Revenge and the Wild(82)

“I believe so.”

“That’s where we’re going. This picture was for the newspaper, and since we know James Lovett Senior was killed only a few days after, that gives me a date to look. The name of the family with the little girl holding the doll should be in that article. I need to know who they are and how Olive got that doll. If they’re still alive, perhaps they can tell us more about the Fairfields.”

Just as the clouds started spewing sideways rain, they slipped inside the library, their wet clothes dripping on the floor.

The Sacramento library was an empire of knowledge tucked into the most perfect, ornate building Westie had ever seen. It smelled dusty and old, but in a good way.

They found a shelf of scrapbooks of old newspapers, hundreds of them. There were four different books from the year she was looking for. Pulling them from the shelf, she plopped them down on the table, hearing people shush her from dark corners.

She cracked open one of them. Alistair took another. Reading made her eyes dry and her lids heavy. She yawned and scratched her head, fingers tangling in her dirty locks, wishing she were conducting her research from a tub full of hot water and freesia-scented bubbles instead.

“I think Sacramento may be cursed,” Westie said. “Listen to this.” She began reading the headline on the front page. “Tailor Harvey Mull died after falling on his own scissors. And this one: Milkman David Kinsey swallowed an entire chicken leg and choked.”

“I saw a couple of those too,” Alistair said. “A housemaid named Sugar Babineaux fell from the deck of an airship.” He flipped a page. “A paperboy named Maximilian MacPhee was mowed down by a runaway coach.”

“Jesus,” Westie said, “sounds like it’s safer to live in Rogue City. I’d rather take my chances with bandits and creatures.”

As Westie scrolled through the various stories, she came upon the article about the airship explosion that had killed James’s parents.

“Here’s the article about the airship explosion, but—” She turned back several pages. “There’re stories missing, all the front pages of the news that happened the days leading to it.” Westie leaned back, rubbing her flesh hand across her face, vision blurred from reading. “Including the one that would’ve had the photo of the girl and her doll in it.”

“Well, this was a waste of time. What now?” Alistair asked, wiping his eyes.

Westie pressed her lips together, fighting the sense of defeat that made her want to get on her horse, ride back to Rogue City, and just give up.

“I reckon now we go to the Fairfield house, see what we can find.”

“This is insane—you know that, right?” Alistair said as they rode down a long, twisting path.

“Yes.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “At least you’re aware.”

“Relax, Alley. The Fairfields are in Rogue City. No one will be there to catch us snooping.”

After they’d ridden a half mile on the narrow road, a house came into view. It had taken some nosing around to get the address, but finally, after Westie had convinced the postman she was a long-lost relative of the Fairfields, he gave in.

The house was in the country surrounded by unfarmed acreage, a modest colonial that might’ve been beautiful once. It was run-down now, the yard overgrown, crabgrass reaching through the cracks in the walkway. Two pillars held up a sagging porch like old sentries, their white paint peeling.

“This is it?” Alistair said. “I imagined a mansion and stables with exotic Arabian horses. I can’t imagine James living in filth like this.”

Westie didn’t think so either, but it was out of the way. Privacy seemed beneficial for a family of cannibals.

Westie left Henry to graze while she climbed the steps to the porch. Dozens of weathered doll heads looked up at her from the ground. She shivered, kicking one of the more morbid-looking ones away.

Alistair nudged a bottle of milk next to the front door with the toe of his boot. The goop inside barely moved. The door opened as soon as Westie touched it. She took a breath and walked across the threshold.

Leaves scattered across the wood floors, following them inside. The living space was expansive, with a fireplace big enough to fill it with warmth. There was a brick of wet newspaper beside it, the ink melted away long ago and the pages stuck together. Wind moaned as it funneled through the chimney, causing a draft.

Alistair ran a finger across a ceramic figurine of a faery, then wiped the dust on his trousers. “Looks like the maid took a day off.”

To Westie’s surprise, the Fairfields lived humbly. The furniture was handmade of roughly carved oak; the wallpaper was an outdated floral print that bubbled and folded in the corners. There were hooks on the walls, but all the pictures had been taken down. Only four circular plaster molds of handprints remained. Westie stepped up to get a closer look.

Below each hand was the name of the person it belonged to carved into the plaster.

Westie scowled at the molds. “Put your hand up to Hubbard’s print.”

Alistair studied the shapes a moment before pressing his hand to the mold, his fingers reaching the tips of Hubbard’s. “Does that look like the hand of Hubbard Fairfield?”

Westie thought back to the ball, the way Hubbard’s hand had swallowed up Nigel’s when Nigel had helped Hubbard to stand after Westie nearly crushed his fingers. Nigel was not a little man with little hands, but Hubbard had made it look that way.