“A corollary of acupuncture, actually. Rather obscure.” Derek plucked at his undershirt, tarnished in the many areas where blood had seeped through his coat. “I should get back to Pullman Town to change this.”
Neva frowned. “You just arrived.”
“I think I’ve seen enough of the Fair for one day. Unless you need me to stay?”
“Not if you need to leave, but ... why did you come?” She thought of the favor she’d asked of Sol. “Did Mr. DeBell get my message? Did he send you?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you ... Not now, though.” Derek gestured in the direction of the Cold Storage Building’s smoking ruins. “I’ll find you tomorrow.” He nodded at Quill. “Mr. Cole. Are you still teaching?”
Quill tapped his custodian’s cap. “Only sweeping, I’m afraid. Good posts are hard to come by these days. But it sounds like you have one with George Pullman?”
“I do. I design passenger cars for him. Nice to see you.” Derek shook Quill’s proffered hand, squeezed Neva’s shoulder, and strode off.
“I also heard about your shrouding technique,” Quill said to Neva as she craned her neck to follow Derek’s progress through the crowd. “Quick thinking, that—I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Thank you.” She resisted the impulse to reposition the coat around her waist and hide as much of her legs as she could. Quill had been drunk the night he’d resigned from the DeBells’ five years ago (following a midnight rant—shouted through the house—about the injustice of four anarchists hanging earlier that day for their supposed role in the Haymarket riot). But there’d been more than whiskey clouding his eyes when he’d tried to kiss her on his way out. There’d been longing too.
And she’d only been sixteen.
“It seems you’re everywhere these days,” he observed. “Are you sure you’re all right? A madman on the Wheel, after the porter on the Pier, and Augie gone missing—Wiley told me.”
Not everything: Wiley must not have believed her when she’d said Augie and the porter were one and the same ... Or maybe the Boer was keeping that secret for her? “I’m fine. How do you know him?”
“Wiley? Through Pieter. Listen, if you need anything ...”
“Thank you. Right now I think I just need to see Mr. DeBell.”
“Oh.” Quill pursed his lips, then restored his cap to his head. “I’d ask you to give him my regards, but ...”
“I know. It was good to see you.”
“Likewise.” His lips twitched. “To think we’ve both worked here, all these months, without running into each other until now—twice in two days. What a labyrinthine spectacle this place is.” He shook his head. “Well, I should return to the mess that fellow left on the Wheel. I’m sure Augie will surface on his own, but I’ll keep an eye out for him. Once he appears, maybe the three of us can discuss The Reason Why the Colored American Is Not in the World's Columbian Exposition? Powerful stuff, though I fear it won’t have the intended effect. You’ve read it?”
“I have, but another time.”
“Of course.” He tipped his cap. “Take care.” Whistling, he removed the bloody rag from his pocket and strolled back to clean the Wheel she’d so recently overheard him plotting to destroy.
“One problem at a time,” Neva murmured as she watched him go. “One problem at a time.”
AFTER STOPPING AT THE Algerian and Tunisian Village, where she changed into modest clothes and left a message for Wiley with Wahib, Neva resolved to walk to Mr. DeBell’s office at the Union Stock Yards. It was only a few miles; if she had to dip into her meager savings to pay train fare, she’d rather save it for the way back. And a bit of a hike might do her good.
But she found no respite.
For one thing, she was bone-weary. Literally. She hadn’t done so much bending, in so short a time—and so openly—since ... since she’d been a reckless child, and Augie had convinced her to be more careful.
Adding to her fatigue were the questions that dogged her from the moment she exited the Fair and headed west on 59thStreet. How had Derek truly calmed Wherrit? Could he bend minds? Should she report Quill and the others to the authorities? Did she want to? What had happened to Dob’s mother? Could Mr. DeBell help? Where did the crescent-marked insects come from? Was anyone directing them? Would their venom drive her mad too? Were they targeting “talented” people? Would she start targeting “talented” people?
Then there were the memories—they hit Neva hardest after she turned north on Halsted. Listening to Mr. DeBell recount his days as an abolitionist to Abiah and Jasper, his legitimate children. Hearing Mrs. DeBell call Caleb a “dark brute of a butler” minutes later. Seeing Derek sitting at the far end of the dining table, away from the rest of the DeBell family. Huddling in a corner of the kitchen, away from the other servants. Watching Quill lecture Jasper about women’s inspiring role in the French Revolution. Deflecting Quill’s profuse apologies for trying to force his lips on hers.
And Augie—so many memories of Augie.
Come 51st Street, there was also the stench of the Stockyards. A whiff of it always lingered in the Chicago air; the smell of pigs and cattle—living and dead—greeted visitors to the city and wished them farewell when they left. But now that Neva was nearing the Yards and their acres of meat, dung, and blood, the odor had grown beyond what she was accustomed to.
Worst of all, though, were the homeless.
Many had come to Chicago in hopes of finding a job at the Fair. At the peak of construction, more than forty thousand men had been employed to erect the great buildings, dredge the lagoon and canals, sculpt the statues, plant the flowers, operate the electric spray-painting machines that colored the main structures white, and on and on. People had paid twenty-five cents just to watch the operations. Running the Exposition took fewer hands, however,
