away. Each one gave off a wisp of color that cast the shadow of someone else’s face on his before disappearing. He put them down again, but not always in the same place he’d taken them up from, segregating them into three piles.
I picked at the sturgeon as he continued. It was delicious, but while I felt vaguely hungry, I also felt a touch queasy. Vampires do that to me, and Carlos worse than most. I had to push the plate aside.
Carlos looked up and gave me a slow, unpleasant smile, glancing from the plate to me. “My mistake.”
“Very funny.”
His expression became serious. “No. It was not my intention to cause you distress. I forget the effect my kind have on you—it’s rare. But I should have given greater thought to what these things”—he waved his hand over the collection on the napkin—“might portend.”
“What do they portend?” I asked, mocking his formal tone.
“Each of these people died of starvation.”
“All of them?”
“Every one. Some quite recently. Others as much as a century and more ago.”
I felt myself scowling as I took that thought in. “But . . . they couldn’t . . . They can’t all be Linda Hazzard’s victims if they died more recently than the early twentieth century.
“Hazzard. Yes. The name comes from these,” he said, stroking his finger over the smallest pile, which included the keys, some buttons, and the odd little tool. He touched the pile that included the dolphin brooch. “These are more recent. These are of the same age or older than the first and yet they do not speak that name.” He indicated the last pile. “But they all died of the same cause.”
“All these artifacts came from people who starved to death.”
He nodded. “They did.”
“But not all Linda Hazzard’s victims. Were they all murdered?”
“No. Most simply died. They were too poor or too lost in madness to find food. But they all have the thread of this Hazzard woman binding them.”
“She’s been dead for most of a century. How could she have bound them—especially those who died after her?”
“It is not precisely she who did it.”
“You’ve totally lost me,” I said.
“You call them a conspiracy of ghosts, a cabal haunting these patients, manifesting through them.”
“Yes, but it’s like they’re fake ghosts. You know about the Spiritualist movement, specifically the fad for what they called ‘table tapping’ in the early years of the twentieth century. Most of it was phony—charlatans claiming to speak with the dead or channel them during hokey seances and producing all sorts of ambiguous messages and signs that convinced people to give the ‘medium’ money. People believed ghosts talked to them through these false channels.”
“I’m aware of this diverting human folly. Not all were liars and cheats, however,” he said, giving me a meaningful stare that sent my stomach on a slow roll.
“And
One corner of his mouth rose and brought an unexpected glint of amusement into his eyes. “Do you think they would know the difference between that which is false and that which is true now that they’re dead? Few spirits are aware of the world outside the prison of their unending existence—you know this; why do you question it? If they know that they are dead, that they continue in life only as shadows, how would they choose to speak except as ghosts? As they have been told that ghosts do? By automatic writing, by speaking in tongues, by backmasking, by dermographia, by spirit manifestation of visions and sounds. This is what they knew and all they know. They come to their unwilling channels as the vagrant souls they believe they are bound to be. If Linda Hazzard has, even after death, gathered them, it is her victims who will dictate the path no matter how many other souls they drag in train, like slaves in chains.”
“But how did they come to be gathered up and bound by or to Linda Hazzard?”
Carlos shrugged. “I don’t know. These things don’t reveal that. You will have to ask the spirits. That is not my forte, though it could be done. By blood and magic you would despair of.”
I already despaired of solving this problem in time. “I can’t allow that. There has to be some other way. . . .”
“Of course there are other ways. How have you become so blind? This power is drawn and flows differently for each of us. For the witch, for the mage, for you. Perhaps, knowing the time they occupy, you could go to them.”
“I haven’t had any luck with that so far. The temporaclines are shattered and displaced around the market and I don’t even know where these guys died.”
“Have you tried? Perhaps taking the objects that belonged to the dead with you?”
“Me? I don’t see how that would make a difference with the temporaclines. . . .” But I was thinking. Maybe it would work. . . .
I picked up the odd little tool and edged out of the booth, moving farther from the windows and sinking toward the Grey.
The broken and tilted edges of temporaclines fluttered against my reaching hands, cold and razor-edged. Concentrating on the tool I held, I riffled the edges, looking for one that seemed brighter or more open, but they were all much alike and nothing felt right. I tried simply shoving one open enough to look, but it wasn’t even remotely the right time period and the sheet of frozen time hung without invitation until I let it slide shut.
I tried several more, but even when I found one of the right period, it had no affinity for the object in my hand and stepping into it took me nowhere and into no time that helped me. Frustrated and chilled, I stepped back from the Grey and returned to the booth, where Carlos was watching me, frowning a little, the darkness around him swirling and swelling like ink in water.
I put the tool down with a sigh. “No luck. I couldn’t even find out what this thing is.”
“A very old pipe cleaner.”
“What? No, a pipe cleaner is a fuzzy piece of wire.”
He gave me a look that said he was indulging a particularly slow child. “The narrow end is for clearing the unburned tobacco residue and buildup from the bowl of the pipe and the mouthpiece. The flattened end is for tamping down the new tobacco before igniting it.”
I blinked at him. “I have a hard time imagining you smoking a pipe.”
“So did I. A nasty habit I could not afford when I was alive and had no use for once I died.”
I had never been certain of his age, but if tobacco was still an expensive luxury item at the time of his death, Carlos was even older than I’d thought. I changed the subject. “Let me try another. . . .” I said.
I took one of the keys this time, hoping its connection to such a large object as a house might put more weight into the temporacline it came from, but again I got no response from the planes of frozen time. I wasn’t close to the place where I’d found them, but time—even noncontiguous time—tends to link to objects of significance in the Grey. But it wasn’t happening. The objects must have had no significance for the time they came from. If none of the people who owned them had been important, their weight could be negligible in the well of the Grey. And yet the things had come to me as tokens of the people who had owned them. Surely they were not entirely insignificant?
I tried holding on to all of the objects associated with Hazzard’s victims—assuming that they would occupy a similar time and that the weight of all of them together might be great enough to influence one of the temporaclines to flash or warm to my touch. But there was no such response.
I backed out to the normal world frustrated and ice-cold.
Shaking my head, I sat down again and put the things back on the napkin. “It’s just not working. I think I’d have to be in the right location or know the names of the people each object belonged to. I might be able to make a connection at the market, but I’d rather not go back there until I have to.”
Carlos cocked an eyebrow at me. “Indeed?”
“I’m having a lot of trouble there. Hazzard seems to know when I’m in the area, and the manifestations are uncontrollable there. I can barely stand to be close to the place because the dermographia begins to burn my skin
