On the streets of Chinatown, drums thundered and firecrackers sizzled, exploding into pops of light. The Year of the Rabbit had begun. Neighbors crowded onto second-floor balconies. Children watched from fire escapes, eager to see the action below. The crowd was smaller this year; some people still feared the sleeping sickness, even though there’d been no new cases reported. Still, Mr. Levi had come with his grandchildren, who thrilled at the sight of the undulating lion dancers. And Mr. and Mrs. Russo, who ran the pastry shop on Mulberry, had also arrived with several cousins in tow. Everyone clapped and cheered, delighted by the spectacle and the food and the hope of the celebration—a new start was always welcome. Couples handed out red envelopes filled with money, eager for good luck to bless them. Ling tucked hers into her pocket. Later, she’d add it to her college fund. But now there was a banquet to serve. The Tea House was filled with hungry people eager to feast, and the smells of meat and fish, soup and noodles—the best of her father’s kitchen—made Ling’s stomach growl.

Behind the teak screen, Ling poured tea and placed two plates of oranges and a moon cake on the table: one to honor George, the other Wai-Mae.

“Happy New Year,” she whispered.

Jericho dripped with sweat as he drove himself through his daily physical regimen. He collapsed on the floor. Three hundred push-ups. Two hundred pull-ups. His arms didn’t even shake. He made a fist. It was no trouble at all. Silently, he slid open the drawer and took out the leather pouch stashed there beneath his undershirts. The ten empty vials clinked as he unwrapped the strings. Carefully, he removed the stopper in the smaller vial Marlowe had given him, drinking down an ounce of blue serum, enough for the week. Three ounces left. He dropped to the floor and started again.

Evie stepped from a taxi and rushed toward the monolithic WGI building. Her hand was on the door when she heard, from behind, “Look! It’s her!” A trio of excited girls huddled together, pointing and whispering.

Here we go, Evie thought. She braced herself as the girls surged forward, then grew befuddled as they ran right past her. She stepped out onto the street to see where they’d gone. The girls had stopped halfway down the block, where they surrounded Sarah Snow.

“We just adore you, Miss Snow,” one of the girls chirped.

Sarah beamed. “Bless you all,” she said and signed their autograph books.

Henry walked into the Huffstadler Publishing Company wearing a new jacket and holding tightly to the sliver of jade Ling had given him with a curt “Don’t lose this.”

Behind his desk, David Cohn greeted Henry with a raised eyebrow. “Back for more abuse?”

“I hope not. I wanted to leave my card in case you hear of somebody looking for a rehearsal pianist. I quit the Follies.”

“That was either very brave or very dumb. Let’s go with brave,” David said.

From behind Huffstadler’s closed office door, they could hear the publisher berating the Amazing Reynaldo—“What kind of two-bit Diviner can’t even let a man with a mistress know that his wife is on the way up?”

Henry and David both grinned.

“Well, thank you,” Henry said, tipping his boater.

“Say, Mr. DuBois. I know of a place that sometimes needs piano players. It’s a club down in the Village, the Dandy Gentleman.” David gave Henry a meaningful look. “You know it?”

Henry nodded. “I do. Swell place for a certain kind of fella.”

“Are you a certain kind of fella?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“A certain kind of fella. There’s a show there tonight, starting around eleven thirty.”

“What a coincidence.” Henry smiled. “It’s possible I might be there around eleven thirty tonight.”

As Henry bounded down the steps, the first few bars of a song began to take shape in his head. “A certain kind of fella…” he sang, and flicked the jade like a coin, catching it cleanly again and again, feeling like a man whose luck was turning for the good.

Sam grabbed the day’s mail at the museum, grimacing at the scary-looking notice from the New York State Office of Taxation. He stopped when he came to the envelope addressed to Sam Lloyd—no return address, no name, no stamp. Sam found a letter opener and slit through the envelope’s top. An article from the morning’s paper fluttered out. It was a brief notice about a man who’d been found under a small hill of powdery coal waste out at the Corona Ash Dump along the Flushing River. The man, who had been strangled, had nothing on him except for a receipt from a radio shop on Cortlandt Street and a motor vehicle operator’s license for one Mr. Ben Arnold.

Mabel found herself without an umbrella as the rain came down, so she ducked into a basement bookseller’s on Bleecker Street and shook the rain from her arms just as someone else barreled through the front door, hitting her in the back with the doorknob.

“Gee, I’m awfully sorry if I… why, if it isn’t Mabel Rose!” The man removed his cap and stuck out his hand, pumping hers in a firm handshake. “Remember me? Arthur Brown? Golly, but you’re soaked. Heya, Mr. Jenkins!” Arthur called to a small, portly man in a vest reading a book behind the cash register. “Any chance of a towel for my friend?”

Mr. Jenkins offered Mabel a thin dishtowel and she blotted it against her face and hair, trying to preserve what was left of the wash-and-set she’d gotten at the beauty parlor the day before. It was a lost cause, but she had been trained to take on lost causes.

“The others are upstairs, Arthur,” Mr. Jenkins said, taking back the towel. “I let them in.” Mr. Jenkins suddenly looked nervous. “I hope that was all right.”

Arthur nodded. “It’s jake. I’m late.”

“Late for what?” Mabel asked.

Arthur seemed to be weighing his response, and Mabel was afraid she’d been rude. Arthur glanced toward the drapes at the rear of the shop and back to Mabel. He offered his arm. “Would you like to find out?”

As Memphis rounded the corner of Lenox and 135th Street, the crow found him, keeping pace as it fluttered from newel post to street lamp. Memphis sighed. “Good to see you again, Berenice.”

“That bird’s got something to say to you.” Madame Seraphina, the second-most powerful banker in Harlem and the most powerful mambo, stood in the doorway of her Obeah shop, tucked under the stoop of a brownstone. “Birds are messengers from the land of the dead.”

“That’s what my mother used to say.”

Seraphina pointed a long, graceful finger. “There’s a weight on you. I can see it. Come. Let me help you.”

“No weight on me, ma’am. I don’t wear worry,” Memphis said, tipping his hat and turning away.

“Stay your feet!” Seraphina commanded. “Kijan ou rele?”

“Pardon?”

“What is your name?” she said slowly.

Unease twisted in Memphis’s gut. He’d heard mambos could fashion a curse using any bit of personal information, even something as innocent as a name.

“It’s Memphis,” he answered after a pause. “Memphis Campbell.”

“Yes. I already know who you are, Mr. Campbell.” Madame Seraphina raised her chin, appraising him. “The Harlem Healer. The Boy Wonder. Not a boy anymore. You Haitian?”

“On my mother’s side.”

“But you don’t speak Creole?”

“Not much.”

“It’s important to know where you come from, Young Oungan,” she clucked. “Come. Let me talk to the lwas for you.”

“I’m late to meet Papa Charles,” Memphis lied.

Madame Seraphina’s lips curled into an easy smile that didn’t match the flintiness of her eyes. “Papa Charles is sleepy. If he doesn’t wake soon, the white man will come in and take all that he has built. Rabbits in the garden,” she said, and Memphis didn’t know what she meant.

“I just run the numbers.”

“You just run the numbers,” she mocked and took a sucking breath in through her teeth. “You grew up handsome, I see,” she said, laughing at Memphis’s embarrassment. Then: “I bet you miss your manman. She came to see me once before she passed.”

Memphis’s head shot up. He’d have to be crazy to take on a real Haitian mambo, but he’d had enough taunting. “Don’t talk about my mother. You didn’t know her.”

Madame Seraphina’s shoulders moved just slightly, as if she could barely be bothered to shrug. “There is a weight on your soul. I know. I can see.” Her smile was gone. “Come and let me help you while I can.”

But Memphis was already backing away.

“You’ll come to me one day,” Madame Seraphina called after Memphis as the crow squawked and squawked.

The New Amsterdam Theatre dressing room was a delightful chaos of feathers, sequins, and half-dressed Follies girls pressed close to the mirrors, mouths open in awkward positions as they glued an eyelash into place or lined their peepers with kohl.

When Theta arrived, she found a single red rose on her dressing table. Smiling, she inhaled its spicy sweetness. “Is this for me?”

“Yeah. Special delivery. Oh, you owe me fifty cents. I tipped the boy for you.”

“Thanks, Gloria,” Theta said, handing over the change. Had Memphis sent it? “Where’s the card?”

“Huh. There was one,” Gloria said. “There it is! It fell on the floor.”

Theta spied the small envelope under the makeup table. She picked it up. Miss Theta Knight, it read in neat, curlicued script.

“Who’s your fancy man?” Sally Mae teased. There was a stripe of mean in it.

“Your boyfriend,” Theta shot back, making the other girls laugh.

Theta bit her lip to try to hide her smile as she slid the small card from its cream-colored envelope. In the next second, she uttered a cry.

“Theta? Whatsa matter, honey?” Gloria asked. They were all looking at her.

“Who left this?” Theta whispered.

“I told you, a delivery boy. Kid barely out of short pants. Why?”

Theta didn’t hear the end of it. Nearly upending a stagehand wheeling a rack of Follies finery, she bolted down the hall and burst through the stage door, where her breath escaped in staccato puffs in the icy cold. To her left, cars ambled down the street. To her right was the empty alley. No sign of a delivery boy. The buildings dwarfed her but offered no protection. She felt small and alone. Her hands grew hot. She plunged them into the puddle of rainwater atop a garbage can, melting a bit of the metal.

There had been only four words on the card.

Four words that could tear it all down.

Four words that terrified her.

For Betty—found you.