The Damnation Affair

A cold hand clenched in Jack’s guts.

“Wonder if she saw anything she liked,” Salt continued.

He kept his expression a mask. “Not likely.” And with that he was gone, but the sweat on the back of his neck and the tension in his fists were unwelcome symptoms.

It’s nothing. People love to gossip, and they’ll stop talking if you don’t give them anything to talk about. Just leave it alone, Jack.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure he could. And that was almost as worrying as a Chinois sneaking into a chartershadow’s workroom late at night and asking for mancy. Jack headed for Russ Overtons lodgings for the fourth time that day, the shapes of the twisted charter-symbols he’d seen in Salt’s back room fresh in his memory.

It was maybe time to do a little book-learning.

Chapter 8

Miss Bowdler’s books had said nothing about this.

It was hot as Hadese>

There were too many of them to count, and she still had not managed a semblance of a roll call. More than half the tiny savages had no shoes, and could not sit still for more than a moment or two. Less than a quarter had seen some version of soap and water in the last fortnight, and she had the suspicion none of them were literate or numerate even in the most basic sense. The older savages bullied the younger unmercifully until Cat lost her temper and her Practicality sparked. The novelty of an adult throwing mancy in a classroom bought her precious moments to compose herself, and she thought grimly that her mother’s experiences with Charity Work and the Noblesse Oblige of a Lady were going to stand her in better stead than any d—ned book, as Robbie would say.

At least while she was corralling a group of tiny uncivilized animals, she did not think of Robbie’s locket in the pawnshop window, and how to obtain such an item without the entire town remarking upon her movements.

“That is quite enough,” she informed the group of boys who had been tormenting a younger child. “You are to sit there, sir, and you there.” She pointed, despite it being unmannerly.

“What if I don’t?” the largest of them—an oafish blond lump who bore a startling resemblance to the small pug-nosed dogs she had seen in quite a few fashionable drawing-rooms last year—actually sneered, and Cat’s temper almost frayed. Stray mancy crackled on her fingertip, and she drew herself up. A shadow slid over the room, and each tiny savage she was responsible for civilizing drew a deep breath.

“Then I haul you down to the jail and tell your mother you’re sassin’ the marm, Dwight Caffrey,” a deep voice drawled from the propped-open door. “Afternoon, Miss Barrowe.”

The mancy on her fingers died. What is he doing here? “Mr. Gabriel.” She managed a nod, tucking a stray dark curl up and back. Have you come to laugh at me? “What a pleasant surprise.”

The spark in his gaze told her the lie was perhaps audible. However, he merely shouldered the door aside and swept his hat from his dusty dark head, and his presence had the most astonishing effect.

Every little savage in the room quieted. The girls grinned and whispered; the boys stared with round eyes. The sheriff moved easily to the last row of benches, and loomed a trifle awkwardly over their occupants. “Thought I’d come out and visit.” He halted, gazing at her most curiously. “First day of school and all.”

And good heavens, but did the man sound nervous? Surely not. Catherine gathered the shreds of her temper and found herself standing at her desk, the attendance book lying open and the pen beside it. “Yes. Well, we have been having a most interesting time all seeking to speak at once and determining whether or not I am serious when I demand a certain measure of decorum.”

“I see.” Was that a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth? She decided that it was, indeed. “I could tell ’em you’re serious, ma’am, but I doubt they’d listen.”

They’re listening now. “I have not yet had the opportunity to inform them that any of their number who misbehaves shall be visiting you.”

“Well now, that would fill the jail right up, wouldn’t it? I might be forced to keep a few in the pigsty.” And yes, that was a gleam in his gaze she had seen before in Robbie’s.

He looked, now that she thought about it, downright mischievous.

One of the younger boys—it was the small blond miscreant who had been responsible for so much excitement on the occasion of her arrival, little Tommy Hammis—let out a small sound approximating a whimper. Jack Gabriel tucked his thumbs in his belt and stood, looming in a manner that suggested practice at using his size to enforce some manners upon the unruly.

Take note of that, Catherine. Perhaps you can do likewise, even though you are not nearly as tall.

“I certainly hope we may avoid that.” Cat settled herself in the rickety, uncomfortable chair behind her desk, sweeping her skirts underneath her with a practiced motion. This brown stuff was the dowdiest and most severe dress she owned, but it was still of painfully higher quality than any rag the children possessed. She uncapped the ink, dipped her pen, and glanced up to find every eye in the schoolhouse upon her and the entire room disturbingly silent. “Now, let us be about our business. Mr. Gabriel, if you would be so good as to pause for a short while? When I have given my students their first small lesson, I should be glad of the opportunity to converse with you.” Please tell me you have business elsewhere, and merely came to make certain there are no corpses lurking under the floorboards.

“I’m here all afternoon, ma’am.”

She hoped the children could not sense the amusement loitering beneath Mr. Gabriel’s straight mouth and dusty brow. Her own mouth twitched, traitorously, until she steeled herself and fixed the far-left student in the first row—a thin girl of no more than six with messily braided wheat-gold hair, the lone girl on the boys’ side of the schoolhouse—with a steady, stern, but kind (she hoped) glance. “State your name please, young lady.”

“M-M-M-M—” The child, blushing, stuttered, and a sudden swift guilt pierced Cat’s chest.

“That’s Mercy Gibbons, ma’am.” Jack Gabriel’s tone had gentled. “Right next to her is her brother Patrick. The Gibbonses are a mite shy.”

“Very good.” Catherine wrote, swiftly but neatly. “We shall continue down the row, and should you find it difficult to say your name, Mr. Gabriel will help.” She did not bite her lip, though the urge was almost overwhelming. She did, however, glance at the girl and hazard a small smile. “The first day of school is always trying, I daresay.”

“Reckon so, ma’am.” The sheriff’s tone still held that queer gentleness.

“Jordie Crane!” a gangly redhead next to Patrick Gibbons almost-shouted, fidgeting. “This is Sammy next to me. Samuel, I mean. Sam Thibodeau.”

Oh, dear God, how do I spell that? She decided to merely approximate, for the moment. “Thank you, Mr. Crane. You will allow Mr. Thibodeau the chance to speak for himself next time.”

* * *

All through that long syrup-slow afternoon, Jack Gabriel loomed in the back of the classroom, and even though Cat was heartily sick of him, she could not help but admit that his presence had a most sedative effect upon the most troublesome of her students.

Unfortunately, her nerves were a frayed mass by the time she consulted her mother’s watch, securely fastened to the chain at her waist, and informed the willowy, dark-eyed young Zechariah Alfstrache that he had, by dint of being the least troublesome today, earned the right to ring the true-iron bell bolted next to the front door. Near to expiring with satisfaction, he did so, and even the awe of the sheriff could not keep the little savages from exploding into action. Ten long minutes later the schoolhouse was echoingly empty, and Cat sagged in her chair, one hand at her eyes.

Jack Gabriel’s steps were measured and slow. “Well. Schoolin’ seems as difficult as law-work.”