“Would you like that, Yossele?” she whispered.
And indeed he would. It was his master’s own vision and desire, and therefore he desired it as well. He would please her however she wanted, and protect her however he could.
Before long, she’d fallen asleep in his arms. He had no need, now, to watch her thoughts, for they were only dreams; no need to stay alert in case she was threatened, for he was there with her. A small relief, to set aside his sentinel’s tasks, if only for a few precious minutes. But to see her so unhappy! It was akin to a physical discomfort, an ache inside him. Worse still was the knowledge, flickering darkly at the edge of his understanding, that he himself was one of the burdens she carried. Yet she never resented him, never wished it otherwise, never thought, If not for Yossele . . . He’d follow her down whatever path she set them upon, for he had no other choice; he’d wait forever in that basement if she demanded it. But only now, as she slept beneath his gaze in the quiet of the alcove, could that involuntary devotion take on the depth of something closer to love.
15.
Something was missing.
The Jinni frowned, and pushed the thought away. He was kneeling beside a long, shallow iron trough that held a thin layer of blue-tinted glass, newly made. He eyed the pane carefully, watching for bubbles or imperfections that might cause a crack, but he saw none. Good. He’d lost three panes already that morning.
The entire glass-making process had proved much more delicate and difficult than he’d imagined. He wanted broad, thin swathes, but the slag was erratic and temperamental, and nothing he could make by hand was consistent enough. So he’d constructed the trough instead: a mold that he could heat evenly over the forge and then move to the floor, where the glass might cool and harden. On the worktable nearby were the stacks of finished panes, all polished to an even shine. He’d hunted through his supplies for something to place between the panes to keep them from scratching, and at last had found a stash of gold coins, bought in the Bowery and then forgotten. He’d intended to melt them down for gilding, but as spacers they worked perfectly.
He didn’t enjoy making the glass. It was dull and finicky work; it required paying attention while the glass cooled, so he might lift it from the mold at exactly the right moment. It stretched the seconds and minutes so that in his boredom he was tempted to let his mind wander, to reflect, consider, take stock.
Something was missing—but what?
The thought itself was ridiculous. As far as he knew, no one had ever attempted to build anything like this—so how could something be said to be missing? The Amherst’s new form was a vision born of his own mind, and correct in every detail. And yet something was missing, and it itched at him.
Finally the glass was ready. Carefully he prized the pane from the trough, lifted it away, and placed it with the rest atop the worktable. Then, released at last from the tyranny of waiting, he went to the forge and plunged his hands gratefully into the coals. His irritable mood receded in a wave of sharpened sensation, his nagging thoughts collapsing into an endless, perfect now. He smiled, without quite realizing. He’d earned a rest from the glass-making, he decided.
He spiraled up the central column to the topmost platform, stepped out onto the steel. There was a portion of the platform near the edge that had been unevenly smoothed; he’d noticed it the day before. He walked out to the rimless edge, following the curve, searching for the spot. Below him the forge was a glowing rectangle, a pool of fire he might dive into—
He staggered against her, they teetered together—
He shuddered as a wave of vertigo passed through him.
Stop that, he told himself sharply. He closed his eyes, held still until the last of it was gone. Then he found the spot and patched it over, his back turned to the view.
* * *
The Western Union branch at Canal and Broadway was little more than an overgrown vestibule that had been crammed into the lobby of the Columbia Bank. On most days there were at least three young boys waiting on the messengers’ bench when Toby arrived, all of them yawning and kicking their heels; but that morning the bench was empty, a bad sign. Behind the counter, Julius, the branch manager, was shuffling through the delivery sheets with an air of nervous dyspepsia. Toby glanced over at the bin that caught the overnight messages in their pneumatic tubes. Usually it was half full, but now it looked close to spilling over.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“Some genius from Public Works stuck his axe through our conduit,” Julius said. “Every branch south of here is out of commission. The rest of us are working double until it’s fixed.” He handed a sheet to Toby, pointed to a stack of envelopes on the counter. “Here’s your share.”
Alarmed, Toby glanced down the list. Sure enough, all of the messages were already hours late. Half of them were for the City Hall offices—and, even worse, the rest were overseas cables, destined for the Hudson shipping concerns. “Aw, hell! Why couldn’t you give this to one of the babies?”
Julius snorted. “Send a baby to the docks with a bag full of late cables? Might as well pour catsup on him first.”
“Well, why should I have to do it?”
“Because you’re man enough to take it, and they ain’t.”
Toby blew out a frustrated breath. He’d started as a bench-baby, too, and had prided himself on never letting the company down. Once again it seemed he was being punished for his loyalty. But there was nothing he could do about it, save
