Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(32)

“You’re sure it’s him?” Becky asks.

“Absolutely.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I sense his bag of gold. Also, he has two armed guards.” I point to the two men leaning against the wall beneath the veranda. One is pushing a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth, while the other blows on his hands to warm them. “They were with Frank Dilley the other day. Which means they might recognize us. Are you ready to do this?”

“As long as my constitution holds,” Becky says. “I should have taken the opportunity to relieve myself when I had the chance.”

“If I’m right, we won’t be in there long.”

“We weren’t counting on guards. How do we get past them?”

“We’ve as much right to go to the bank as anyone. We’ll just lower our heads and—”

A cry of “Tag! You’re it!” rings out at the far end of the building, and Sonia’s group of urchins tears around the corner, bumping into everyone below the veranda before scattering in all directions. The guards give chase, patting down their pockets even as they tear after the children.

Sonia’s group must be well practiced at pickpocketing to bump and grab so quickly and easily. It couldn’t have happened at a better time. While the guards are distracted, Becky and I dash across the street and into the bank.

The moment we pass through the door, a clerk rises to assist us. I pause to catch my breath, because the gold in this room is overwhelming. Here, it’s less like a choir singing and more like a giant crowd shouting at the top of its lungs.

“How may I help you ladies?” the clerk inquires.

I blink rapidly, trying to focus. As planned, I pull a handful of large gold nuggets from the plain leather purse I carry, then screw up my face like it’s hard for me to think, which is not entirely an act. “Found this. Prospecting.”

He’s seen larger amounts of gold, but his eyes widen appreciatively.

Becky steps in and covers the gold with one hand, placing her other on my shoulder. “My friend’s a hard worker, but a little . . . unsophisticated,” she says. “I’ve tried to tell her not to carry nuggets like these around—that’s just asking for trouble. I’ve told her that she should have it converted to coinage. And she ought to keep it in a bank, where it can be safe.”

I take stock of the bank while she’s talking, trying to ignore all the gold weighing down my senses. A long counter divides the space. Behind the counter are a few desks, and behind the desks is an iron cage bolted to both floor and ceiling. The cage contains both a small strongbox and a larger safe.

Mr. Keys sits at one of the desks. Across from him is a gray-haired man with heavy jowls, who appears to frown even when he smiles. Likely Mr. Owen, the owner of the bank.

“I don’t see many prospectors of the female persuasion,” the clerk notes. “It’s too hard a life for the weaker sex.”

Becky bristles. “I’ll hear no more from you about the weaker sex until you’ve birthed three babes.”

“I . . . of course. Apologies.” He wisely changes the subject. “Is that all the gold that your friend has?”

“Oh, no, sir, I got lots more,” I say, and I flip my purse, like I’m going to dump it on the floor. I can tell the clerk is trying to gauge its weight with his eyes. Becky grabs my hands and stops me again.

“You have to forgive her,” Becky says. “She works day and night. I think the mercury has affected her some. She uses so much of it, refining the gold she finds.”

“Some people have a knack,” the clerk says with a shrug.

He doesn’t know the half of it.

“Let’s retire to the privacy of my desk,” he offers, signaling to the far end of the room.

“I like that desk over there,” I whine. “It’s by the pretty window.” Which is just about the daftest thing to say, but I can’t think up another excuse.

Becky shrugs, as if to say, “What can you do?” The clerk accommodates my request by taking us to the desk beside the window. Becky proceeds to ask him a number of pertinent questions about turning gold into coinage and the protection of this bank compared to others.

From here, I have a perfect view of everything behind the counter, everything inside the cage. Which is where the bank’s owner is leading Mr. Keys.

Mr. Owen inserts the key into the cage’s lock. The iron door creaks open, and everyone stops work for a moment. You’d think the bank would oil the hinges.

“We have one of the strongest cages in the city,” the clerk is saying. Then he recites a flurry of details about its manufacture, installation, and maintenance.

The owner steps aside, and Mr. Keys pulls out his namesake ring and sorts through a dozen options, looking for the correct key. I reckon he knows them all by sight, because he slides one into the small safe, and it opens correctly the first time.

Mr. Owen removes himself from the cage and looks discreetly in the other direction. I have no such compunctions and gawk like a child at a carnival.

Before we came, I warned Becky that I wouldn’t be at my level best, not surrounded by so much gold, and we decided I would act a bit touched to cover any lapses. Good thing we did, because there there’s enough gold in that safe to ransom a kingdom. Stacks of coins and ingots. Hundreds of pounds. More than I have ever seen—or sensed—in one place at one time.