Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(53)

“Stop right there,” I say. “I can’t know the details of your part of the plan.”

“Why not?”

“Because of Helena Russell!”

“You don’t believe in her second sight, do you?”

“If someone told you about a poor orphan girl from Georgia who knew how to witch up gold, what would you say?”

He rubs his chin. “That’s different.”

“Only because you know me.” I grab his hand to steal some of his strength. “Did you know that I’m Irish, too? On my mother’s side? What if Miss Russell can tell the future? Or read my mind? Maybe the fact that I have powers of my own makes it easier for her to scry my footsteps. Or even my thoughts. So, I can’t know too many details, or maybe Hardwick will know them. And you have to stay away from her. We all do.”

He squeezes my hand in reassurance. “I’m not sure about seeing futures or thoughts or whatever, but better safe than sorry, right?”

“Right.”

We’ve reached the galley. A cast-iron stove now rests on a tile platform in the corner, with a stovepipe running up and out the side of the ship. Poor Melancthon—another hole. A small fire inside has made the room toasty warm.

Melancthon and the Major are at work on their own part of our plan—though Melancthon has no idea what he’s laboring on; he’s simply following the Major’s orders. They’re cleaning a hose that looks like it’s been salvaged from one of the ship’s pumps. An empty rain barrel stands nearby, and their tools are spread out over most of the table. I turn my gaze away. I don’t want a picture of it in my mind, lest Helena Russell susses it out.

At the table’s corner, Olive sits beside Henry. She clutches her new rag doll while he reads to her quietly from Washington Irving’s Sketch Book, pointing to the words and sounding them out. Andy plays on the floor with his menagerie. Becky sits in a rocking chair with the sleeping baby. The chair rocks back and forth. Becky’s lids are half closed.

“Where did you get a rocking chair?” I ask.

“Wally and Melancthon put it together for me,” she says, smiling. “They’re exceedingly clever.”

The Major looks up from his current work just long enough to wave off the compliment, but I can tell he’s proud of his work.

“Becky,” I say, “Now that Mary’s here . . .”

Becky pauses midrock, and then continues, rockers creaking on the floor. She pulls the baby’s blanket tighter, as though she’d been fussing. “I saw her this morning at breakfast. She left to run errands in town.”

I bet she did. Where Becky is concerned, Mary prefers to make herself scarce. “I understand if you need to pack up and head back to Glory right away.”

She sits up straighter. “Not until we’re done here and I’ve gotten my cottage back. No low-down, mean-spirited, pusillanimous, thieving scoundrel is going to keep me from collecting what’s mine.” There’s so much vehemence in her voice that the baby startles and fusses for real. “Now see what you did?”

“Sorry,” I say in a lower voice. “So you’re not mad? About Mary?”

Becky lifts her nose into the air. “I let her know she’s welcome here, and she always has a place to stay with us.” As if she’s a queen bestowing favors on the unworthy.

“Well, I, for one, am awful glad to see her,” I say.

“Are you and Jefferson going out soon?”

“We are,” I say.

“Please be careful. If something happened to you . . . well, the children would miss you a lot.”

I glance over at Jefferson, who hides a small smile.

“Will do, ma’am,” I tell her.

Jefferson and I exit the Charlotte and step out into the street. It’s a quick walk to Portsmouth Square, which is busier at night than most places are during the day.

One side of the square is formed by the long building that contains the Custom House, the law offices, and the bank. The other three sides are filled with hotels and gambling dens. The square is crowded with people, drunk, joyful, weeping, fighting people, alone and in groups, stumbling from one hotel to the next, abandoning one gambling parlor for another, climbing in and out of carriages as they arrive from private parties or prepare to return home. Light fills the square, thanks to lanterns hanging beside almost every stoop, even a few torches. It’s no wonder this place burned almost to the ground.

It’s a perfect environment for Jefferson and me to blend in while we watch the Custom House building. Arm in arm, like two chums out for a stroll, we pretend we aren’t in the least bit nervous as we go from one hotel to the next, fall in or out of one group or another, and skirt the square as we watch the bank. A guard paces the veranda, or sits on a cane chair outside the door and smokes. From time to time, some of his friends come by to chat, but nobody draws him away.

“That seems like hard duty,” I say to Jefferson as we stroll past.

“I bet it gets harder a few hours after midnight, when the gambling dens close their doors and everyone goes home or finds a bed. That’s when we’ll have our chance.”

“I’ve never broken the law before,” I say, speaking in a low whisper.

“Me neither,” he says. “And I’m man enough to admit I’m a bit anxious.”