“The money,” I spat, “came from that sofa you complained I don’t have. And I’ll buy my steamer ticket with the money I saved by not getting a prosthetic, by pinching coins for months, by selling off all my things. I have not yet sold the house, but we have interested buyers. It should sell soon—it must sell soon, for otherwise I cannot afford Mama’s bills.”
Allison’s nostrils flared. “You could have married my brother, you know. He cared about you, and he would have treated you as well as he treated me. Then you would never have needed money and maybe . . .” Her eyes turned glassy, and her lips quivered. But she did not finish her thought. Instead, with nothing more than a slight sniffle, Allison turned and strode from the house.
Guilt exploded in my belly as I watched her go. I would have married her brother if it had come to that. Underneath his sharp exterior, he had been a loving man.
And like all the other ghosts I wanted to forget, his perfect face haunted me every day.
I towed my mind back to the present. After giving Mary a quick embrace and making her promise to leave the house immediately, I hurried outside and clambered into Allison’s carriage. Her cool poise was back by the time I slid over the velvet bench seats. The last time I’d ridden in this carriage, Clarence had been alive and we’d been on our way to the opera. It was the night he had caught me working with the Spirit-Hunters.
It was also the night he was murdered.
“Now, Eleanor,” Allison ordered as the horses clopped to a start, “tell me how Clarence died.”
“First,” I said, forcing an edge to my words—a strength I wasn’t feeling—“take me to Kirkbride’s.
I want to say good-bye to my mother.”
Allison’s eyelids twitched down. “The gossip is true then. Your mother is sick.”
I nodded.
“All right.” She rapped her knuckles on the carriage wall and directed the driver to the hospital.
Her gaze never left mine as she asked, “So your mother is sick with . . . what? Last I saw her, she was fine. What could possibly be the matter with her now?”
“Quite a lot, actually.” I had to fight to keep from growling. “Mama was never right after my father died. When I told her about . . . well, when I told her everything I’m about to tell you, it was too much.” I dropped my gaze to my bandaged wrist. “It’s even worse than the papers say, Allison. Are you sure you want to know the whole story? Ignorance is easier.”
“But not better!” she cried. “A few months ago, I never thought further than the end of the day.
Now, I see my whole life before and my death at the end. Just tell me what happened, Eleanor. I deserve the truth.”
“The truth,” I repeated. The word tasted like ash. I took a deep breath. “The papers said it was the
Spirit-Hunters who killed Clarence. But it wasn’t.”
Her spine deflated. “Who then?”
I twisted my face away and watched the neighborhood pass by. I’d always imagined looking into
Allison’s eyes when I told her this, but, in fact, I found the words wouldn’t come if I met her stare.
“It all began with our fathers. They were once very good friends, you know. Then your father, Clay, decided to run for city council, and he . . . well, he was one of the Gas Trustees, who controlled most of the city’s jobs—meaning he also controlled most of the city’s voters.” I inhaled deeply. “Clay offered my father a position in his ring of council members, but my father refused and opted to run for city council the honest way. He wanted to stop Clay from corrupting the city.
“Then—” My voice shook. I tried again. “Then your father decided to force mine out of the race by destroying his railroad supply company. He hired thugs to blow up my father’s latest dy***ite shipment, and he also told Clarence to make my brother’s life a living hell.”
Allison’s breath hitched, but I didn’t look her way. At this point in the story, Mama had already begun shrieking her denial. She would hear nothing against the Wilcoxes—the past was the past, she had said. All that mattered was the future and regaining the Wilcox family’s favor.
She’d stopped screaming once the whole truth came out.
Shifting in my seat, I wet my lips and resumed my cold account. “The man . . . the man raising the
Dead across the city,” I said, “was my brother. Elijah killed Clarence out of revenge for our father.”
Allison’s body turned rigid, but she made no other indication that she’d heard. So I kept talking.
“After Clarence died and I learned the truth, I went with the Spirit-Hunters to Laurel Hill Cemetery.
Elijah was there, trying to raise our father’s corpse. I—” My voice broke, and I had to grit my teeth to keep going. “I stopped Elijah, but then . . . he died.” I glanced at Allison, finally meeting her eyes.
They were hard—unnaturally so—and it took me a moment to recognize the emotion she wore.
Revulsion.
Yet before I could think how to react, we turned onto a new street and Allison spoke. “Why couldn’t you simply tell me that all this was happening? While it was happening?”