“Well, what do you know about it?” I forced myself to stay calm, though I was desperate for answers.
“Nothing. Papa never talked about it, and Clarence doesn’t either. Whenever I ask him about work, he says, ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head. We live like kings, don’t we? Now, would you like a new hat?’” She spoke in a deep voice, mimicking Clarence. Then she giggled and clapped her hands. “So if I ever want new clothes, I make sure to ask!”
I couldn’t keep a wry grin from twitching at my lips. Perhaps Allison was shrewder than anyone gave her credit for.
She rubbed her nose and yawned. “Why are you asking so many questions?”
I slouched back on the seat, trying to inhale deeply. “I’m just wondering why we’re here.” I stared out the window. Her words triggered a memory—the same memory of my father and his argument with the dark-haired man. With Clay.
My heart jumped back into action. I spun to Allison. “What was your father’s name?”
“Clarence.”
I scooted closer. “Did they call him Clay?”
“Yes.” She furrowed her brow, clearly confused by my questions.
The names couldn’t be mere coincidence. But what did that mean? Why had our fathers fought? Had it been over this gas company?
I leaned toward her. “When did your father join the Trustees? How long ago?”
The lines on her forehead deepened. “Not long after the war, I think. I was only six or seven. He was in railroad something or other before that.”
“And who are the other Trustees?”
“I don’t know,” she whined.
“Remember,” I snapped.
She recoiled and pressed her back to the carriage wall. “Mr. Sutton, I think. And... and Mr. Sutherland and Mr. McManus.” She chewed her lower lip. “Oh, and Mr. Bradley and Mr. Weathers—but why do you care, Eleanor?”
I didn’t answer. The three decapitated men weren’t only Germantown students, they were also connected to the Gas Trustees—as was Clarence. “Sutton, Weathers, and Bradley?” I asked.
She nodded slowly, and I forced myself to slide away from her. My mind exploded with thoughts and memories and confusion. I knew there was something I was missing. Something important that I couldn’t see, something to do with this Gas Ring and my father and... and a game of intrigue that no one knew how to play.
I groaned and massaged my forehead. Whatever the connections were, they hovered out of my reach.
“Are you all right?” Allison asked. “Does your head hurt?”
“Yes,” I lied. “I hope your brother hurries.” I pressed my face against the glass of the carriage window. I could see the nearest turnstiles, but no sign of Clarence.
Allison sighed dramatically. “I’m bored. I wish I’d brought my book.”
“What book is that?” The first raindrops splattered on the road outside.
“The Quaker City,” she whispered, her tone conspiratorial. The Quaker City was famous for its lewd and horrifying tales.
I twisted my face toward her. “Does your mother know you’re reading that?”
“Pshaw.” She sniffed. “Of course Mother doesn’t know—and you’d better not tell! The original copy is here, you know.” She waved toward the Exhibition. “There’s an entire display of old books and manuscripts and scrolls and stuff.”
“Really?” I squinted at her. “Have you seen it?”
“Oh, yes.” She nodded rapidly, warming to the conversation. “Mother made me go so we could look at an old Bible from the Middle Ages—it’s in the Main Building. And that’s where I saw The Quaker City for the first time. You remember Mercy read it? There’s a little ogre on the title page, and it looked positively horrifying, so I went to the library...” She continued to babble excitedly, but I had stopped listening.
An old book exhibit. That was intriguing. If they had Bibles, mightn’t they have other ancient texts? Ancient texts such as grimoires? It was possible, and an Exhibition guidebook would tell me.
Exhibition guides such as the ones at the library.
“I’ll be right back.” I shoved open the carriage door and clambered into the rain.
“But Clarence—”
“I’ll be right back!” I slammed the door shut and galloped through the crowds to the entrance. I didn’t actually need to go in. I just had to find someone selling guidebooks.
Giant raindrops sliced through the air, cold and hard when they hit my skin. I found a covered stall selling, according to the hand-painted sign, “All Things Exhibition.” I squeezed between people who took cover from the storm, and within seconds I found stacks of International Exhibition, 1876: Official Catalogue. I scooped up a catalogue for each building—the Main Building, Machinery Hall, the Art Gallery, and so on. I emptied my pockets of all my change, and then I scrambled back into the wet.
I hugged the flimsy papers to my chest and tried to keep my white skirts from the fresh mud. Now the rain was really coming down.