I brandished my parasol at him like a rapier. “You, sir, are an abominable scalawag of a man, and I’ll be damned if I let you threaten me.”
He clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “Such language doesn’t suit a lady of your breeding. Course, neither does spending time with those low-life Spirit-Hunters. You know that Boyer fellow was a necromancer back in New Orleans? He even killed his best friend. That’s why he skipped town.”
I sneered. I already knew about Joseph and how he’d stopped the necromancer Marcus. “I don’t know why you dislike the Spirit-Hunters as much as you do,” I said haughtily, “but I won’t listen to your filthy lies.”
“Fine, fine. Maybe you can help me, though.” He tucked his notebook back in his pocket and slid out a newspaper clipping. He waved it in my face. “Recognize this boy?”
I glanced at the faded image before me, and fought to keep a straight face. The picture held a dirty, long-haired boy—perhaps twelve or thirteen-years-old—who had clearly been neglected. Yet the lines of his jaw and the sharpness in his eyes were unmistakable. It was Daniel Sheridan.
“No, of course not,” I lied.
Mr. Peger pursed his lips. “This boy would be a young man now. His name is Sure Hands Danny. He’s an escaped convict, and I imagine you’d want to help me find him.”
“Convict?”
“Aye, from Philadelphia’s own Eastern State Penitentiary.”
“Wh-what was he arrested for?”
“Murder.”
My heart punched against my ribs. “Murder?”
“Aye. Murder.” He shoved the paper back in his pocket. “He was also responsible for an explosion at a factory. Maybe you heard of it, hmmm? Happened six years ago, and I gather it caused Fitt Railway Supply a lot of trouble.”
I bit the inside of my mouth until I tasted blood. That was the explosion that caused Father to lose his contract. It was the explosion that killed his company.
Mr. Peger twirled a finger in his mustache and watched me.
Despite my wavering confidence, I forced myself to speak steadily. “I don’t recall such an explosion.”
“Really? Well, no matter. I’ve a pretty good idea where Sure Hands Danny is hiding. The word is he’s here—mighty foolish of him, considerin’ his past and all. He may have gotten away before, but Sure Hands Danny can’t hide from me. Not at the high price my client is willing to pay. I’m going to find him. So”—he leaned toward me—”if you happen to see this man, tell him he can’t hide from me much longer.” He doffed his hat. “G’day, Miss.”
I hugged my parasol to my chest and watched him amble off into the crowd. I staggered to the Corliss engine, desperately needing a moment to catch my breath and gather my emotions.
When I reached a narrow set of iron stairs that soared dangerously upward, I plopped onto them. They led to a series of catwalks meant for aerial viewing of America’s greatest mechanical triumph, and though I wasn’t allowed to ascend—boys and men only—surely there was no harm if I simply sat.
Had Mr. Peger spoken the truth? Was Daniel a murderer? Had he destroyed the factory? Destroyed my father?
I couldn’t believe it. Not Daniel! His temper was short and his manner crude, but he had never hurt me. If anything, he’d been protective. I trusted him. I believed him to be good.
But... but maybe it’s all an act. Just like Mama pretends we’re still wealthy. Like Clarence pretends his life is fine. Like I pretend to fit in with the high-society girls.
I rocked forward and back. Who was good? Who was bad? And if there was no one I could trust, did that mean I was all alone?
I pressed my hands to my face. No, I wasn’t alone; I still had Elijah. Elijah was good. Elijah I could trust.
Soon, I will find him. Soon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“But Mama!” I cried. “That’s not appropriate!” I stood in my bedroom, dressed only in my underclothes. After I’d arrived home from the Exhibition, my mind spinning with questions about Daniel and my mouth sputtering lies of a failed trip to the market, Mama had swept me off to the dressmaker (for the final fitting of a dress she had failed to mention she was having made) and then shoved me into Mary’s hands to go back home for preparation.
Going to the opera was drab Eleanor’s chance to shine—or at least it was in Mama’s eyes.
It didn’t take long before my head began to ache from the multitude of hairpins scraping at my scalp and straining at the tightness of my coiffure. After two hours of me being primped and curled under Mary’s none-too-gentle hands, my patience was entirely spent.
Mama left the doorway and crossed to me. She still wore her robe, and her hair was untended. She waved a letter in my face. “Neither of the Wilcox ladies will be attending—do you know what sort of opportunity this is? It is great luck they are ill.”