The Warlock's Curse (31 page)

“You know, I really like your dad,” he ventured. “I wish things didn’t have to be the way they are.”

Jenny played with her napkin. “You let me worry about my dad.”

“You seem to like to have a corner on the worrying market,” Will retorted. “Honestly, I’m getting kind of tired of it.”

“Really?” she said, lifting an eyebrow. “In my experience, most people like to not have to worry about things.”

“They like to not worry about things that don’t matter,” Will said. “But this
matters
, Jenny.”

“There are a
lot
of things in life that matter,” Jenny snapped. “But they don’t all matter equally. Sometimes you have to put one before another.”

“You, for example, put your sister before your father.” In response to the flash of annoyance that passed over Jenny’s face, he said: “You made me promise that I wouldn’t
ask
, not that I wouldn’t
deduce
.” He paused, sipping his tea. “Whatever your plans are, they’re clearly for Claire’s benefit—and your father doesn’t approve. You’ve put Claire before your father. QED.”

“Well, just who else is going to?” she said through clenched teeth. “My father has everything he needs to look out for himself. Claire doesn’t.”

“She’s got an inheritance, just like you do—”

“Do you think for one moment that anyone will ever let her use it the way she wants?” Jenny cut him off sharply. “My sister is as intelligent and conscious as you or I, William. But because of her ... infirmity ... she is not allowed to make decisions for herself, and never will be. They’ll keep her in a prison and treat her like a moron, they’ll cut her apart and take away even the
dream
of a normal life ... unless I help her.”

“Help her how?” Will said quickly. But Jenny was not to be that easily caught. She just leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and glared.

Will suddenly found himself thinking about the book they’d spent all day reading. He grinned wanly, taking the last eggroll from the grease-streaked plate.

“You know something?” he said, biting into it. “You’re Dreadnought Stanton.”

“What?” she said, still frowning.

“You’re Dreadnought Stanton,” he said again. “You intend to come in the nick of time and set everything right, against all odds. Through the force of sheer will.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and did not smile. “I promise you, it’s going to take more than sheer will.”

At that moment, the waitress came along with the bill, two crisp little half-moon cookies resting atop the Chinese-scrawled slip of green paper. When Jenny saw them, her stormy mood dissipated almost instantly.

“Fortune cookies!” she said, seizing one. “I thought they only had these in San Francisco.” To Will’s surprise, instead of eating the cookie, she crumbled it in her hand and extracted a little slip of paper.

“They have your fortune printed on them,” she said, showing him the slip then turning it over to read it. Her brow wrinkled and her smile dimmed.

Will took the other cookie and broke it open, extracting his own small slip of paper.

“
The past is in your future
,” he read. “What the heck does that mean, anyway? What does yours say?”

“Mine doesn’t make any sense either,” she muttered, tucking the little slip away into her purse. “These aren’t as good as the ones in San Francisco. The last one I got there said
Who dares, wins
. I’m going to stick with that one.”

As they were making their way through the crowded restaurant toward the front door, Will caught sight of a familiar figure through the front window. It was the street-corner activist who usually hung around outside Tesla Industries. It had begun to snow hard, and his threadbare outfit was dusted with white. He was talking with a man in a shiny, cheap-looking suit. The man was showing him something, some kind of flyer, and the dark-haired young man was shaking his head—and as he did so, he happened to catch sight of Will and Jenny. His eyes met Will’s for just a moment. Then he quickly put his hand on the shoulder of his companion and turned him away from the restaurant window. He pointed down Piquette, and whatever he said made the man tip his hat eagerly and head quickly in that direction.

As soon as the man was gone, the organizer came inside the restaurant, hurriedly making his way toward them. He did not look at Jenny, clearly not expecting any kind of introduction, but rather spoke low hurried words into Will’s ear:

“You seen that feller out front? He’s showin’ around flyers of you and your girl. You might consider going out the back way.” Then he turned on his heel and left the way he had come. To the restaurant proprietor who had greeted his entrance with a dark frown, he touched the brim of his hat and said saucily, “Don’t worry, brother, I ain’t gonna steal nothing.”

Will quickly spun Jenny toward the back of the restaurant.

“What on earth—” she began, but then fell silent as she saw the look on Will’s face. He led her through the kitchen—to the bemusement of the busy Chinese cooks—and out the back door. When they emerged in the back alley, she looked at him curiously.

“They’re still looking for us!” said Will through clenched teeth, pulling his cap down tight on his head. “There was someone outside the restaurant showing around flyers!”

“But
why
?” The snow was falling even more heavily now, powdering Jenny’s fur coat with little puffs of white. “Dad thinks I’m on my way home! I told him I’d only come if your parents would leave you alone—and he said they agreed!”

Will nodded. Ben had even written that Ma’am had agreed to Jenny’s terms. But he said Father ... Father had been
pigheaded
.

“They’ve double-crossed us,” said Will, grimly. “They think they can get you home
and
get me back.”

“Why would they do that?” Jenny said. “Why wouldn’t they keep their word?”

“I don’t know.” Will set his jaw and glanced at his wristwatch. It was not yet nine o’clock. There was still plenty of time. “But I know someone who might.”

Chapter Twelve

Harley Briar

E
LEVEN DAYS UNTIL THE FULL MOON

Dear Will:

I am in receipt of your urgent telegram dated 9:30
P.M.
, Sunday, December 4. And I’m sorry to say that I can’t shed much light on why there are people still looking for you, even after Jenny made that deal with her dad. It does indeed seem like a double-cross, as you wrote in your wire.

I am absolutely certain that Mother believes that all efforts to bring you home have ceased. She gave Mr. Hansen her word that she would comply with Jenny’s demands, and she wouldn’t break her word for anything. So if there are detectives still looking for you, I would lay money that they’re not working for our parents ... they’re working for our parent, singular.
Father.

Father has said he wants you back from Detroit, no matter what it takes. And you know how Father is when he gets a bone in his teeth.

I will see if I can find out anything more. Meanwhile, don’t worry. It’ll all come out all right. You’ll see.

Your brother always,

Ben

A
fter all the hard work they’d put in on Sunday, Will expected that Monday would be a particularly execrable specimen of its type. And indeed it was, as Grig was called into a private meeting with Mr. Tesla almost as soon as they’d arrived at Building Three, and didn’t return all that day.

Roher always took Grig’s absences as an opportunity to subject Will to torment and abuse. Will had sat on tacks no fewer than three times, found little doodles on his papers of stick figures being stabbed with stick daggers, and once he even discovered a “kick me” sign pinned to his back.

Probably the worst thing, though, was Roher’s chair. It squeaked. A high-pitched, grating squeak. And Roher, aware of this fact, made it his business to constantly rock back and forth with tiny little movements.
Squeak, squeak, squeak
—it was like Chinese water torture.

Having suffered through a morning of particularly intense mistreatment, and particularly prolonged squeaking, Will finally cornered Court after lunch. “So what’s the dirt you promised me on Roher?”

Court grinned as he pulled out one of his cigarettes. “You’re not letting the kraut get to you, are you?”

“If he calls me ‘Blockhead’ one more time I’m going to set fire to his desk,” Will vowed fiercely. “Which I don’t suppose
you’d
care about, except the whole building might go up in flames, including your pictures of Marie Curie, and I don’t think you want that.”

Court’s lazy smile disappeared. “Don’t you dare threaten Marie!” He gestured Will to lean in close.

“Roher’s got a
girl
,” he whispered. “Passes notes to her through the fence almost every day. She’s a cute little blonde number with braids. Wears them all pinned up on top of her head. I’ve seen the two of them canoodling through the iron bars, fingers entwined and all that. It’s like Romeo and Juliet.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t interested in sex, just physics.”

“I never said he
wasn’t
interested in sex,” Court said, as if he found the very idea preposterous. “Just that he was
more
interested in physics.”

“Fine. So what do I care if he has a girl?”

“You may not care, but Mr. Tesla sure would,” Court offered slyly. “You might just want to let Roher know that
you
know what everyone else around here knows—Grig included. Then maybe he’ll lay off you.”

Will pondered this, but said nothing more. And even when he went back to his desk that afternoon and found that each and every one of his steel pen nibs had been bent and blunted, he did not immediately act upon the information he had received. Instead, he just smiled to himself. Roher could just keep on playing his little games. For now. Because Will had learned something else from his father besides the value of a clean handkerchief—for an attack to be most devastating, it had to be delivered when the moment was right.

Afternoon stretched into evening. Grig remained closeted with Mr. Tesla, finally sending a message to Building Three that their conference would not be completed until well after midnight, and that the apprentices should retire. Which they did, in all haste, Roher singing a mocking “Good night, Blockhead!” as he’d strolled out. Will was left alone in the darkened Building Three to brood. Wasn’t this a fine state of affairs, he thought irritably. Stuck waiting to be walked the whole three blocks home. He thought idly about getting started on rebuilding his Flume, just so he could have something to do.

No, it was just too absurd. There was no way he was just going to sit here. Grig’s message had said the apprentices should retire. That could be taken to mean him, as well. Sure, it was a stretch to impute such a special dispensation to the brief text of the message—but it was a plausible excuse, and he could embroider it if need be. Snatching his coat, he left Building Three and headed for the front gate.

He emerged onto the street in front of the huge main gates feeling both triumphant and apprehensive. He looked up and down the street for private investigators in shiny suits. Having deemed the coast clear, he was just beginning to turn toward home when he caught sight of the young labor organizer standing on the corner. Will knew he wouldn’t get another chance to thank him for the good turn he’d done at the chop suey house—he certainly could never do it in front of Grig—so he quickly crossed the dark street to where the young man stood hunched and shivering, hands jammed deep in his pockets.

It was just 20 degrees out, but the young man had only a canvas overcoat, worn over several sweaters and a ragged muffler. As Will approached him, he was trying to light a hand-rolled cigarette with bare, trembling hands. Will remembered a packet of matches he’d picked up when he and Jenny were in Stockton. He’d grown accustomed to putting them in his pocket every day, along with whatever spare change he had, and his apartment key. Stopping in front of the man, Will fished in his pocket and handed the matches to him.