began stroking its back. Watson’s purr turned into a buzzing machine.

Are you all right? Sarah asked.

I do not see how that question has anything to do with picking up a cat.

You don’t like your present?

Jin looked away. I do like it, but I am not worthy of it.

Sarah looked at her, puzzled. Why would you say that?

Jin bit her lip. Why, indeed, had she told