Honeycutt hurries through the throng, as though she is late toanother appointment at yet another charitable institution. I sense generosityin her character, but also a love of material wealth that might sidetrack thebest of intentions. Sacrifice at war with self-indulgence. The spirit is indeedwilling, but just how weak is the flesh? Can I trust her to help me?
I’ve written a note to Miss Honeycutt on my last scrap ofpaper. It describes the true conditions at Ironwood and condemns Faust for themurder of Margaret Hotchkiss. I also beg her to contact the coroner ofStonehenge and relay my message. The paper is folded into a small square,tucked inside my right sleeve. With unsteady fingers, I ease it down into mypalm. Now if only she’ll shake hands.
Honeycutt walks straight past me without stopping.
No, no! I’m Lenore’s daughter. I’m here!
But she continues forward, so I step out of line and execute aformal curtsy. It is a ballroom technique universally learned by the daughtersof rich men—even those who are blind and mute. The type of honor aging New Yorkheiresses expect from the world. Amelia Honeycutt turns after hearing thesurprised whispers of the assembly.
“How charming,” she says, coming to my side. “Do you teach themdeportment, Harriet? How very open-minded.”
“We do not,” Matron replies.
Miss Honeycutt lifts my chin, studying my features. “Unusual.You remind me of someone.”
Yes, blast you. I resemble Lenore. Your bosom friend.
Faust scurries over. “I cannot think where you would have mether, Amelia. Very sad case.”
“Yes, of course, and I have such a difficult time matchingnames and faces.”
“Let me show you into my office,” the doctor suggests.
Before Honeycutt can depart, I take her hand and bow over it,like a gentleman about to bestow a knuckle kiss. I push the note under herfingers and curl them around the paper square. Matron draws the older womanaway with happy conversation, and I hear Honeycutt’s heavy skirts swing towardthe door. Yet there is another sound—that of a folded paper striking wood.
The noise echoes through my head, as horrifying as a deathknell. Fast! Get the note before anyone else does! I dart toward the placewhere it fell, bumping against the inmates ahead of me. Drop to the floor,Hester. Reach out your arm.
“Lose something?” Titus asks, his body blocking mine.
Hershel Watts picks up the paper. “A letter maybe? Thisletter?”
“Give it here. I want a look,” Roy says from a distance. He’sstayed far away from me since I levitated and prophesied his early death. Unfortunately,the other guards show no fear.
Titus forces me toward the stairs, with Watts trailing behind,and I end up in the basement.
In the Pit.
“Why are you here precisely?” Gabriel asks.
I shrug and cross my arms.
“It must be bad for them to put you in with me.”
We are sitting on the table/bed, and it’s oddly relaxing. Ilean back against the warm stones, and Gabriel laughs in the darkness.
“I’d still wager my story’s worse than yours,” he says.
I think about shrugging again but can’t be bothered. We’re bothdead anyway so what does it matter?
Gabriel leans back, too. Joining me against the wall. “Aterrible idea, competing for the crown of sorrow. Forget I mentioned it. Do youknow The Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens?”
A copy of that work sits on my shelf at home, or it did lasttime I was there. Cordelia and I never got around to reading it.
He quotes, “It was the best of times, it was the worst oftimes. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.”
Both the author and the storyteller beside me are marvelous.Gabriel is an artist with words, summarizing the scenes and breathing life intothe characters. I am caught up in the tale of Lucie Manette, her father Dr.Manette and the virtuous Charles Darnay. But my favorite is Sydney Carton. WhenGabriel tells me of his final sacrifice, a tear drops from my eye. The martyr’slast words echo through the Pit.
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have everdone; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
The giant pats my shoulder. “Like Carton and his littleseamstress, we’ll help each other until the end.”
Reaching out, I search the wall and find the bold words Icarved there.
LEX TALIONIS.
YOUR DAY OF RECKONING AWAITS, FAUST
Failure washes over me, scalding as acid. I am well and trulycaught this time, and I have done nothing to help Gabriel or Faust’s victims inthe Book. There will be hell to pay in the after life. Gabriel begins tohum some lilting, gentle tune. It acts as a salve to my worried mind and givesme, if not hope for survival, at least the possibility of redemption.
I straighten my shoulders and turn to Gabriel. Unsure ofwhether I will survive this kind of sharing, I take his hand in mine and listento the beating of my heart. His life flashes behind my eyes as it did beforeand I feel his sorrow and pain, want more than anything to ease his burden. Heatgradually builds in my chest until I feel radiant as the sun. I push the powerout toward Gabriel, giving him all the strength I have.
Then I grow weak and feel no more.
“Wake up,” Roy mutters, splashing my face with cold water.
I cough and sputter into painful consciousness, wondering whereI am. Dead, not dead, or just in hell? I can’t decide which. Arms strappedabove me, my body hangs and twirls slowly, my weight barely resting on theballs of my feet. Sweet, holy hell. Every part of me hurts! I pull on thecords, but they hold fast, tethered to a high point in the ceiling. Like amacabre ballerina, I swing about on my toes—arms and shoulders aching.
Definitely not
