“You’re sure-sure?” Sam murmured again, and sucked along her clavicle.
She felt as if she were an electrical wire thrumming with life.
“Sh-shut up and k-kiss me, Sam.”
That night, as she lay wrapped in Sam’s arms, Evie dreamed of stars falling through the sky, streaking tails of smoke until the sky was starless. The King of Crows raked his fingers across the dark until it bled. He licked the blood from his fingers with a forked tongue. “People will believe anything, you know. You only need them to be frightened enough.”
THE SHADOW SELF
Theta had crept home in the early morning hours and slept for a while. When she left for rehearsal, she found that Memphis had left a letter for her. Excitedly, she tore it open and read:
Dearest Theta,
Eighth letter of the Greek alphabet, Symbol of Eternity, My Creole Princess, Today I saw your face in every crowd. In the shopgirl’s furrowed brow, the tilt of a mother’s head toward her curious son paused on the threshold of some new mischief, in the raised arm of a businessman hailing the bus before it leaves the curb, in the bow and sweep of the workers’ backs as they balance atop the steel beams of the new Olympus. None was stranger to me, for every motion, every expression, every gesture seemed limned with the light of the Eternal Sympathy that connects us one to the other, the cosmic string of the universe that pulls from me to you. Outside my window, the blood of the city coursed along in a steady rhythm of trolleys and motorcars—“How-you-do?” and “Move it along!”—the percussive rumble of the Manhattan Possible, the angel’s-wing whisper of six million dreams taking flight. But there was only one heartbeat for me: Theta, Theta, Theta. I heard it beneath the hum of Broadway’s bright lights. I heard it in the steady flow of the mighty Hudson, that wondrous river. I heard it in the clickety-clack of the elevated train and in the swift stepping of feet across congested thoroughfares, in the whistle of the traffic officer, the call-and-response of the shoeshine boys—those park-side preachers plying their trade, washing the feet of angels unaware. I heard it in a young girl’s laugh and in the sigh of a descended Nubian Queen leaning from her window on St. Nicholas Avenue as she surveyed her kingdom of fire escapes and chimney smoke and washing on the line, her grasp one day within reach. I heard it, too, echoing from the halls of Ellis Island, where so many hopes press together they make of their discordant notes a new song whose melody is both celebration and lament, an echo and a prelude. And still the heartbeat calls to me: Theta. Theta. Theta.
“Among the men and women, the multitude, / I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,” the great poet Mr. Whitman wrote.
I can’t say what the future holds. That is my brother’s gift, not mine. I only know my heart has picked yours from the multitude, a secret sign, a small piece of the Divine, and it will not let go.
Forever,
Memphis
“You all right, Miss Knight?” The Bennington’s doorman looked concerned. “You’re crying.”
“Yeah. I do that sometimes,” she said, smiling.
But when Theta arrived at the New Amsterdam Theatre, her good mood vanished. She could tell something wasn’t right. Wally barely made eye contact, and he patted his stomach like he did when he was nervous. “Oh, uh, hiya, Theta. Flo wants to see you in his office right away.”
At first, Theta was afraid it was about what had happened at Jake Marlowe’s party. The newspapers had reported on the disturbance, though many recanted, saying they couldn’t be absolutely sure they’d seen ghosts—they’d just heard other people talking about it. The police refused to comment, reassuring the public that they should go about their business and enjoy the exhibition when it opened. But Harriet Henderson’s column reported that there had, indeed, been a threat, and that the Diviners had refused to do anything about it. And if it hadn’t been for Sarah Snow and the power of prayer, she hated to think what could’ve happened to the good citizens of New York City.
“Miss Knight. Take a seat, please,” Mr. Ziegfeld said as Theta let herself into his office and perched on the edge of a chair. He was looking at her like she was a kid who’d done something disappointing. “I received a call from Harriet Henderson today. Seems there’s a story she’s sitting on.”
Theta steeled herself to respond about the ghosts and her part in it.
“About a certain Follies girl who has a secret Negro lover up in Harlem?” Mr. Ziegfeld finished. “Is this true?”
Theta tried to swallow and found she could not. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. She hadn’t expected this at all. There was no point in lying, she knew.
“Yes,” Theta said, small as a mouse.
And now Mr. Ziegfeld looked at her with far more than just disappointment.
“Harriet was going to run with the story, but as a personal favor to me, Mr. Hearst agreed to kill it in exchange for exclusive access to you from now on.”
Harriet would own her.
“How… how’d they…” Theta’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t swallow. “Find out?”
“An anonymous source. But the source claimed to have more secrets to bring to light. Many more. You can never see this fellow again. Is that understood, Miss Knight?”
Theta’s head swam. Everything she’d tried to keep secret—her power, her past, her lover—was all being dragged into the light. There was nowhere to hide.
“Kitty had an affair with a married fella and came through okay. And Mae West got arrested for her show ’cause somebody said it was obscene. She’s a bigger star than ever.”
“There are scandals and there are scandals, Miss Knight. But some stories can’t be rewritten. You being involved with a Negro is one of those stories. Why, it’s against the law in most states in this country!”
“You ever think those laws might be wrong?” Theta said. She was queasy with fear.
Flo’s stare was flinty. “I heard your screen test at Vitagraph went very well. If this gets out, do you think the Vitagraph boys will make a picture with you? I’m looking out for you.”
Everything out of Flo’s mouth was a threat dressed in the polite finery of protection and fatherly concern. It couldn’t hide how awful it was.
“And I don’t want you living with Henry anymore, either. Everybody knows he’s not your brother, and even though he’s obviously no ladies’ man…” Flo said with distaste. “He’s still a fella. You’ll move into Miss Sheridan’s Women’s Dormitory, where the rules about gentlemen callers are properly enforced. And no more cavorting with that Sweetheart Seer and those unseemly Diviners. You will have nothing further to do with Diviners as long as you are in my show.”
“Anything else?” Theta said, and there was no disguising her disdain.
Flo’s eyes flashed. “Yes, there is—is it true you’re married?”