He hit the rubble, his spine snapped, the falling tower buried him. He hit the rubble, his spine snapped, the falling tower buried him ...
The noise of the Machinery Hall wrapped around her like an embrace, the din of its devices—the motors, the machining tools, the oil drills, the conveyor belts, the steam engines; especially the steam engines—drowning out the roar of the fire. Few in here seemed to know what had happened to Cold Storage. How could they? It was impossible to hear anything more than a few feet away.
Wiley led her past Eli Whitney’s original cotton gin, behind a sewing machine that stitched hundred-foot lengths of carpet at a time, and underneath a traveler’s crane—one of the hoists that had been used to construct the Hall and now gave visitors rides up to and down from the galleries overhead ... Overhead and high above. Just a step away from the edge.
He hit the rubble, his spine snapped, the falling tower buried him ...
Wiley removed a key from his pocket and unlocked a small door on the west wall. Then he rapped an odd pattern next to the knob and waited—perhaps for a second lock to be undone on the other side?
After a moment, the door opened and an auburn-haired woman peered out, her white dress trimmed with the purple of a Palace of Fine Arts guide. She nodded to Wiley, gave Neva and her dancer’s garb an appraising look, and turned back to him. “Well, isn’t she a bit of jam?” the woman said in a light Irish brogue.
He shook his head. “Not now, Brin. Let us through.”
“And why would you be bringing a colored girl in?” Brin was almost as tall as Wiley, but her build was slight. Even so, she seemed like someone who wouldn’t be easy to brush aside.
“She’s under my care.”
Brin shrugged.
He smacked the wall, then controlled himself and motioned her close so he could whisper—which in the Machinery Hall, meant half-shout—something in Brin’s ear. Likely about Augie.
He hit the rubble ...
Brin studied Neva again, taking in her soot-stained shoulders and listless hands. “Truly?”
Wiley nodded. “Truly.”
“God love you,” Brin said to Neva. “It’s unspeakable.”
She inclined her head so shallowly she wasn’t sure it actually moved.
“But this isn’t the place for grieving.” Brin frowned at Wiley. “Surely there’s somewhere else you can take her.”
“There’s nowhere—she may still be in danger.”
“So take her to a guard station.”
“They’ll only badger her with questions. Let me put it to the others.”
Brin glared at him a moment before rolling her eyes. “What’s the point? Pieter’s an even softer touch than you.”
“Thank you.” Wiley took Neva’s hand again and motioned her towards the door.
Brin snorted and stepped inside. “Wiley’s brought a guest,” she announced as they entered behind her.
“He think we need a domestic?” The speaker, a large man dressed in the dapper blue uniform of the Wellington Catering Company and sitting on a barrel, looked at Neva in a way that made clear what he thought of her skin tone.
“Shut your giggle mug, Roland,” a second, fatter man said, his paunch straining against the confines of his red Casino Attendant’s vest. “Wiley, what is this?”
But the third man—bony, to the point that a yellowed undershirt hung off him like a sad flag—just stared at her, a Fair Custodian’s gray coat lying next to him on a table.
“Quill?” asked Neva in disbelief.
He blinked. “Neva. What are you doing here?”
Wiley raised his eyebrows. “You know each other?”
“She used to be a student of mine.” Quill continued studying her with the quizzical, piercing gaze she remembered so well. “What happened to you?”
“There’s been a fire,” Wiley answered for her. “I’ll tell you about it in a moment. First, I’m going to get her settled in back. She needs to rest.”
Roland grunted. “Ain’t the place for your colored tail. Give her notch a taste of your holy bone somewhere else.”
The fat man—Pieter, presumably—threw a wadded paper wrapper at Roland. “Stop being such a muckspout. Wiley wouldn’t bring her here without good cause.” He glanced at Wiley for confirmation, and Neva realized the two men’s accents were similar. Were they both Boers, then? And where was the Commandant?
“You’ll hear my reasons in a moment,” Wiley said. “After I get Neva settled.” He grabbed a lantern and, ignoring more grumbling from Roland, led Neva through a corridor of haphazardly stacked crates and bits of leftover exhibits. Winding through the floor-to-ceiling clutter revealed a small refuge at the rear: a second table and a jumble of mismatched blankets.
“Sometimes it’s easier to sleep here than fight the crowds for a train home after work,” Wiley said as he set the lantern on the table and smoothed the blankets into a more inviting ensemble. “You’re welcome to rest here as long as you like.”
She nodded.
“I must apologize for Roland. He’s a stroppy bastard, but he’s good in a tight spot. Saved Pieter’s life once.”
She nodded again.
“Neva ...”
Glancing at Wiley, she saw the concern in his eyes and looked away.
“Are you certain Augie was the porter?”
She slumped to the floor and pulled her knees to her chest.
“I’m sorry, but he was a long way off, and between the smoke and the fire—”
“It was him.” She laid her head against her knees. “His disguise fooled me at first, but it was him. He had the rash on his chest.”
“I saw that. But perhaps ...”
She closed her eyes. “Please go.”
Wiley paused, then cleared his throat. “Of course. I’ll be in the front.”
The ensuing quiet was at once better and worse. Better, because it wasn’t absolute: she could still hear occasional clangs and bangs from the main hall, as well as the thrum of the steam engines; the
