I’ve always been fascinated by mythology, a fascination that started when I was in middle school and hasn’t yet been forced aside by other, more pertinent topics. I always found mythology to be a delicious combination of magic and humanity.
The Three Fates — immortal goddesses that appear in Greek, Roman, and Norse mythology — were once believed to control the destiny of each mortal from birth to death. It was while thinking of these three powerful deities that I also began to wonder what it might be like to live as a young teenage girl during a time of upheaval and change in American history. I thought of all those times when one’s cultural and national identity seemed at odds, and I wondered, what might it be like to be divine and yet, at the same time, utterly human? I suppose all these thoughts wove themselves together, because suddenly I had Valeria, Rosa, and Maria Elena, three immortals sent down to live as Mexican American sisters during the years after the Texas annexation.
THE BLOOD SPATTERED ACROSS KLIO’S cheek and jaw had yet to dry. She drew a clean, delicately embroidered kerchief from her pocket and wiped her face, staining the white square scarlet. She tucked the kerchief away and surveyed the room.
This job had been too messy for her taste. For the most part, Klio fulfilled contracts in a quick, tidy manner. She went in, did her work, and left the target with little more than a startled expression forever written across his or her face.
The man sprawled half on the foot of the bed and half on the floor did not look startled. His face had gone slack, his eyes glassy. But the dark splotch just below the left breast pocket of his waistcoat piqued Klio’s annoyance. She rarely fell back on her dagger to finish a job.
The room bespoke of a haphazard kill: chairs overturned, papers strewn from the desk onto the floor, an overturned inkwell rolling along the desktop while its contents dripped over the edge to a widening black pool below, and feathers floating in the air above the pillows from which they’d erupted. Jagged shards of glass were scattered across the room.
So many still believe mirrors will make a difference. Klio wondered how such misinformation managed to stay in circulation despite all the evidence to the contrary.
With one last disapproving look about the room, she pulled on her gloves and exited into the hall. The other doors in the boardinghouse remained shut. No curious eyes peeked out. No cries of alarm roused the house matron.
Some of Klio’s jobs would have necessitated finding another way out of the room, an escape by which she would not be seen. This boardinghouse, however, was home to those who were doing their best to remain unnoticed, and becoming curious about a neighbor’s business was a sure way to ruin their own anonymity . . . and possibly lead to their own demise.
Klio fluffed her heavy silk skirts, making sure they lay smooth over her crinoline. In the dim light of the hall, her garments appeared black from prim veiled hat to polished, buttoned boot. Only when she moved directly into the gleam of a lamp did the silk’s deep amethyst shade reveal itself.
At this late hour the streets of Boston were quiet but for the occasional clip-clop of shod horse hooves, a sound so banal by day as to be unnoticeable, now harsh as it cut through the heavy silence. Whitby stood alongside Klio’s cabriolet, holding the carriage horse’s reins. His eyes flashed silver against his ebony face. While his expression otherwise gave nothing away, Klio knew that her coachman was troubled.
When she glanced at the cab again, Klio noticed that despite the clear, warm night, its curtain was drawn to shield the passenger compartment. Klio looked to Whitby, who gave the briefest of nods. Whatever had perturbed her associate didn’t present a true threat.
The horse gave a snort and tossed its head as Klio drew near. Whitby tightened his grip on the reins. They had yet to find a horse that grew accustomed to Klio’s scent. Most would bolt should she come too close; if they didn’t try to run, they shied and reared.
Bothersome animals, Klio thought.
Before she could draw back the curtain, the slender tip of a mahogany cane snagged the edge of the thick fabric and lifted it. Klio nearly jumped back in surprise at the visage peering out at her.
“I pray your forgiveness for calling upon you in this uncustomary manner, Miss Vesper.” Hamilton Stuart tipped his tall hat. “May I have a few minutes of your time?”
“Of course, Mr. Stuart.” Klio signaled Whitby to take them through the streets. She accepted Stuart’s hand and climbed into the cab.
“Ah,” Stuart said as she settled beside him. “You do know who I am, then.”
“That surprises you?” Klio asked. With the curtain back in place, shadows flooded the interior. The lack of light did little to obscure Klio’s vision, if that had been her visitor’s intention. Still, Klio tugged on the fingertips of her gloves, loosening them just enough that she’d be able to strip them off in a moment should the need arise.