I find Henry sharing drinks at the bar with the cherub-faced gambler. Henry babbles and sways, noticeably in his cups.
“We have to go, Henry. Now.”
Drunk or not, Henry doesn’t hesitate. He tosses a coin at the bartender and follows me out the front door.
Once inside the relative safety of the carriage, he asks, “You talked to Hardwick, yes? Did something go wrong?”
My heart still feels like a drumbeat in my throat. “I’m not sure what happened. I . . . I’m not quite ready to talk about it.”
He doesn’t press, but he says, “I got some good information tonight. Let me know when you’re ready to hear it.”
“All right. Thanks.” I’m grateful to be left with my own thoughts as we ride back to the Charlotte.
We pull up, and the sight of the ship ought to give me great comfort, because Melancthon’s handiwork is beautiful. A new door greets us, framed by a small porch and two lanterns that cast warm, buttery light onto the stoop. But all the hominess just reminds me that I’m not home, that my real home was taken from me, and all our efforts to establish a new one depend on making sure Hardwick is no longer a threat.
Melancthon and a man I’ve never seen before are sitting on their heels, huddled in front of the door. As we exit the carriage, Melancthon rises and greets us with a wave.
“Just putting the final touches on this great big hole. How many keys do you want?”
The fellow with him stands, wiping his hands on something that looks a lot like Wilhelm’s blacksmith’s apron, but with a lot more pockets. “Name’s Adams,” he says. “Locksmith.” He’s tall and angular with a long, narrow nose and a meticulous black mustache.
“Nice to meet you Mr. Adams,” I reply. “How many keys can you make?”
“As many as you need, ma’am.”
“In that case . . .” I count companions in my head. “I need eight keys.”
His eyes widen slightly, but he says, “No trouble at all.”
Adams pulls a flat tray the size of a writing slate from a bag. From his pocket, he withdraws a large iron key. He presses the key into the tray; I peer closer and see it’s filled with milky wax.
When he lifts the key out, a perfect impression remains in the wax. Adams wipes the key on his apron and hands it to me. “This will have to do for now. I’ll deliver seven copies tomorrow.”
I look back and forth between the key in my hand and the wax tray in his.
Melancthon hands a few coins to the locksmith, who takes his leave. I stand back, admiring my new porch.
“Nice work, Jones,” Henry says, admiration in his voice.
“It’s beautiful,” I agree. “Thank you.”
Melancthon beams.
We step through the doorway, and voices echo up from the galley. Henry goes off to join them, but I’m not ready to be around anyone yet. I’ve learned too much today—about Mama, about Hardwick’s associate—and I need time for things to settle. So I head up to the deck and climb the stairs to the stern—the poop deck, as Olive and Andy inform me every single time.
My intention is to sit and gaze at the stars over the hilltops and pretend I’m someplace far away. But someone else has gotten there first, and I recognize his lanky, perfect shape even in the dark.
Suddenly, having company doesn’t seem so bad. I sit beside him, my back against the railing. The sky is covered with clouds, not a star to be seen.
After a while I reach over and squeeze his hand. He squeezes back. We sit in darkness holding hands, not saying a word. I find I don’t miss the stars at all; the hills of the city are covered with lights.
“I’m scared I’m doing the wrong thing,” I say finally.
“We could leave. Go anywhere.”
“Is that what you want?”
“No.” I’m relieved to hear him say it. He adds, “But as long as I’m with you, I’ll be right as rain, no matter where we go.”
“We can’t leave. You promised Becky you’d wear a plum-colored suit for our wedding in Glory,” I say.
Both of his warm hands fold around mine, and he pleads. “Please, please, let’s get out of here and run away before we have to do a big wedding. I already feel sick every time I look at a plum.”
I flash back to Helena Russell’s plum-colored eyes.
“Lee?”
I blink to clear the memory. “Becky will be so disappointed in us.”
“Becky lives to be disappointed in people. If we get out of her way, she’ll expand her horizons. She’ll find all sorts of new people to be disappointed in.”
I chuckle while Jefferson leans back against the railing. “You know, I think that baby girl is going to be full-grown before she gets a name,” I say.
“The Major’s been calling her Rosy, ’cause of her rosy cheeks. Becky caught him doing it the other day, and I thought she was going to rip off his other leg before she was done.”
“Jeff!” I say, but I’m laughing.
“I’m serious. She wants to control everything, so nothing can go wrong. She won’t even give that baby a name because she’s afraid it’ll be the wrong name.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s carefully considering his next words. “You can’t get so scared of doing the wrong thing that you don’t do anything at all.”
I let that sink in for a moment. Jefferson’s voice has changed. It’s deeper than it used to be. Warmer. A voice a girl can trust. “That’s not why I’m scared,” I tell him.
“Then what are you worried about?”
“Something happened tonight. When Henry and I followed Hardwick.”
“Tell me.”
And just like that, my heart starts pounding all over again.
“Lee?” His fingertip traces my left eyebrow.
I wanted to keep this to myself a little, hold tight to it, let it stew. It feels so monumental. So personal. But this is Jefferson. I can tell him anything. “It’s about Helena Russell, Hardwick’s associate. I think she knows what I can do.”
Jefferson sits straight up, his fingers leaving my face. “You mean, your witchy powers?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I explain what happened at the gambling parlor.
He rubs his chin with a hand, pondering my words, and it turns out it’s a relief to tell someone I trust, to share the burden of thinking with him. At last he says, “That thing about the eyes. More than a little bothersome.”
“Yeah.” I scoot closer so our thighs touch. He’s like my own personal woodstove, a shield against the cold night.
“You think she can find gold? The way you do?”
“No. Not exactly. I mean, she asked me how I did ‘that thing with the gold.’ If she could do it herself, she wouldn’t ask, right?”
“That makes sense.”
“But I do think she has . . . magic. Something miraculous and amazing that she can do. And Jeff, I have to tell you. I talked to Jim today.” It pours out of me, everything about Hiram and Mama and her ability to find lost things and how, one time, the lost thing she found was Jefferson.
Jeff is silent a long time. “So this kind of thing is passed down, generation to generation.”
“Maybe.”
“And Helena Russell can recognize it in someone else.”
“It’s possible.” A bit of wonder tinges my voice.
“Does that mean Hardwick knows about you?”
I force myself to consider this sensibly, without panicking. “He noticed my particular affinity for gathering wealth, for sure and certain,” I say. “But he always seems baffled by it. Maybe Helena knows but hasn’t told him for some reason.”
His arm drapes my shoulders again, and I lean into him. “So that’s why you’re so scared,” he says.
“We need to tell everyone. If Helena knows . . . things . . . it will be very hard to make a good plan.”
He’s silent a long time. “But maybe, also, it’s a little bit wonderful? It must be hard to hold those two things in your heart at the same time. Fear. Delight. All about the same darn thing.”
I can’t help it; I turn my face and kiss him hard on the lips. Because he understands without me having to say. I’m not the only girl with witchy powers. I’m not alone.