“Would you like me to report this, sir?” he asked Wiley. “Or would you prefer to?”
“I’ll escort the dancer to Administration. Call an ambulance for this fellow and see to him and his wife. The boys in Station M can give you a hand.”
“Yes, sir.” Pierce lowered to say something gentle sounding to the woman, then jogged to the guard station by the Old Vienna complex.
Neva felt Wiley tap her on the shoulder, but she didn’t stop scanning the passing crowd, spinning like a slow-moving top as she looked in all directions.
“Neva ...”
“We have to find Augie.”
Wiley pursed his lips. “He’s gone.”
“But he’s hurt. You saw the blood. And he wouldn’t just leave me. Something happened to him.”
“Perhaps, but—Neva!”
She’d darted to the prop bag. Snatching it up, she scanned the crowd again and ... saw only strangers. There was no sign of Augie or any indication of where he’d gone.
Wiley put his whole hand on her shoulder this time. “We can leave a message for him at the theatre, but we have to go to Administration. Please. For your own safety.”
Neva considered bending her shoulder blade away from Wiley’s grip, but a pulsing warmth on her back suggested the formation of another rash. Another mark; another brand.
Damn him, but Wiley was right.
Taking a last look around, she nodded at him and headed into the theatre. After entrusting Wahib with the prop bag and a message for Augie and concealing her rashes with gloves, shoes, and a jacket, she let the guard guide her to his superiors.
It was a long walk.
The distance was only part of it. The Algerian and Tunisian Village lay near the far end of the Midway Plaisance, the Fair’s mile-long strip of amusements. As she and Wiley passed the rest—the German Village, the Javanese Settlement, the South Sea and Samoan Islander encampments, and on and on—persuaders called to her from almost every exhibit. But they weren’t imploring her to enter: they knew her well from months of mingling after the Midway closed at eleven each night.
They also knew Augie—several asked after him. Neva just waved in response; it was a relief when she and Wiley finally entered the Fair proper.
Six hundred acres of marvels opened before them: lavish buildings from foreign countries and every state in the union, specialty structures like the Aquarium and the Moving Sidewalk, and over sixty-five thousand exhibits about anything and everything. Lake Michigan provided the perfect backdrop to the east, and the grounds were further enhanced by the canals Frederick Olmstead, the Fair’s landscape architect, had ordered dredged for the occasion. Poetically placed foliage and inspiring statues completed the enchanting vista.
But Neva had already seen it all. She’d worked her way through the exhibits during her Sundays off. With Augie. Where was he?
The sound of crying turned her head: a boy of no more than ten leaned against the Women’s Building, sniffling and casting about with anxious eyes.
Just as she was.
“Are you lost?” she asked, crouching down.
He clamped his mouth shut, perhaps reluctant to speak to a colored stranger.
“Neva,” Wiley began, “I thought you were in a—”
“Hush. Where are your parents?”
The boy’s lips trembled. “I can’t find my ma!”
Neva took his hand. “I’m looking for someone too. What’s your ma’s name?”
“Rena Barrot.”
“And yours?”
“Dob. I mean, Robert. But everyone calls me Dob.”
She forced herself to smile. “And I’m Genevieve, but everyone calls me Neva. Don’t worry, Dob. We’ll find your ma.” She turned to Wiley. “Won’t we?”
He cleared his throat. “Where did you last see her?”
“In the big building.”
“Manufactures and Liberal Arts?”
Dob nodded. “By the Clock Tower.” He yanked an intricately patterned white handkerchief from his pocket but fumbled and dropped the cloth before he could blow his nose.
“Here,” Neva said, picking the handkerchief up by a corner and avoiding the rest—its colorful tessellations showed signs of heavy use that morning. “It’s a beautiful design.”
The boy accepted the handkerchief gratefully and blew his nose. “Thanks. My ma made it.”
Wiley gave Neva a skeptical look. “Manufactures is the largest structure in history; we’ll never find her there. Our best bet is to drop him at the daycare in the Children’s Building, then leave a note at Administration, in case his mother tries the Information Center first. And any guard she asks will tell her to go to the daycare. This happens a few times a week, but all the wayward little ones have been claimed so far.”
Neva grit her teeth. She’d much rather help Dob look for his mother—while searching for Augie at the same time—but her rashes still throbbed, and Wiley was right. Again, damn him.
“I have to do something first,” she told Dob, “so we’re going to take you to a safe place where you can play. But I’ll come see you after, all right? And we’ll make sure you find your ma.”
His soft little “All right” nearly broke her heart.
“I intend to keep that promise,” she informed Wiley after they’d checked Dob into the daycare. “To find his mother while we look for Augie. I expect you to do the same.”
“Certainly. Once we’re finished at Administration.”
“Thank you. Can we go through the island?”
Wiley swept his arm before him, indicating she should lead the way.
In front of the Horticulture Building, they crossed one of the delicately curved bridges that connected the main grounds to the Wooded Island Olmstead had raised in his Central Lagoon. Meant as a respite for weary visitors, the island was filled with trees and flowers, empty of any structure save the peaceful Japanese Ho-o-den gracing the northern end. Even with the leaves thinned by the lateness of the season, the mini-oasis was still Neva’s favorite part of the Fair.
“So remarkable,” Wiley said as they stepped off the bridge, his words ruining the tranquility before she had a chance to absorb it. “To
