A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(10)

I grimaced. I’d forgotten about the Centennial Exhibition. It had been running so long now—four months—it had blended into the background of Philadelphia for me. “Two weeks absolutely won’t do,” I declared. “I must leave now. What else is there?”

“Well, C.G.T.’s Amérique to Le Havre leaves in two hours.” His eyelids lowered, as if I was wasting his time. “But that lady over there just bought the last second-class ticket.” He motioned to the olive-clad woman, who still stood organizing her pitiful funds.

“Now,” he went on, “there’s only one cabin left, and it’s the most expensive.”

“How expensive?”

“Seein’ as the Amérique is the first ship in the world t’have electric lights, that it don’t take on steerage passengers, and that it includes every meal, the answer is very.”

“I didn’t ask for a history lesson,” I growled. “I asked for the blasted price.”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“Ah,” I breathed, rocking back. That was expensive—certainly more than my emergency money of a hundred and twelve dollars and forty-seven cents. But I kept my face blank because confound it if I would let this man know my financial woes.

“And how much does a train from Le Havre to Paris cost?” I asked.

He glanced at his booklet. “Average cost is . . . fifty francs.” His gaze rose to mine. “Which is about ten dollars.”

Ten dollars . An idea hit me—a reckless, desperate idea. An idea so low that if I thought about it too hard, my morals would come barreling in to interfere.

I glanced back at the middle-aged woman. She was finally putting away her money, and I could only assume she’d be leaving at any moment.

I spun back to the clerk. “And you’re absolutely certain there’s no other boat leaving today?”

“Nothin’, Miss.”

“And what is the cost of a second-class ticket?”

“Why d’you ask when there ain’t one—”

“What. Is. The. Cost?”

“Seventy-five dollars.”

“Thank you,” I said through gnashing teeth. “And which steamer is the Amérique? I’d like to . . . observe it before I decide on that first-class ticket.”

He jerked his thumb to the left. “The big one with the wheels. You can’t miss it.”

“The big one. Very clear,” I muttered, and before my temper or conscience could get the best of me, I twisted on my heels to leave.

As I’d feared, the woman in olive was gone. So I hefted my carpetbag onto my shoulder, gathered my skirts in my fist, and darted for the street. By the time I stepped outside, it was to find her on the opposite sidewalk and almost to the municipal pier.

I surged after her, my mind racing as fast as my feet and with my scruples flaring to life. You shouldn’t do this, they said. This isn’t like you.

“But,” I whispered in response, thinking how aptly Shakespeare had said it: “Diseases desperate grown. By desperate appliances are relieved.” If I wanted to protect Mama—protect myself—then this was what I had to do. Marcus had come for me because I had the letters. Now I was leaving

Philadelphia, and I prayed that he would follow me to Paris. Follow me to the Spirit-Hunters.

I slowed only once in my pursuit, to yank out seventy-five dollars, and then I marched directly for the woman. Fortunately, she was as scattered in her walking as she had been in her money counting.

And even more fortunately, her steamer ticket still dangled dangerously from her pocket, flipping this way and that in the breeze.

“Pardon me,” I called. “Ma’am?”

She hesitated beside a stack of crates around which dockers buzzed like bees.

Perfect, I thought, hurrying to her side. My heart was lodged far into my throat, pounding hard, but

I still managed to don my most charming smile. “I believe you dropped this.” I held up the seventy-

five dollars and let the wind flutter it enticingly.

Her forehead bunched up. “No, I don’t think I did, Miss.” She spoke with a heavy Irish accent.

“Were you not just counting your money in the ledger office?”

A pair of burly dockers trudged past, and I took the opportunity to shimmy closer to the woman—

and to her ticket.

“I am certain I saw this fall on the floor beside you.” I pushed the cash toward her, and her eyes locked on the money.

Her lips moved as if adding up the bills. “I-I don’t think this is mine, Miss.”

“Well, it isn’t mine either.” I gave her a warm smile. “And it was on the floor where you stood.

You must take it. I insist.”

She lifted a quivering hand and slowly closed her fingers around the money.

My pulse quickened. Now was my moment. Keeping the rest of me perfectly still, I slipped my left hand over her ticket. Then all it took was a flick of my wrist, a reangling of my body, and that second-

class ticket was mine.

I bit back a smile, my chest fluttery with triumph. “So you’ll keep the money?” I asked, sliding the ticket into my own pocket and making a great show of readjusting my carpetbag. “It must be yours,” I added.

“Y-yes . . .” She swallowed, her eyes darting to mine. “Thank you.”