A-Splendid-Ruin(82)

“The night she died.”

Shin nodded. “I must get back.”

“Yes, they mustn’t become suspicious.” When she turned to go, I said, “I’ll do whatever I must to help you leave San Francisco, Shin, I promise it.”

“I’m glad you’re free, Miss May,” she said.

“Not yet.” I tried, not very successfully, to smile. “But soon, I hope we both will be.”





The Bulletin had set up temporary headquarters on the roof of the Merchants’ icehouse, but the last thing I was going to do was march into a den of reporters all looking for a story. Nearby was a cluster of tents and a still-standing fence where children played with their dog. Beyond, a relief wagon handed out eggs and water to those standing in line. I went to join them, just one more woman waiting for her portion. I didn’t take my eyes from the icehouse.

Several men came and went, none of them Dante. I worried that I might not recognize him, but I hadn’t yet made it to the front of the line when he stepped out, and I knew him immediately. His walk, the way he held himself, that palpable charisma that I’d noted that first time I’d met him. I’d thought I was prepared for the sight of him, but I wasn’t. All I could think about was the last time I’d seen him, at Coppa’s, my juvenile drawing in response to his challenge—so embarrassing. That, coupled with what he must know about my imprisonment at Blessington, suffused me with sudden panic and humiliation.

But he was key to both my plans and China Joe’s. I gripped the vest button in my pocket, steeling myself, and stepped from the relief line. By then, Dante was striding away; I ran after him, not allowing myself to think. I did not call after him. The last thing I wanted to do was bring attention to us both. When I reached him, I fell into step beside him. He lost his stride, looked at me in puzzlement, a double take, then stopped completely.

“Hello,” I said through the tightness in my throat.

“Well, well, if it isn’t May Kimble.” That he’d been mucking about the city was obvious. His shirt was gray with dust and ash and open at the throat to show both his long underwear and the start of the hair on his chest. Healing blisters reddened his cheekbones, dark shadows of sleeplessness marked beneath his eyes, and his beard shadow was heavy.

“I wasn’t certain you would remember me.”

“I’m not likely to forget the woman who made Ellis Farge an artist.”

I must not have heard him correctly. “What?”

His dark gaze swept me. “You’re a mess.”

“You don’t look much better.”

He glanced about, and then he took my arm, gently at first, as if afraid I might bolt, and my heart sank, because I recognized the care in it, the kind of care one took with a madwoman, and when he tightened his hold, I knew it was a mistake to have come upon him this way. He was going to turn me in to the authorities.

“Come with me,” he said quietly.

I pulled back. “No. I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry. I’ve obviously made a mistake—”

“I just want to talk to you, May,” he said earnestly. “But not here. There are too many people. You’ll be safe, I promise.”

“Safe from whom?”

“I’m assuming you sought me out for a reason—ah, I’m right, I see. You can trust me. I swear it. Come on.” He pulled me with him to the narrow stairs of what was now only side walls of mostly collapsed brick and burned frontage. Up those stairs, and then into a corner against a soot-blackened wall that partially shielded us from the street. I was grateful for that at least. All around us, the sounds of rebuilding were a constant music, clanging, hammering, sawing, shouts and wagons and horses. No one was going to overhear our conversation. It was only then that I noted how neatly he’d trapped me. I was in the corner, and though he was not the least bit threatening, he stood before me in a loose stance, one I was certain was deceptive. He could easily stop me should I try to bolt.

Dante looked at my forehead and said, “It’s a bit Frankensteinian, but it makes you even more interesting. You’re going to have quite a scar.”

Gingerly, I touched the stitches. “A building fell on me.”

“Ah. No doubt the reason for your release.”

“I will say that it was rather unexpected.”

“Is it true? What they said about you?”

“You’re the reporter,” I answered. “What do you think?”

Slowly, thoughtfully, he said, “I think you know something about the Sullivans that they’re desperate to keep secret. I think you have the answers to questions I’ve been asking for a long time.”

“You’re wasting your talents being a society reporter,” I said. I met his gaze. “I need your help.”

“All right.”

I frowned. “Just like that? You know where I’ve been and you don’t even know why I want your help.”

“I don’t care. I’ve worried about you. I’ve wondered . . . too many things. Whatever they did to you, you didn’t deserve.”

The words pleased me, but I’d been fooled by words before. “How can you say that? You hardly know me.”

He shrugged. “I know you well enough. I’d been watching you for months before we met, remember. You aren’t mad. Easily manipulated, maybe. Foolish, yes. But not mad. Out with it, May. We’re friends, remember? Tell me what you want me to do.”