3

AT FIRST, HETTY HAD IGNORED the whispers around the lone attic window. The trio of young women situated there always managed to find an excuse to stop the work on their dresses, especially on late Saturday afternoons. But the longer they lingered, the more curious she became.

The window overlooked an alley, where passersby—unaware they were being watched—would engage in all manner of activities. Innocent actions attracted little attention. A bit of kissing between a couple half hidden in the shadows brought about giggles. But whispers came around only when there was something interesting sitting out there for some time. Usually a man, whose many attributes were remarked and sighed over.

As the whispers continued, Hetty kept her eyes focused on her stitches. She had no time to spare. Not if she planned to arrive at the telegram office before it closed for the evening. Distractions from her fellow dressmakers would only delay that task.

But when she walked across the room to pick up some trim, Hetty happened to pass by the window and let her eyes glide toward the glass, and she stopped right behind the group.

Benjy sat in the short alleyway next to the upholsterers. He must have been watching for her, since she had peered for only a few moments before he waved.

The trio of busybodies looked at each other and then toward Hetty, astonishment showing on their faces.

“How do you know a fellow like that?” Lily asked.

“I married him,” Hetty said.

“You’re married to the blacksmith on South Street?” Julianna asked.

“You didn’t know he was married?” Hetty presented this question on a knife’s edge, with a friendly smile that stopped Julianna and Margo’s whispering in its tracks.

“Not to you,” Lily said rather carelessly. “If I was married to a fellow like him, I’d be too busy raising babies to work anywhere.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Hetty glanced once more at Benjy. Content to know he had been seen, he turned his attention toward the clouds, deep in thought.

She could see why the trio had lingered at the window. They were flies lured into his web, caught up in his attempts at charm. Though to be honest, Benjy didn’t have to exert himself for this lot. Handsome by most standards, no visible scars to upset a dark brown complexion, and a bearing that held confidence and pride, with little arrogance. Hetty was accustomed to him, after all these years. It was hard to be impressed when she still remembered the scamp of a boy who had yet to grow into hands, ears, and the unwieldy and unfamiliar words that tumbled out his mouth.

As nice as it was to see him, Hetty couldn’t help but be annoyed. The dress shop was not on the way home from the forge. He didn’t normally just leave early to see her. This meant trouble. Maybe not for her, but trouble enough to keep her from sending a telegram like planned.

“What are you doing here?” Hetty greeted him when she finally escaped the shop, her sewing kit swinging from her hand.

“Came to ask a favor,” her husband said. “But it will disrupt your plans to badger that woman making dodgy potions.”

“Maybe,” she said, eagerly staking a claim to that excuse. “But that can wait. I know you wouldn’t come without a reason.”

“That is true.” He didn’t quite meet her eyes. “I need help breaking in to Moya Prison.”

Hetty’s smile fell off her face.

There went all her plans.

Breaking in to the prison wasn’t merely sneaking Benjy inside, but also helping make sure he could leave without stirring any suspicions.

They did their best to avoid the police. Thieves, liars, and other miscreants they handled on their own. But murderers were left bound and unconscious on the police station doorstep, with carefully worded notes. Even then they took care not to let anything be traced back to them.

“This about those kidnappers?” Hetty asked.

Benjy nodded. “We need answers about those men, to understand why that girl and the others were snatched. I should have asked before I dropped them off like Christmas presents at the station. But it was more important to take that girl home.”

“They weren’t exactly willing to talk last night,” Hetty observed. “That might not have changed after a day behind bars.”

“I’m sure,” Benjy said with a most unpleasant smile, “I can loosen their tongues.”

Getting Benjy inside Moya was no trouble.

On the cusp of an evening to cap a very fine spring day, the police at the station were distracted. Just distracted enough that Hetty needed only a simple glamour. One that would muffle sound and make Benjy an uninteresting sight. She sewed those into his clothes, whipping her needle quickly along the cuffs of sleeves as if a button had fallen off.

As he slipped toward the buildings, Hetty drew Libra against the brick wall. It flared gold. The scales tilted from side to side, dampening the jail’s magic nullifier so Benjy’s entry raised no alarms.

The last bit of magic she cast took the form of a crow. She left the star sigil in its raw form so the star-speckled bird could perch on top of the building. If there was trouble, it would provide Benjy some cover. It would also give her a warning.

Settled a block away on some upturned boxes, Hetty placed her sewing kit on her lap and rifled through it. Instead of mending work, she pulled out a bundle of papers.

The small stack held fragments of news regarding her sister. Heavily creased and folded, some of the papers were illegible, even the ones Hetty had written herself. They were newspaper clippings, telegrams, and ticket stubs. They were years filled with dashed hopes, wishes, and last chances. And they all led nowhere. Yet these papers were all Hetty had of her lost sibling.

The night she had broken her collar, she had escaped with Esther, using the map and song she’d memorized. It got them far. It got them far enough that it seemed like they would make it.

Then their luck ran out. Dogs caught their scent. They crossed paths with their pursuers. When all their troubles came thundering after them armed with wands and guns alike, a roaring river blocked their path.

Then Esther had pushed her into the river.

That’s all Hetty knew for certain. Her memory of the rest had been shared with too many dreams in the years since. Dreams and accompanying nightmares that whispered the worst of her fears.

Plucking out the note she received from a woman in Colorado who owed them a favor, Hetty copied the address. She took great care forming the words of her message, keeping her request simple and short and unburdened with the weight of her hopes.

Hetty was nearly finished when the crow flew back to her side. She reached to stroke its head, and it melted into a puddle of starlight.

Benjy emerged moments later just as Hetty slipped the papers out of sight.

“What did you find out?”

“Enough. A farmer was looking for hands to help and didn’t question where the hands came from. The trio saw an opportunity to make quick money. It worked rather well in Maryland and Virginia. This was their only attempt up here.”

“Only attempt?” Hetty asked.

“Yes.” A rather unpleasant grin filled his features, glittering with a sliver of the malice the unlucky men must have seen. “I made sure of it.”

“Good,” Hetty grunted, pleased at the neatness of his efforts.

“Shall we head home?” Benjy asked. “Or do you have another errand? If you want me to stand there glowering, I’m up to the task.”

Hetty was sure he was, and she almost wished she could claim such an errand. It was a good excuse, and one that needed little explanation. But instead of a vial of dodgy potion, she had only the telegram tucked away in her sewing kit. Telling him about that was not an option. Especially as she shouldn’t even have the telegram with her in the first place.

Things were so chaotic in the South that Hetty had stopped traveling to look for Esther. The roads that hadn’t been blown up, cursed, or left in shambles were guarded by raiders of the nastiest disposition. Papers spoke boldly of the federal forces helping to rebuild the South. But more trustworthy reports suggested that the New South under construction seemed to be the old one, just remade with a different pattern.

With that avenue closed, Hetty turned to others. She worked with the Freedmen’s Bureau at first. They had promised assistance in tracking down family members, but their efforts—strained by lack of funds, resources, and belligerent forces—made it hard to deliver results. In time, she relied on her own devices, sending letters and telegrams and even placing newspaper advertisements. Throughout the years all those efforts went nowhere.

Last summer, Hetty had sent out eight letters to eight places around the country that Benjy felt was the best place to look. All but one letter had returned.

Usually this was not noteworthy, but this time Benjy had made Hetty promise that she would not send for any more information until the last letter returned.

She agreed without much care at the time. It had been late September and she was certain the letter would arrive soon.

It never did.

Over time the lost letter shuffled into the corner of her mind. In the past winter their lives had been disrupted both by cases and by antics from their friends. With so much excitement going on, it took the idle chatter from the men crowding Darlene’s apartment last night to bring the lost letter back to her attention. Now Hetty couldn’t let it rest until she did something.

Even if it meant breaking a promise.

“No,” Hetty finally said, giving him an answer. “It can wait.”

Sunday passed quietly. There was church, a few short visits with their friends, and the long walk they took simply because they had time to fill. Hetty knew where the woman with the dodgy potions lived, but she hoped to find the woman out in the streets. However, there were familiar faces selling magic and other charms, but not the face she was looking for.

As evening slipped away into night, they returned home to the boardinghouse and settled in their room.

While Benjy was keen to discuss more about the kidnappers and similar crimes, Hetty sorted and spread the mending on the table, giving only absent answers.

Realizing he wasn’t going to get much conversation out of her, Benjy lay on top of their bed and disappeared behind a book.

Just as Hetty had planned.

New books were rare and precious things in their little room. Even when they were stories he read before, once he picked up a book it often took breaking a glass to get his attention.

Once she was certain any question she would ask would be met with a grunt, Hetty put aside her mending and withdrew her telegram. She filled out the rest and then checked for errors. She tried to keep it simple. Unlike most of the people they met through their travels, this contact had scant knowledge of Hetty’s sister, and little motive to help.

“What are you doing?”

Hetty dropped the mending over the papers, just as Benjy drew near the table. “Just seeing what I need to work on before I go to bed.” Hetty picked up the sleeve of a worn shirt and pretended to examine invisible tears.

Benjy fell into the other chair. His fingers rapped against the cover of his book, and the air around him grew pensive.

“You were pulling this mending out a while ago and it looks like you haven’t even touched a stitch.”

“Only,” Hetty said, grabbing the first thing that came to mind, “because there are no pins.”

Benjy turned to the far wall.

Depicting the city and surrounding areas, the map hung there was prickled with pinholes. Benjy had put the map up after a rather interesting case with some barbershops. Since then, the map became the best way to visualize cases. Using Hetty’s old sewing pins with colored strings looped at the ends, they marked out the places where information had been found. Small cases and incidents were often clustered in pockets on the map, making a patchwork of color.

“I don’t see what the problem is.”

“You used my good sewing pins.” Hetty pounced on the subject, her ready complaint not entirely faked. “You’re supposed to use the old ones I put aside. They’re in separate boxes and you still forget.”

“I didn’t.” Benjy held his hand over the mending, catching her eyes with his. “If you were that upset about them, you would have said something before. You’re trying to distract me.”

“What I’m trying to do is explain—”

Hetty was saved from figuring out how that sentence would end by a knock on their door. A knock that was as fast and erratic as a runaway rabbit.

“Someone’s come to call.” Benjy dramatically lifted his hand away. “How lucky for you.”

“Yes.” Hetty took the mending and scooped it up so she picked up the telegram as well. “Very lucky.”

Benjy answered the door and Hetty scarcely paid attention to the conversation. The knock, the lateness of the hour, even the frantic fear in the man’s voice were all too familiar to her. People who came this late weren’t coming about missing trinkets or stolen treasures. They came about the dead.

“Who died?” Hetty asked, as Benjy grabbed their lantern from atop the wardrobe.

“A drunk, in an alley not far from here.” Benjy tapped Orion onto the metal lid. The sigil flashed red and light bloomed inside the lantern. “The man at the door says the pump near his building was broken so he went to the closest one to get some water. That’s when he stumbled across the body. I told him to go on ahead since I know the place he described. You can stay here. Sounds like the usual sort of thing.”

“I still want to see.” Hetty reached over to the nightstand, running her fingers across an assortment of cotton bands embroi dered with star sigils. She sifted through them before selecting one trimmed with ribbons to tie around her neck. “You’re not as observant as you think you are.”

The man, Alain, led Hetty and Benjy toward an alleyway that ran along the rougher edges of the ward, though only a few streets kept it apart from more respectable homes and businesses.

When they neared the alley, Alain Browne stopped at its mouth.

“There.” Alain’s hand trembled as he pointed. “That’s where I found him.”

With the lantern held before him, Benjy led the way. A mixture of old cigars, booze, and sweat that not even the rain could wash away rose up and nearly overwhelmed Hetty before it all faded into the background. Tiny claws scurried as the lantern light bounced off bricks and crates. In the middle of all this was the body.

Benjy whistled a few notes under his breath before handing the lantern to Hetty.

Not expecting it, the lantern slipped in her hands and light scattered before she had a chance to correct her grip. By the time she managed to do so Benjy was already taking measured steps around the body, mumbling disjointed words under his breath.

She’d never understood why he always found the bodies so interesting. The body only held the secret to a person’s death. The surroundings were what told you how it might have happened.

Hetty swung the lantern around and a beam of light passed over Alain. He stood there, his arms wrapped around himself despite the spring night hardly holding a chill.

Up ahead, past Benjy and the dead man, was the water pump, light glinting against the dull metal. All around her was garbage—discarded furniture, matted papers, broken glass shoved hastily in corners, and much more, lost in the shadows at their feet. Not the sort of place one lingered. Not even if you spent all your time staring into the bottom of a bottle.

However, the dead man couldn’t have been a drunk.

If he had been, they would have found him slumped against the wall. Instead, he lay sprawled on the ground like a bag of hay tossed off a wagon.

No wonder Alain had stumbled across the dead man. Anyone crossing through here would have found the body. There wasn’t a single way to avoid it no matter which entrance to the alley was taken.

“He was left here to be found,” Hetty said as she stepped deeper into the alley. “This was planned.”

“Murdered,” Benjy grunted as he kept up his slow pacing. “This might take longer than I thought.”

Hetty lowered the lantern and the motion reflected light off the body. “What was that?”

“It looks like a bottle,” Benjy said. “Hard to tell in this poor light.”

“Let me brighten it.”

Hetty sketched the Aries sigil on the side of the lantern, the magic trailing from her fingers as she drew the long lines and tapped dots onto a single panel. The star sigil burned in the metal until the light brightened and a stream of stars flowed to the ground.

Splotches of garbled spells swirled by her feet, creating a chaotic mosaic of bright colors muddied together in places where the mixed magic was the greatest.

Hetty didn’t see any traces of magic on the body. Just a man in an ill-fitting suit of clothes so threadbare, the patches required patches. He lay in an unnatural supine pose, with his fingers clenched around an empty liquor bottle.

Her gaze moved upward. Gashes split the dead man’s face with ribbons of rust. Eyes that would stare out at nothing for the rest of time. Yet there was something familiar about it.

She brought the lantern closer and then saw a face she would have been happy never to see again.

“That’s Charlie!” Hetty dropped the lantern. “Stars above, someone’s killed him!”

“Charlie?” Benjy echoed. He turned Hetty toward him, his fingers pressing into her shoulders. “That’s not Charlie!”

“Look closer.”

Benjy let go of her and knelt. He picked up the lantern and waved it over the body. The light brightened once more, intensifying to the strength of a sunny day. Then it faded and metal met the ground once more.

“Stars, it is Charlie.” Benjy’s voice cracked on the edge of the name. “Why didn’t I notice that first?”

When Charlie had approached her the night before with fear in his eyes, had he sensed this death coming? Or was it something else? Something that surprised him just moments before he took his last breath?

“You know Charlie?” Alain’s tentative voice crept in, welcome and unwanted at the same time.

Hetty’s laugh squeezed itself out, brittle in the night air. “Who doesn’t know Charlie Richardson in this town? Why didn’t you say who it was?”

“He was my landlord. Now he’s dead. Who he was doesn’t matter anymore.”

Benjy’s head turned with such speed, the younger man jumped backwards into the grimy wall. “That’s where you’re wrong. Men like Charlie Richardson don’t just disappear when they die.”

Hetty bent to pick up the lantern but froze as the beams of light revealed something else along Charlie’s chest. Something worse than the sickening mess made of his face.

“Benjy.” Hetty tried to keep her voice steady, but it trembled despite her best efforts. “Tell me you see this too.”

A star sigil was carved into Charlie’s chest. The vertices were coin-size holes and the lines that connected them were as thick as cords, forming a man wrestling with an unruly snake. Any sigil seared into flesh would have been terrible, but this was Ophiuchus—the Serpent Bearer—and the one star sigil so terrible Hetty never used it.

“The cursed sigil,” Alain wailed from behind them. Pressed against the wall, it was hard to say if a single noise would have him sprinting off into the night or collapsing in a dead faint. “I touched him. I was near him. I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

“There’s no curse,” Benjy said, though he brushed his hands against his shirt as if to brush the stain away. “Other wounds caused his death. Oliver should be able to tell which one.” He paused then, his gaze moving along the alley for any more signs of trouble. “We shouldn’t linger here. Whoever did this might come back.”

“Go. I’ll be right behind you after I take care of the residue.”

Hetty waited for a protest to pass his lips. While they took equal share in their messy and sometimes dangerous work, Benjy rarely suggested parting ways. When Hetty suggested it, they always wasted time arguing until someone’s hand was forced.

One look into his eyes and she knew tonight there would be no argument.

Magical residue had helped them find murderers many times before, but if they weren’t careful to erase their own, it could lead a murderer straight to them.

Benjy hoisted Charlie’s body into his arms and called for Alain to follow.

“Make sure,” Benjy added, “to come straight to Oliver’s. I don’t want to light up the city looking for you.”