Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(69)

“I can carry the baby for a spell,” Mary says.

The Major gives her up gratefully. He puts on a brave face, but I reckon walking long distances is hard on him, especially with a new leg he’s not quite used to yet. I take the lead, with Jefferson walking beside me and everyone else at my back. At the very end of the line, I’m aware of Olive and Andy quietly tagging behind.

Even if I hadn’t been to Hardwick’s house once already, I’d know which direction to go. Hardwick must have the contents of nearly a dozen gold-filled safes at his house, because it’s like a toothache throbbing in my jaw. Blindfold me and bind my hands, and I could still find my way.

But even without my powers, there’s no mistaking our path.

First we follow carriages as they rattle past. Then the carriages stop, jamming together at an intersection, waiting in what is only the slightest semblance of a line. We maneuver through the traffic to the place where impatient guests disembark from their assorted rides and join small throngs flowing along the margins of the street. Lanterns light the street and the gardens beyond the wall. Music swells, a Mexican band playing waltzes in the son jalisciense style, with violins, harps, and guitars. Laughter and shouts of delight rise above the music and float toward us.

A line of people awaits entry at the garden gate. Becky takes the baby from Mary.

“I don’t mind holding her,” Mary says, maybe a little bit wistfully.

“I need something to do right now,” Becky replies, clutching the nameless girl to her chest like a shield.

Ahead of us, several people are turned away—first a group of drunken miners, and soon after, a white man and his Indian wife.

“What if they don’t let us in?” Becky whispers.

“Then we give up this life of crime and get a good night’s sleep?” the Major says.

I glare at him before realizing he’s joking.

“They’ll let us in,” Jefferson says confidently.

“I know the fellows at the gate,” I assure them, indicating Large and Larger. But the baby, sensing Becky’s anxiety, fusses in her arms, so the Major leans over and sings softly to her.

“There was an old woman tossed up in a basket

Seventeen times as high as the moon

Where she was going, I could not but ask it,

For in her hand she carried a broom

‘Old woman, old woman, old woman,’ quoth I,

‘Oh whither, oh whither, oh whither so high?’

‘To sweep the cobwebs from the sky,

But I’ll be with you by and by.’”

The baby giggles and grabs at the Major’s beard; he leans down farther to let her take hold of it. “That’s a silly song,” Becky says, and though her words are judgmental, her tone is soft and her gaze fast on his face.

“My father sang it to me,” the Major says.

He smiles and Becky smiles back, and I don’t say a word, because they are the unlikeliest pair ever, but it seems that slowly and surely they have turned into a pair.

“Hello again,” says Large, as we reach the wide iron gate that provides the only entrance into the estate.

“Did you know you would be working here when I inquired about the party last night?” I ask.

They ignore my question. “Do you have your invitation?” asks Larger.

I hand it over.

“We were told to expect eight,” Large says, checking a list of names.

Larger looks over our heads. “Counting the young ones and the infant, I see eight.”

“I thought the young ones were much younger,” Large says as he considers Olive and Andy.

“Children have to grow up fast in California,” Becky says smoothly.

“That’s the truth,” Larger says, waving us in.

We hurry inside before they can change their minds or get a closer look, and then we all stop short, a little overwhelmed. To our left is a lush garden with creeping vines and spired yucca flowers and a single sprawling oak. Beside the oak, the band plays gaily from a temporary stage as couples waltz nearby. Fires glow inside clay ovens, radiating warmth and inviting guests to gather. Lanterns hang from branches and posts, illuminating gaming tables where people are playing Spanish monte and rolling dice. To the right, the doors are thrown open to the rambling wings of the house. Violin music and laughter flow from the windows.

It’s a wonderland. A place where magic might happen.

And the thing I notice most, that thing that lights me up from all sides, is my sense of gold. I feel like a fly caught in a spiderweb of golden strands. The center of the web is inside the house, where the safes must be stored. But strands shoot out in all directions: at the gambling tables, in every purse and pocket, even near the stage, where the band keeps a collection bag.

A young man in a white shirt and a thin black tie approaches with a tray of drinks. Henry snatches up a glass.

“Dancing and games are to your left,” the young man says, which we can see very well for ourselves. Then he gestures toward the right. “Food and drink are inside the house.”

I follow the direction of his hand. The open double doors frame a familiar profile. The face turns toward us, and the man strides in our direction.

“Frank Dilley,” I whisper in warning.

“That’s my cue to disappear,” Mary says, and she steps away, blending into the swirl of partygoers.