Iron Cast(7)

Gabriel ignored her. They had reached the common room, and he paused at the base of the stairwell, watching Ada with the wrinkle of a frown in his forehead.

“Didn’t you just break out of Haversham?” he asked.

“So?” Ada crossed her arms, keeping her tone carefully neutral.

“And now you’re going on stage in front of some of the city’s wealthiest, most upright citizens?”

“This is the Cast Iron,” Corinne said, looping her arm through Ada’s again. “It’s always safe here.”

“Besides, if they were such upright citizens, they wouldn’t be at an illegal hemopath show,” Ada said.

Gabriel shrugged, though his expression gave no hint as to whether the gesture was in agreement or uninterest. He started up the stairs without further comment.

“He’s going to be a killjoy,” Corinne said once the panel had slid shut behind him. “I can tell.”

Ada laughed and tugged her toward their bedroom to get ready.

Show nights in the Cast Iron always started the same. Seats began to fill up fast after eight o’clock, once dinner engagements had concluded and excuses had been made. Patrons ambled down Clarendon and Appleton alone and in pairs, slipping in through the red door only when the coast was clear, surrendering any iron as they arrived. The watchword for entry came at a high price and changed with every show. Usually it was the same old crowd—rich, bored regs who found hemopaths to be novelties or magicians or misunderstood souls, rather than diseased in the blood. The Cast Iron wasn’t the only one of its kind, of course, but it had the best music by far. In this day and age, the music was what mattered.

In the old days the Cast Iron had been a quiet, unremarkable pub. Its patrons had been the intellectuals and idealists of Boston, men without a penny to their name but enough on their minds to keep the fire in the hearth burning well into the night. When he took over, Johnny had dragged the club into the modern era, and now its spectacular shows were the worst-kept secret in Boston.

Ada waited backstage with the other musicians, her violin on her lap and her fingers intertwined with Charlie Lewis’s. They sat on a threadbare sofa, talking in hushed voices while the rest of the band pretended not to eavesdrop.

“I’m just saying that Corinne should have told me what was going on,” he said. “Maybe I could have helped.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted you to help,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

“What?” He leaned forward, tilting his head to better see her face. Charlie was lean and rangy, with close-cropped hair and eyes that caught the light like a dark prism. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing the tattoo of a twisting, leafless tree on the tawny brown skin of his left forearm.

“I meant—Corinne had it under control,” Ada said.

“That’s not what you said.”

Ada plucked at the E string on her violin, wishing fervently that she hadn’t spoken. This was not a conversation she wanted to have backstage, surrounded by their fellow songsmiths, with a severe lack of sleep draining her better judgment.

“Can’t we just forget it?” she asked. “At least for tonight?”

Charlie regarded her for another few seconds, then nodded and leaned back. Ada squeezed his hand and rested her head on his shoulder in relief. She’d first met Charlie almost a year ago, when she and Corinne had attended a show at the Red Cat with Johnny. She’d never heard anyone play a French horn like Charlie could. She figured he probably knew that, considering his cool confidence in asking her out the next day, drawling his sultry Southern accent and winking like they shared a secret.

In retrospect, she liked how effortless it had been. Being with Charlie was easy, and these days, precious few things in her life were.

The stage door opened, and Corinne stuck her head in. She had a half-empty gin and tonic in hand and was wearing her favorite evening dress. It was pale pink and shimmery with tiny beads, capped at the shoulders and fluttering around her calves. A gold-and-silver headache band glimmered over her dark hair. The entire getup was in stark contrast to her usual fare of whatever wrinkled garment she stumbled over first in the morning. Tonight she was onstage, and when Corinne put on a show, she liked to shine the brightest.

“You all ready?” she asked.

The musicians gave their assent and started filing through the door. When Ada passed Corinne, she lifted her left hand to Corinne’s right for their signature handshake. They tapped their fingertips together twice. A brief touch, easily overlooked. Ada didn’t know how it had been possible to miss such a simple gesture so fiercely.

She took her spot stage left, a few feet away from Corinne, who gave her a broad smile. Corinne was dazzling under the stage lights, the beads on her dress glinting with every small movement. Ada smiled back and propped her violin under her chin. Her own dress of midnight-blue silk was simple in comparison, but Ada didn’t mind. Subtlety had its own distinction amid the flair of Boston’s nightlife.

The faint aroma of spicy hors d’oeuvres and bittersweet beverages filled the room, mingled with perfume and cigarette smoke. The club was packed tonight, elbow to elbow with men in black suits and women in glittering dresses. The Cast Iron was small and humble in comparison to the Red Cat, its main competitor, but that didn’t stop its loyal patrons from putting on the ritz for every performance. The lights were almost blinding, and Ada could barely make out Johnny at his corner table, entertaining the nervous senator and his wife. For Johnny the evening shows were all business, though he still refused to wear a dinner jacket. Jackson, also underdressed for the occasion, was sitting by Johnny, halfway through a beer. She noticed Gabriel at a table near the stage, though he didn’t have a drink in front of him.