THE EXPOSITION
1904—St. Louis
Harte waited with Esta at the corner of Lindell and Plaza, across from one of the main entrances to the world’s fair. She hadn’t spoken to him all morning, but it wasn’t as though he had been willing to bring up what had happened between them the night before. They were both cowards, it seemed, but Harte didn’t miss the way she had been careful not to touch him, not even allowing her arm to brush against his as the streetcar carried them through the town.
Standing outside the gates and watching the steady stream of visitors, Harte began to realize just how large the world’s fair actually was. Lafayette Park, where the Exposition was being housed, stretched for miles in each direction. The scope of the event was astounding. In the distance, he could hear the roar of the crowds and the din of music coming from inside the gates, and every so often, the boom of a cannon or the sharp report of a gun echoed through the air.
“You need to relax,” Esta said, her voice finally breaking through his thoughts. “Looking like that, you’re going to draw attention.”
“Like what?” he asked, risking a glance at her. It was, of course, a mistake. Her eyes were alert and her cheeks pink with the excitement of the day—or maybe it was just the heat—and at the sight of her, something clenched inside of him, something that had nothing to do with the power that had been rumbling ever since he’d kissed her the night before.
“Like you’re about to attack someone,” she said, cutting him an unreadable look out of the corner of her eye.
“I do not look like—” But he saw a familiar face approaching. “He’s coming.”
Despite being more than twenty minutes late, Julien strutted over to them as though nothing were amiss. “You’re late,” Harte told Julien, reaching out to shake hands in greeting.
“Unavoidable,” Julien said with an affable shrug. But the expression in his eyes didn’t match the ease of his words.
When Julien took Harte’s hand in greeting, Harte thought briefly about using his affinity, just to be sure. But across the street, a troop of what was clearly the Jefferson Guard stood at attention near the gates. If Julien was right about them being able to sense magic, it wasn’t worth the risk.
Esta held out her hand as well. “Good to see you again, Jules,” she said, her voice pitched lower than usual.
“Well, well,” Julien said, taking the greeting in stride.
Harte let out a muttered curse. “This is madness,” he said. “There’s no way someone isn’t going to notice what she actually is.”
“No one’s going to be paying her any attention,” Julien said, nodding toward the entrance across the street. “Not with the wonders that await them within.”
“What wonders are those?” Esta asked, apparently enjoying herself. If she was mad about the night before, she hadn’t said anything. Which meant she was definitely mad about it, and eventually he would have to face the consequences.
Not that he blamed her. He’d taken advantage of her and then he’d walked out on her. He deserved whatever she meted out.
Julien tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and rocked on his heels. “In there? Only the largest and most impressive fair the world has ever seen,” he said. “Within those walls lie the evidence of our civilization’s brilliance and the wonders of the wide world—all the innovations and discoveries this age has to offer.”
“You can cut the drama any time now, Jules,” Harte said, bristling at the way Esta’s eyes were laughing at Julien’s words. She won’t even look at me. “All we want is the necklace. You said it was here?”
Julien shot Esta a conspiratorial look. “Patience, Darrigan.” Then he started across the street, leaving them to follow.
“He’s a little insufferable, isn’t he?” Esta asked, making sure to keep her voice low enough that Julien wouldn’t hear.
“More than a little,” Harte said dryly.
“But I still like him.”
Harte glanced at her. “Most people have that reaction. Try not to fall for it. Okay, Slim?”
“Slim?”
“Just trying it out,” he told her with a shrug. “I need something to call you if you’re going to insist on this getup.”
She glared at him, and he felt almost relieved. “Well, it’s not going to be Slim.”
It was the way her cheeks flushed that sealed the deal for him. “I don’t know,” he said, his mouth twitching. “I think the name’s already growing on me.”
She started to argue, but he simply picked up his pace to walk next to Julien, leaving her to catch up with them.
They paid their entry fees and followed the crush of people through the ornate arches that acted as gateways into the fair. The crowd around them moved slowly, in part because directly in front of them was a bandstand where a full brass band was playing a bouncing march. As the three of them pushed their way through the crowd that had gathered to listen, Esta pointed to the big bass drum painted with the band’s name.
“It’s Sousa?” Esta asked Julien.
The band’s conductor was dressed in military blue and his baton snapped out a pattern with almost mechanical precision to keep time for the music. Harte had heard of John Philip Sousa, of course—who hadn’t?—but he wondered what it was about the bandleader that put a look of such serious concentration on Esta’s face.
“I told you, they have the most famous performers, the most astounding displays from countries all over the world, and the most magnificent grounds ever built,” Julien said. “The Society wants this Exposition to put St. Louis on the map—make it as important as Chicago, maybe even as important as Manhattan.”
Esta glanced at Harte, and the look she gave him indicated that it wasn’t going to happen. But the moment their eyes met, her expression faltered.
Harte’s stomach sank as she turned away from him again. “I just want the necklace, Jules. Can we get to it?”
They had to push their way through the crowd around the bandstand. To their left, a tree-lined alley led deeper into the park, and Harte could see the sun glinting off a body of water. Julien continued to follow the path past administrative buildings and then onto an area with signage declaring it THE PIKE.
“Here we are,” he said, gesturing toward the brick-paved path before them.
The wide boulevard led into a kind of surreal fantasy world. At the entrance, mountains at least ten stories high dwarfed a small alpine village, which sprouted up next to the replica of a castle that could have come from the stories of King Arthur. As far as the eye could see, the street was lined with a jumble of buildings painted in colors too bright to be real. In the distance, Harte heard the echo of gunfire again.
“What is that?” Esta asked.
“Probably the reenactment of the Second Boer War they stage twice a day,” Julien said, checking his pocket watch. “Ah, yes. Nearly ten thirty, when the cavalry is usually set to attack.”
“The cavalry?” Harte asked, wondering where the hell they were.
“Actors, mostly, but some were actually in the real fighting.” Julien gave him a wink. “Welcome to the Pike. There’s nothing that’s ever been built like it. Here, you can take voyages anywhere in the world without ever leaving the city. You can travel to Hades or into the heavens. You can meet a geisha or ride to the North Pole and back. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“It’s something,” Harte said doubtfully as he studied the wide boulevard in front of him.
He’d dreamed his whole life of escaping the city, and now it seemed that he had an opportunity to do more than escape—he could be transported—but somehow none of it felt right. Harte had never been anywhere but the island of Manhattan, but he knew at a glance that nothing they were about to see was real. Every building was too brightly painted and too perfect. With the electric signs and lampposts—lit even though the sun was overhead—and the noise of the barkers, each shouting to entice the fairgoers into paying another twenty-five cents to experience some new wonder, the Pike had a carnivalesque feel to it that he knew meant it was a poor approximation of the real wonders the world held.
Actually, the exhibitions of the Pike felt a little like the dime museums in the Bowery. The popularity of those tawdry little storefronts had always made Harte uncomfortable with the way they paraded people as oddities, as nothing more than objects to be viewed for a couple of coins.
From the half-horrified look on Esta’s face, Harte could tell she must have felt the same.
The Pike was lined with strangest combination of buildings. A Japanese pagoda was the neighbor of a building meant to represent ancient Rome. A large man-made cavern with the words CLIFF DWELLERS stood butted up against a building that could have been something from St. Mark’s Square in Venice.
“Those aren’t actually Native Americans?” Esta asked Julien as they passed the Cliff Dwellers building and she noticed a pair of dark-haired women standing silently and offering beaded bracelets for sale.
“They’re Indians, if that’s what you mean,” Julien said, giving her a strange look. “What else would they be?”
“Actors?” she asked, but Harte couldn’t tell if it was hope or fear he heard in her tone.
“What would the point of that be?” Julien asked, and from the look of surprise on his face, he seemed legitimately confused.
“I don’t know,” Esta said vaguely. “Do they live here, on the grounds?”
“Who knows,” Julien said dismissively. “They seem happy enough, don’t they?”
But from the look on Esta’s face, Harte could tell that she wasn’t convinced. Her brows were furrowed, and there was concern—maybe even dismay—coloring her expression. “Do they force them to be here?” she asked.
“How should I know?” Julien said with a shrug. “But I’m sure they’re compensated.”
He didn’t care, Harte realized, because it wasn’t his problem. Julien had been born free to make his own choices, to pick his own paths—to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He couldn’t understand what it might be like to live a different life.
One of the women caught Harte’s eye and lifted her arm to offer him a bracelet. He shook his head in a gentle refusal, but not before he realized that Esta was right. Behind the placid expression the woman wore was something Harte recognized too easily—a frustration and disappointment with the world that she hadn’t been able to hide, at least not from him. Because he felt it too keenly himself.
He pulled out a couple of coins and traded them for one of the bracelets. The woman showed no sign of pleasure as she pocketed the money and selected an item for him. Not even bothering to look at the bracelet, he ran his thumb over the smooth beads as he tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat—a reminder that the world was wider than he had realized and there was no end to the troubles it contained.
The three of them made their way through the parade of grotesquely beautiful sights. The architecture might not be authentic, but it was still astounding. All along the brick-lined boulevard, average citizens mixed with people dressed in fanciful costumes. Whether they were authentic, Harte didn’t know, but the embroidery and beading and detail of each costume had a certain beauty nonetheless.
Music poured out of the buildings, the different styles blending and clashing with the noise of the street. The fair’s organizers had created a world where fantasies of far-off lands and exotic people could come to life for anyone willing to pay twenty-five cents. Maybe it wasn’t real, but Harte understood implicitly that veracity didn’t matter—to the fair or to the people who attended. Those who handed over their coins here were no different from the ones who had sat in the seats watching his act night after night. They didn’t want reality, with all its messy complications and unpleasant truths; they wanted the fantasy—the possibility of escape. And even Harte, who knew better, couldn’t help but be a little drawn in by the spectacle of it all.
“Here we are,” Julien said, when they arrived at an enormous archway emblazoned with the words THE STREETS OF CAIRO.
Beyond the opening, the street led through a veritable city of sand-colored buildings, all with Arabic flourishes—a series of arches and minarets accented the flat-sided buildings. Above, domed rooftops blocked out the blue summer sky, and in the streets, men dressed in flowing robes called out, advertising camel and donkey rides through the streets of the reproduced city. It was clearly supposed to be Egypt, but it was a fanciful, stylized version of Egypt that was meant for those who would never travel there.
“This had better have something to do with the necklace, Jules,” Harte told him.
“This is the Society’s special offering for the fair,” Julien told them, his voice barely audible above the noisy streets. “The centerpiece, from what I’ve been told, is a mystical artifact from the ancient world—a necklace with a stone that contains stars within it.”
“It’s here?” Esta asked.
“Not that it’ll do you any good,” Julien said. “The security is top-notch, and with the recent activity of the Antistasi, everyone is on high alert.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Harte said. “Let’s make sure it’s the necklace we’re looking for.”
Together they followed the maze of buildings past a makeshift bazaar, with stands selling reams of brightly woven material and small trinkets that looked like items that could have been taken from a pharaoh’s tomb. There was an enormous restaurant that spilled the scent of roasting meats and heady spices out into the streets, tempting the people who passed. Finally, in the deepest heart of the attraction, they came to a building carved to look as though it had come directly from ancient Egypt.
A large, deep portico was flanked with striped sandstone columns, each painted with something that looked like hieroglyphics. It reminded Harte of Khafre Hall, with its gilded flourishes and bright cerulean accents. From the way Esta had gone very still, as though every cell in her body had come alert, he figured she thought the same.
“Are you ready to take a trip down the Nile?” Julien asked.
But Harte didn’t have the patience for Julien’s games. The heat of the day was getting to him, making his head pound and his vision swim, and suddenly he couldn’t hear anything but a roaring in his mind.
The sun was high enough that the temple threw no shadow. It would be cool inside, welcoming and safe within the shade of its thick walls.
Just as quickly as the vision had submerged him in a different time and place, it drained away, leaving Harte’s ears ringing and a cold sweat coating his skin.
“Harte?” Esta was saying his name, and when he met her eyes, he saw the worry in them. It should have felt better than the indifference she’d shown him all day, but the vision had left him shaken.
Pull yourself together.
“I’m fine, Slim,” he told her with a wink.
Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “But you just—”
“Let it go,” he told her. Then he directed his attention to Julien, who was watching him with a serious expression. “Let’s get this done and see what we’re dealing with.”
Apparently, Julien wasn’t being overly dramatic—inside the building they found a line of people waiting to board actual boats that were shaped like long, flat-bottomed canoes with upturned ends, meant to look like boats that had once sailed down the Nile. When it was their turn to board, Julien slipped the line attendant a few coins and managed to get them a boat to themselves.
“After you,” he said to Esta, allowing her to step into the small craft first.
She took a bench in the middle, and Julien began to follow, but Harte grabbed his arm, to stop him.
“Youth before beauty,” he told Julien as he took the opportunity to slide into the seat next to her. He ignored the knowing smirk playing at Julien’s mouth and pretended that he didn’t notice Esta’s annoyance.
At the rear of the ship, an oarsman was dressed in a linen robe shot through with gold and the worst wig Harte had ever seen. The black coiled braids were ratty and matted, and they hung around the man’s lean face, framing bright blue eyes that had been ringed with kohl. It looked like his skin had been turned tan with makeup as well—it was too russet colored to be natural. He probably was supposed to look like an Egyptian painting come to life, but unlike Julien’s impersonation of a woman, the oarsman’s costume was a caricature. Like the white vaudeville performers who blackened their faces with burnt cork for minstrel numbers, it was a mockery of the very people it was trying to depict.
The oarsman remained silent as the boat started moving. Slowly and steadily, he pushed the craft away from the loading dock and down a narrow channel of unnaturally blue water. Next to Harte, Esta was straight-backed and alert, taking in everything as the boat approached a darkened tunnel.
“Here we go,” Julien murmured, tossing a mischievous look back to the two of them just as the boat glided into the tunnel.
The farther they went, the darker it became, until the boat was traveling through an artificial night, and the only noise was the soft lapping of the water as they moved onward.
“In the beginning there was only the sea, dark and infinite. . . .” The oarsman’s voice came to them, deep and overly dramatic. “This primeval sea was made only of chaos. . . .”
The oarsman’s voice fell silent again, leaving them to float along in the murky darkness, but Harte couldn’t relax—not with Esta so close and not with the power inside of him stirring in the darkness.
Though they were out of the heat of the midmorning sun, the attraction felt close and muggy, almost like breathing through a blanket of dampness. The air tasted of mold and dust, like it might in an ancient tomb. Harte wondered if that effect was intentional as he swallowed against the tightness that had risen in his throat and fought the urge to loosen his collar.
He didn’t need to see Esta to know how close she was, and neither did the voice inside of him. The darkness seemed to embolden it, and he struggled to ignore its echoing and unintelligible chorus, which was damn difficult when the oarsman was droning on about something behind him.
“The chaos was endless and it held no life until the waters split and the sun god Ra emerged to bring forth order and to create the world.”
Ahead, a pinpoint of light appeared, which seemed to grow as they approached, until their boat passed into another room. The next chamber was painted in gold so that, with the light reflecting off the domed surface, it looked as though they were within the sun itself. The voice retreated, just a little, but it was enough that he felt like he could breathe again. Next to him, Esta’s face was turned away. She was taking in the sights of the chamber they were passing through—or maybe she was still avoiding him, he couldn’t tell.
Harte regretted ever touching her, and yet he couldn’t regret it completely. Even now, even hours away from those stolen seconds when he could feel every inch of her body, strong and capable and soft beneath him, even in the bright, cleansing light of day, his lips still remembered the taste of her and his fingertips still held the memory of her skin’s heat. If all he ever had of her was that memory, he would gladly take it.
He couldn’t help but use the opportunity to study her: the graceful line of her neck where it met her shorn hair, the lips that were too pink and too soft to belong to any boy, and the shape of her legs—long and lithe and strong—outlined by the trousers she’d insisted on wearing. The oarsman was going on again, this time about the adventures of Ra and Osiris, Isis and Horus, and other deities Harte had learned of when he was preparing his old act, but he wasn’t listening. Not really. He knew these stories already—had learned them as part of his so-called training in the occult arts. Instead, he ignored the oarsman and let his mind replay the handful of minutes from the night before when his world had felt unmoored and dangerous and perfect all at once.
As if responding to the memory of it, the power inside of him seemed to rouse itself, swelling until Harte could barely hear the soft swish of the water, and the oarsman’s narrative was a sound coming from far off in the distance. Considering he hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours the night before—and in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, no less—it took every bit of his strength to press it back and keep it from growing. He was barely aware of the rooms they passed because his attention was focused on the power threatening to erupt within him. And on Esta, less than an arm’s reach away.
After the boat passed through the third chamber—one filled with a makeshift temple—they entered a chamber lined with shelves filled with different tablets and piles of rolled parchments. All at once the voice inside of him went quiet. But it wasn’t an easy quiet. The power that had been bunching and flexing within him seemed to fade until all he felt was a silent emptiness.