She reached the gate, wrenched off the lock, and ran toward Broadway, Yossele’s fury a tide at her back. The intersection approached, a Saturday evening tangle of taxicabs and wagons. She dodged through them without pause, not looking back for fear that she might turn and fight him, there in the middle of the avenue. Was he gaining on her? She heard a shout, a woman’s scream, the screech of tires. She kept going.
She crossed Riverside, ran past the benches, then jumped the balustrade and slid down the grassy slope to the retaining wall. Twelfth Avenue and the freight tracks lay twenty feet below her, a straight drop; beyond were the coal-yards and freight sheds, and then the river. Above her, onlookers on the sidewalk squinted down in horror at the madwoman standing on the wall. She had just enough time to reflect that there’d be no coming back from this, that Charlotte Levy would be gone forever—and then there was a shriek, and Yossele was at the balustrade, his anger rolling toward her down the hill. His body blotted out the sky.
The Golem smiled, and fell from the wall.
Yossele didn’t so much as break stride. He vaulted the balustrade, sprinted down the slope, and leapt after her.
His arc took him across Twelfth and the tracks entirely, and into a coal-yard on the other side, landing with a concussion that shook the ground. He clambered out of the pulverized coal, his anger undiminished, and looked about. There she was, running toward a nearby pier.
He took off after her, ignoring the shouts from the park above. Only his anger mattered now. The world was a tunnel with Miss Levy at its end; even his master had receded to a pinprick in his mind. He wove between the coal-heaps and up onto the pier, the wood cracking beneath his feet as he followed, seeing only her, gaining, gaining, until suddenly she was gone and the pier had dwindled to its final plank—
He struck the water, and fell into a greenish gloom that deepened within moments to black.
22.
Remember . . . you,” the dying man murmured. “The messenger boy.”
Toby was climbing a spiraling staircase, one hand upon the central column. With the other he supported Mister Ahmad, whose arm was slung over Toby’s back. He concentrated, placing one foot and then the other upon the narrow steps, half dragging Mister Ahmad as they went. The man was lighter than he looked—disturbingly so, as though he were hollow inside. His head had lolled on his neck when Toby had hauled him out of the water, and he’d groaned at the sight of the flooded forge. Up, he’d told Toby, and then collapsed. So now they were going up. Toby would’ve liked to stop and take a look around, if he weren’t so worried that the man was about to die. He felt as though he were climbing a giant steel treehouse.
“Mister Ahmad?” Was he still alive? “Did you build this place?”
The man was silent for long enough that Toby began to grow worried, but then: “Yes.”
“It’s amazing. What’s it for?”
“Don’t . . . know anymore.”
That was definitely odd, but he decided not to ask. “Who was the naked lady?” he said instead. “Friend of yours?”
A weak chuckle. “Not . . . friend.”
“Well, she disappeared. In front of me.”
“Ah.”
“She do that often?”
“When . . . necessary.”
Around and around they went, Toby climbing as quickly as he could, though he still didn’t know why they were going up, or what was at the top. He wished he could just sling the man over his shoulder, but the staircase wasn’t very wide, and God forbid either of them should fall. He hadn’t looked down yet; it seemed like a bad idea. Another platform came slowly into view beside them, glowing a soft silver in the filtered light.
“Sure is a lot of steps,” he said, for no reason other than to keep talking. “Ever think about getting an elevator?”
Another chuckle. “Used to climb . . . every day. With Arbeely. For . . . exercise.”
“Arbeely. He was your partner, right?”
He felt the man tense. “How . . . you know?”
“Oh, I asked around about you.” They were nearing the top. Was there a catwalk up there, past the arches? “Also—I ought to confess something.”
“. . . Yes?”
“I peeked. At your cable.”
“Oh. Who . . . from?”
“Sophia Williams.”
A dubious pause. “. . . Williams?”
Toby huffed a laugh. “That’s just what Missus Chava said.”
The head lifted; he squinted at Toby. “Who . . . are you?”
“Toby Blumberg. I’m Anna’s son.”
The man took this in, then chuckled. “Gotten . . . older.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s a trick I play on people.”
They passed through the undulating iron at the top of the column—and indeed there was a catwalk, stretching toward what looked to be an old stairwell door. “That way?” Toby said.
“That . . . way.”
He hitched his passenger higher and went for the door, doing his best to ignore the fact that there weren’t railings as such, only guy-wires at waist height. Don’t look down, don’t look down . . .
To his slight disappointment, the door opened onto an ordinary roof, covered in tar-paper and pigeon droppings. “Where to?” he asked.
“Anywhere. In the sun.”
Toby chose a spot at the eastern edge of the roof, and sat Mister Ahmad against the wall. The sun was beginning to sink over the river, red-gold behind a veil of clouds. The man’s eyes were closed; he’d gone completely still. Was he breathing? Did he breathe? Toby watched him warily until—“You’ve seen Chava,” the man said, startling him.
Toby nodded—and then, remembering why he’d come, he pulled the message from his pocket. “She asked me to give you this,”
