HERDSMAN

2

AS THE NIGHT CREPT UP on them, they left toward home. At the street corner, Hetty turned right instead of left. Benjy turned with her, although he was not quick to follow.

“I want to pay Penelope a visit,” Hetty said. “Let her know what happened with the girl. You can wait downstairs. I won’t be long.”

“I think I hear thunder.” Benjy cupped his ear. “It’s very distant, but it’s there.”

“I won’t be long,” Hetty repeated.

He scoffed and started naming all the times she said this before.

Benjy had listed a dozen examples by the time they arrived at the house, and if the day hadn’t been such an eventful one, she might have considered prolonging her stay just to be petty.

It was a cool spring evening without a chance of rain. She could leave him waiting for half a night and not feel guilty, especially considering he would wait for her. He always did.

The windows of the schoolroom that took up the ground floor of the building were dark. But the second level was quite the opposite. Even before Hetty reached the top of the stairs, she heard muffled laughter, and voices that threatened to spill out into the hallway.

This apartment belonged to Darlene and George, and while lights flickering in the windows were expected, such rambunctious noise was not.

“Are they having a party?” Benjy asked.

Benjy stood a few steps below her, curiosity drawing him near despite his greater reservations.

“I would have heard,” Hetty said, though she couldn’t be sure.

Darlene and her husband, George, taught letters and numbers in the schoolroom below. Daylight hours were for the fifteen children that attended regularly, but two evening classes for adults met each week. Devoted educators, the couple lived very simply, forgoing most pleasures in their private lives. However, to help raise the prestige of their little school, they had gotten themselves wrapped up with the rich elite—people who enjoyed fine dining, gossip, and filling their homes with trinkets that could have fed a family of four for a month. While Darlene claimed the rich elite of the city were a trial to contend with, she made no effort to curtail George’s ambitions.

“Why don’t we ask Penelope together?” Hetty suggested. “Or you can ask, since you’re curious.”

It was too dark to fully make out his expression, but she smiled anyway, imagining the displeasure on his face, since he had stumbled into a trap of his making.

The stairs went up for one more level to Penelope’s apartment. She lived in a small set of rooms filled with plants on every possible surface and space. The fewest number was in the kitchen, where a dozen plants were spread across the windowsill and the counters, waiting to be used in a potion or poultice. The air always held traces of freshly cut leaves, and there was always a half dozen herb bundles suspended over the sink by a wire, drying for some later use.

Although Penelope rented from Darlene, she paid no money, and instead taught music lessons or performed small favors.

Hetty knocked once and heard the slight tinkle of mugs. She knocked a second time and heard chairs move. On her third knock, the door swung open.

“Hetty!” Penelope pulled the door open wider, urging her to come inside. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon! It’s just you, isn’t it? No one behind you causing trouble?”

“No one,” Hetty replied. “Except for my husband.”

“Benjy’s here?” Penelope called out to the shadows with a broad grin. “Well, he can stay outside and out of the way!”

Despite being her opposite in most things, Penelope was Hetty’s closest and dearest friend. While Benjy was willing to entertain her complaints, gripes, and fears—not to mention numerous other ills—he lacked a certain sensitivity about certain matters. In Penelope, Hetty had a listening ear, a companion to perform hijinks with, and someone who took her blunt words without insult or annoyance.

Penelope had thought herself alone in the world, until her mother’s sister found her through the theft of records from a burned-down sugar cane plantation. With five children of her own—three married with families—adding Penelope into the mix was no trouble. But while Penelope loved her newfound relatives, she chose to live apart for reasons she never quite explained. Skilled with herbs and brewing magic, she worked at the best herbalist shop in town, providing remedies and charms alike. While she took pride in this work, her true passion was singing. Penelope lent her voice to contests and traveling shows, and she ran the choir at church as a labor of love. If she could make a living off her voice, Hetty had no doubts Penelope would drop every­thing to try.

“Did you find Elle?” Penelope asked.

“Yes, she’s back with her mother. This”—Hetty held up the candle—“is our reward.”

“I knew you’d find her!” Penelope clasped her hands together. “I was so worried. I keep seeing her talking to that man after practice. I should have done something when I saw him pull her out of sight. I just stood there and watched.”

“You did do something,” Hetty assured her friend. “You told us and set us searching. What you call nothing meant Elle and the others lured away would not be sent to have their magic harvested.”

“Magic harvesting?” cried a voice from inside. “That can’t be going on!”

“Darlene,” Hetty said, spying the other woman seated at Penelope’s table. “What are you doing up here?”

Darlene’s appearance on its own wasn’t strange. Penelope’s large round table was the place they gathered to gossip and discuss various matters in and around town. But Darlene should have been in her own apartment given what Hetty had seen as she came upstairs.

Instead, Darlene sat hunched over her sketchbook, gently rocking a basket with her foot to keep the little baby swaddled inside in the arms of sleep. Her glasses slipped off her nose, and as usual there was a smudge of charcoal along the right side of her face, like a beauty mark against her skin. Reserved and quietly elegant, Darlene was often the voice of reason in their little trio.

Together her friends presented an interesting contrast, vividly expressed in their attire. Penelope favored bold colors, pumpkin orange, canary yellow, and even rose pink, all paired with frothy lace and ribbons. On anyone else it would have been overwhelming but with Penelope’s fuller figure and flair for dramatics it all suited her rather nicely. Darlene, on the other hand, stayed with earthy brown and maroon and was quite keen on buttons. Buttons on her sleeves, to be precise, to keep the fabric from ruining whatever painting she was working on.

All their dresses were made by Hetty. While a few times she was bribed to make something, like the butterfly-themed dress Penelope had wanted for one Easter Sunday, Hetty took on the work without much fuss and without asking for payment. Her dresses were worn by some of the richest people in the city, but her greatest pleasure was working away on a new dress for her friends.

“We’re just having a bit of a chat.” Darlene’s lips pressed into a thin line. “What’s this about magic harvesting?”

“Nothing to worry about.” Hetty handed the candle to Penelope and slipped inside the cheery kitchen.

Something had driven Darlene up here. It didn’t look to be the baby. Since she had adopted the child last month, Darlene took every sniffle, cough, or sneeze as a precursor to doom. With Penelope’s proximity and talents with healing remedies, she was the first stop for Darlene’s frantic queries.

But instead of worry, irritation creased Darlene’s face.

Whatever brought her up here?

“Magic harvesting sounds like a great deal to worry about,” Darlene replied. “Given it’s not herbs.”

“Don’t mind her. When we don’t know why people suddenly vanish, she calls it magic harvesting.” Benjy moved out of the shadows. He didn’t come inside but leaned against the door frame. “Don’t understand why.”

“Because that’s how it was back in slavery times.” Hetty kept her voice earnest. “Magic users were snatched up so their bones could be ground up into wands.”

“That’s only a story,” Darlene said, but her eyes flicked around. “Isn’t it?”

“The stories have to come from somewhere.” Hetty took a seat across from Darlene. “Why do you think”—she tapped her thumb against her neck and at the scars hidden from sight— “we were collared?”

Hetty had her for a moment, like she knew she would. Darlene was the most imaginative of her friends, which meant with the right story Darlene was easily tricked, especially when Hetty weaved in bits that were true. People did disappear suddenly and without reason, but magic harvesting wasn’t likely the cause—or even a true practice.

Darlene shook her head, breaking the power of Hetty’s words. “Now I know you’re telling tales again. Why do you persist on making up stories like this? Wands are just made of wood—they aren’t rubbed with bone dust!”

“I never said anything like that,” Hetty teased.

“I don’t know anything about wands,” Penelope admitted, too lost in her thoughts to pay attention to either of them. She turned the inky black candle over in her hands as she leaned against her counter. “But it’s no worse than what I feared might have happened to Elle.”

“You must have an idea why they snatched her,” Darlene said, jumping to turn the tide of the conversation, “or why they were doing such a thing?”

“We don’t know yet, but we’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Hetty reached for Darlene’s sketchbook. “May I?”

Darlene nodded, pushing the book across the table. Hetty turned to an empty page and drew a horseshoe.

“These men all had the same mark on their hands. It’s worth keeping an eye on.”

Darlene looked away. “I told you, the past is behind me.”

“You know people,” Hetty persisted, “and some of them aren’t fond of me.”

“With good reason.” Darlene attempted a smile. “I’m sorry.”

So was Hetty.

Freed at a very young age, Darlene had been an agent with the Vigilance Society, acting as a point of contact in the city. When Hetty got involved with conductor work, Darlene familiarized her with the procedures of the organization and provided assistance beyond the city’s limits. With slavery abolished, others in the Vigilance Society turned their hands toward making freedom more than just words on a piece of paper, but Darlene retreated from the work. She had reasons for it, some of them good, but to Hetty’s ears they sounded like excuses.

“Don’t be sorry.” Benjy’s words drifted in, paired with a pointed look at Hetty. “This is a task for us to handle.”

Taking the hint, Hetty pushed the sketchbook back to Darlene.

“That’s all I came for and—”

“Stay for a bit,” Penelope pleaded. “It’s not that late.”

From his spot in the doorway, Benjy shook his head. “What should I do while you chatter on?”

“You can go downstairs,” Darlene huffed. “Plenty to keep you occupied.”

His curiosity about the excitement in the apartment below was greater than Hetty had anticipated. Eager as he was to go home, Benjy slipped inside instead, joining them in the kitchen.

“What is going on downstairs?” he asked.

“George is hosting a group of people from this political club he joined, E.C. Degray.” Darlene turned a page in her sketchbook, the paper snapping with the action. “There’s an excursion later this week across the river. They’re finalizing details now, or so they claim.”

“E.C. Degray?” Hetty echoed. “Is this another one of those secret societies?”

“I couldn’t tell you. George keeps shying away from giving me a direct answer. I can certainly guess what they’re about, but I like to be told things!”

Hetty nodded along but hid a bit of a smile. She did not have this problem. Her marriage to Benjy hadn’t been a love match, but theirs was an agreement that suited them rather well. She often thought their understanding made a stronger marriage. Hetty had seen the pain love matches caused in both the past and the present. She was glad to be spared it.

“I suppose it’s about voting.” Darlene tapped her pencil against the table. “But isn’t it too early to be talking about elections? October is so far away.”

“It’s good to know who our husbands will be voting for,” Hetty said. “Benjy, what do you think?”

“It’s too soon to tell,” he murmured as he sat down, drawing up a chair next to Hetty.

“About the candidates?”

“About this club. Charlie waxed on about it the other day but didn’t tell me anything of value.”

“You should join.” Penelope placed mugs in front of them. Swirling steam lifted fresh mint into the air. “You’ll bring sense into that group. I heard from my cousin Sy that there’s talk of recommending people for public office. He didn’t like some of the names being suggested, but thought you’d do a good job. Is that not a good idea? You were saying that there were many things you wanted to fix.”

“I don’t disagree there,” Benjy replied. “But the job does not suit me.”

“Surely better than Charlie,” Darlene grumbled. “He shouldn’t be in a position to make decisions about anything more important than the cut of his coat!”

Penelope laughed at this, although with a hesitation that Hetty shared. Charlie, the husband of one of their friends, fretted about the cut and style of his clothes so much that they’d taken to calling him Peacock—until he learned about it and took all the fun out of a good joke. But even before the joke was ruined, Darlene never used it. It was unbecoming and rude, she said, with a stiffly held chin that didn’t waver despite their insisting it was harmless fun. How odd for her to say different now.

“Do you think George would be better suited?” Penelope asked.

“Me? The wife of some politician!” Darlene exclaimed. “Who do you think I am? I’m not—”

Darlene’s words stuttered to a halt. Her face filled with a panic Hetty had seen quite often in the months since that last disastrous tea party with Marianne last winter.

“Marianne,” Hetty supplied. “She’s downstairs, isn’t she?”

It was as if she’d spat out a hex into the room. Penelope and Darlene both drew back, and Benjy shot Hetty a look filled with more concern than when they’d concocted the plan to strike at the kidnappers.

That look stung the most.

Hetty nursed less than kind feelings for Marianne these days, but if they were expecting her to storm down there and turn Marianne into a frog, they were wrong. Such magic wasn’t possible.

“Darlene,” Benjy said in the silence that fell in the room, “do you know if anyone by the name of Randall is down there? George told me the fellow had a job for me, but we couldn’t find the time to meet.”

This was a lie. Made worse by the excessive details. And Darlene snatched it up eagerly.

“I don’t know.” Darlene reached down and pulled out the bundle that was her baby. “Why don’t we go find out?”

With her daughter cradled in her arms, Darlene led Benjy out of Penelope’s apartment, presumably in an effort to keep Marianne away from Hetty.

“Not going with them?” Hetty asked, as the door slammed shut. “Or are you here to keep me out of trouble?”

Penelope settled into Darlene’s empty chair. “We all have our tasks to play in this world. Although, this is the perfect time to show you what I found. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Penelope waved a hand. The Arrow star sigil whipped past and struck a cabinet drawer. Under Penelope’s guidance, a squat green vial floated across the room and landed on the table.

Hetty recoiled at the sight.

The last time she saw a vial like this, she’d had to break the fingers of a dead woman to pry it free.

Hetty picked it up. The more she studied it, the more she had to stop herself from smashing the bottle onto the table.

“Where did you get this?”

“A customer at work showed it to me.” Penelope’s mouth curled into a wry smile. “Wanted to know if we had something similar on our shelves. It was lucky she showed it to me. Miss Linda would have lost her temper. We got enough trouble without charlatans cutting up our trade. It’s the same kind, isn’t it?”

“It’s the same.”

Penelope expelled a breath. “How dreadful.”

Dreadful was not a big enough word. People sold the moon and the tides as far back as anyone could remember, winking and laughing as they cheated people out of their hard-earned money. Doing it with brewed magic was just the latest variation.

But brewed magic was a finicky beast. It required patience, time, and access to ingredients and tools that often proved hard to gather. Penelope worked at a herbal shop that provided such things, but she often lost customers due to frauds offering cheap remedies and faulty herbs. These swindlers sold potions and brews to straighten hair, lighten skin, even to make a womb comfortable for a child. However, as with most claims, the small promises delivered but the big ones didn’t.

With a heart full of hope, a woman named Emily Wells had drunk an entire vial of a potion just like the one Hetty held. It brought the woman to death’s arms. It was a simple case, the culprit easily found. But solving the mystery was not enough for Hetty. The death was an accident, but Emily Wells would have not died if her mother, her husband, and even her friends didn’t pressure her to have a baby her body could not carry.

But that wasn’t the only reason Penelope showed this to Hetty now.

Darlene had nearly been the next victim. Darlene had been trying for ages to have a baby. No miscarriages, thank the stars, but no luck. In fact, a twin of this very same bottle was in Darlene’s pocket when one of her students approached her after class. The girl had a hand pressed on her heavily pregnant belly and asked if Darlene would like to raise a baby that would otherwise be unwanted.

The simple act saved the lives of the young student, the baby that would become Lorene, and Darlene.

“I know where this con artist is,” Hetty said. “She promised to stop, but she must have forgotten.”

“Must have,” Penelope echoed. “What do you plan to do? Remind her of that promise?”

“And a bit more.”

Worry crossed Penelope’s face. “This is why Darlene and Benjy rushed to usher Marianne out the house. You say things like this and we all wonder what will happen next.”

“Why always bad things?” Hetty laughed as she tucked the vial away.

“Don’t you know five different stories about preparing for the worst?”

“What’s the worst in this case? There’s nine stories I can tell, and one has a good ending.” Hetty stood, heading for the door. “I’m off to collect my husband. If I do happen to meet Marianne, I apologize for any smoke.”

“That’s not funny, Henrietta!” Penelope called after her, her voice carrying even through the closed door.

Still chuckling, Hetty headed back down the stairs. She had just placed her hand on the doorknob to Darlene’s apartment when she heard someone call her name.

It wasn’t Penelope or anyone she wanted to have her name on their lips.

“Henrietta,” said Charlie Richardson. “I need to talk to you.”

“You may talk.” Hetty swung around to face Marianne’s husband. “That doesn’t mean I’ll listen.”

Faint light illuminated his surprise. “You’re still mad about the dresses?”

“I am mad you took what was meant to be a gift and sold it to others! Maybe it’s my fault for thinking gifts could bridge a peace between Marianne and me, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t wrong!”

“Your work is worth the price I charged. Did you want to be paid?” Charlie reached into his pocket. “I can get you the money and more if you like. Name a figure.”

She paused, taken aback by this generosity. “Any figure?”

“Any.”

Hetty’s answer was on her lips when she saw the gleam in his eyes. He’d tossed bait at her feet, and she’d nearly taken it like a fool.

“No. No money. No listening to a word you have to say.”

Charlie grabbed her arm.

“You must! It’s important. At the elm—”

Hetty coolly meet his gaze and held it until Charlie wisely removed his offending hand.

“Please,” he begged. “You must listen.”

The words were a rasp from the back of his throat, raw and stripped of his usual airs and whimsy.

The man who said these words wasn’t Charlie Richardson, the peacock with eyes toward the next bright shiny thing. The man stooping to beg his case was a Charlie in a raggedy coat and split shoes, with eyes darting to shadows.

Charlie sought her out for trouble he couldn’t handle. But if it was truly dire, he wouldn’t waste time talking to her—he’d go to Benjy. Talking to her was a delay. Unless of course that was the point. She was here to field his request, since he seemed to think Benjy wouldn’t even consider it.

“Can I do something about it right now?” Hetty asked.

“No, but—”

“Then it can wait.” She opened the door. “Tell us together. It’s the better choice.”

“Only choice, you mean.”

“Why, yes.” Hetty paused in the threshold, letting conversation in the next room wash over them. Beams of light striped his face into patches of light and shadow. “Did you think you would get special treatment?”

He didn’t have an answer, or if he did, hadn’t found the right words when she shut the door behind her.

Hetty spotted Marianne right away.

It was hard not to. Marianne was resplendent. She stood in a crimson dress from Lord and Crown. The bright color and the overly complicated waste of fabric was a stark contrast to the dark suits of the men and their wives clustered around her.

Of the group of friends Hetty had formed over the years, Marianne was the only one that did not talk about the days when she had been enslaved, skipping over that chunk of time as if nothing mattered before she arrived in Philadelphia. Darlene claimed it was because of painful memories, but Hetty knew it was tied to Marianne’s ascent into the insular upper class of the city.

Wielding the gifts she was born with, Marianne used her golden-brown complexion, dainty features, and softly curling hair to fit right in with the elite of the city. What she was aiming for was hard to tell. At first Hetty assumed it was a better life, but these days Hetty wondered if it was to forget the past. If that was true, Marianne was doing an astonishingly good job of it.

As Marianne held court, Darlene tiptoed about with a pitcher held in her hands. She weaved through the crowd, refilling drinks, ignored by all until Marianne snapped her fingers. Marianne’s glass floated in the air, all but shoving itself into Darlene’s face. Marianne said something Hetty didn’t hear, but she could guess the gist of the words in the way Darlene’s polite expression curdled into contempt.

But Darlene was a better person than Hetty. Instead of tossing the drink at Marianne, she returned to the kitchen. Darlene paused at the door, and when she looked back her eyes locked on Hetty.

Don’t, Darlene mouthed. With her chin, she pointed in the direction to Hetty’s right, and then disappeared through the door.

When Hetty turned, she could see why Darlene felt confident to leave Hetty in close quarters with Marianne. Benjy was across the room.

Like Marianne, he too stood apart from the crowd around him, due to his rough and muddied attire. He seemed perfectly at ease despite being locked in a conversation with Darlene’s husband, George.

While Charlie had climbed up into society with a skip and jump, George had clawed his way upward inch by inch, enduring taunts and gentle rebukes from all sides. He had fought with the 43rd regiment, witnessing everything from the horrors of the Battle of the Crater to the surrender at Appomattox. George’s experience during the war, as well as his classical education, inspired him to do something great in the world. The classroom that sat below this apartment was the fruit of that inspiration, and his motivation to force himself into the high society world that wasn’t all too welcoming.

“I’m not surprised to see you,” George declared heartily as Hetty approached. “Everyone,” he slurred, “this is Benjamin’s lovely wife, Henrietta. She’s going to be a teacher at my school.”

“I think someone told you a lie.” Hetty eyed George’s flushed face, unsure what brought these words about.

“Why not?” George said. “You know your letters and numbers, and your stories charm children. You’re good with people.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hetty said as the men around them chuckled. “I’m not teaching anyone anything.”

“Not even magic lessons?”

There was a small outcry at that. Even Benjy’s eyebrows lifted. George’s opinions on magic ran pragmatic and practical—the old mindset that came from the plantations. Back in the old days, magic was a handful of star sigils to till the land, to aid in picking the cash crop of choice or sweeping nettles out of the way. In George’s view, there was no room for inventive or cleverly done spell-work. For him to even float the idea meant one of two things. He was either desperate for teachers, or drunk.

Hetty leaned toward the latter.

“She’s exceptionally good with magic.” George spun around to the crowd, waving a hand about. “Every story you heard about these two, they’re all true!”

When he didn’t get the response he expected, George blathered on. “You haven’t heard of them? Have none of you heard? Benjamin and Henrietta Rhodes worked as conductors for the Vigilance Society when it was still up and running. You know of Joseph Mills or Della Reynolds? These two brought them up north, and a slew of others. Some that are even in this room right now!”

Eyes went to Hetty and Benjy, but as always, greater doubt swung back around to her.

“Tell them about the barn,” George pressed, staring into Hetty’s general direction. “And the dozen white folks you had to shoot. Or the boat you stole. Or even the cat that saved your skins. To think—all these adventures happened because Henrietta went looking for her sister!”

“Is your sister as pretty as you?” one of the men called.

“That’s a story for another day.”

Hetty forced out a laugh she nearly choked on. She needed to leave this room; she needed to leave now. In moments, they would ask the question people asked when learning of this sliver of her past. And she was in no mood to spin a pleasing lie.

Hetty pushed her way through the group. Benjy followed close behind, whispering what he thought were consoling words.

“Don’t mind him, he was drunk.”

“Anyone could guess that.” Hetty stomped down the stairs, welcoming the rush of cool air against her face. “With him acting as if I was going to be one of his teachers! What was he thinking getting that deep into his cups! Can’t imagine it makes him a good host.”

“George always has some at gatherings like this,” Benjy said. “Thinks it makes people like him. I’m not sure if he does it due to experience or Richardson putting the thought in his ear.”

The mention of Charlie made Hetty forget all about George, as she recalled her earlier conversation.

As they headed down the street, Hetty glanced up at the dimly lit streetlamps over their heads and considered her next words.

“Did you see Charlie earlier?”

“I got a glimpse.” There was a long pause. “Why do you ask?”

“Charlie twisted my ear with a tale of trouble. Said it was important and seemed to think you wouldn’t listen to his ramblings.”

“That’s one thing he’s right about.” Benjy’s words were quiet, but they snapped and crackled in the air with an anger that couldn’t find its target. “Is someone in danger?”

“He didn’t say.” Hetty kept her words light and airy, but underneath her curiosity stirred.

Her falling-out with Marianne had been looming on the horizon for some time, but Benjy and Charlie met regularly to play cards. Or at least she thought they did.

“Then he was right,” Benjy said. “I won’t listen to him.”

“What if I convince you otherwise?”

“If you cared about what he had to say, we’d already be talking to him.”

“I didn’t, but now that I know you’re against it, I do.”

“Not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Hetty echoed, not wishing to wage a battle when she didn’t care about the outcome. There would be plenty of other chances to talk with Charlie.

After all, Charlie never gave up without a fight.