“Becky seems to be doing all right with hers,” he points out. “And so will we.”
And that’s a good thing, because the only thing about children I know for certain is that they tend to follow a wedding the way light follows the sun. I reach out and squeeze Jefferson’s hand.
Mary rolls her eyes at us from her seat at the table. She is taking Jasper’s place tonight, since the invitation doesn’t specify names except to say “Leah Westfall and seven companions.” She wears a nondescript dress of brown muslin, and a heavy cloak with a cowl that will hide her face from Frank Dilley.
“You ready for this?” I ask.
She grins. “You know I am.”
Henry wears a suit of deep navy blue, with a bright yellow double-breasted waistcoat. He struts around, waiting for someone to notice. Mary has no patience for frippery, and Becky and the Major are too preoccupied—with the children and possibly each other—so I take pity.
“No peacock ever looked finer,” I tell him.
He straightens, head held high. “I look dashing, don’t I?”
“San Francisco agrees with you.”
“I just wish it would agree with me in a more financial capacity.” He sighs.
Jefferson is trying to fix the narrow tie that he’s added to his shirt.
“It looks like you’re tying a halter hitch,” I tell him. “You aren’t pulling a cow out of a ditch. Here, my daddy taught me. Just”—I slap his hands out of the way—“let me take care of that for you.”
He waits patiently while I undo the horrible knot. He says, “If my da owned a tie, I never saw him wear it.”
“Your da didn’t do a lot of things he ought to have done.”
He flinches.
“I mean, you’re twice the man he ever was.”
“Didn’t take it as a criticism. Sometimes it just feels like I’ll spend my whole life trying to catch up with all the things he didn’t do.”
“You’ve already caught up and run past him,” I say, earning a smile. “Here’s how my daddy taught me: the long end is a rabbit being chased by a fox, and the short end is a log. The rabbit goes over the log . . . under the log . . . around the log . . . and through the rabbit hole.” I make the motions as I talk, tying the knot for him. “Then you slide it up tight, and you’re done. Don’t pull on the rabbit; that’ll make it too tight. Just slide the knot up like this.”
“So the rabbit gets away?”
“Daddy was the type to always pity the frightened rabbit over the hungry fox.”
“Tonight we need to be a rabbit who thinks like a fox.”
“Or a fox who looks like a rabbit,” I say, standing back. “That looks . . .” Sudden shyness hitches my words. “You . . . Jefferson McCauley Kingfisher, I don’t mind saying you’re the finest-looking young man west of the Mississippi.”
He blinks, a little stunned. “And you’re beautiful.”
I shrug. “The best thing about this dress is it’s freshly washed.” It’s an unremarkable calico, blue to match Becky and Henry, the fabric a little faded. “But I don’t mind being a bit ordinary tonight.”
“Lee, there’s nothing ordinary about you,” Jefferson says.
Before I can reply, we’re interrupted by an overly dramatic sigh. Everyone is staring at us. Mary mimes a huge yawn.
“I offer my enthusiastic support for young love,” Becky says. “But can I beg you to hold off on your explorations until tomorrow?”
The Major sits on one of the benches, adjusting the straps that hold his wooden leg—a newer, bulkier design he just finished making. “I think the job that never gets started never gets finished. So let’s get started.”
Becky says, “Exactly my point. Do you have the invitation?”
I grab it from the table and hold in the air. My hand trembles. “Right here.”
The Major hefts Baby Girl Joyner. “Then off we go.”
We are solemn and silent as we exit the Charlotte and close the door behind us—as if we’re still at Jim’s funeral. So much hinges on tonight. There are so many things that must go exactly right.
My hand goes to the locket at my throat, but of course it’s gone. If all goes according to plan, I’ll never see it again, which puts a little ache in my chest. The locket will be nearby for a short while longer, and I reach out with my gold sense toward the Major and discover where he’s hidden it. The steady step-thump of the Major’s gait feels like it could be my own heartbeat.
“I can carry the baby for a spell,” Mary says.
The Major gives her up gratefully. He puts on a brave face, but I reckon walking long distances is hard on him, especially with a new leg he’s not quite used to yet. I take the lead, with Jefferson walking beside me and everyone else at my back. At the very end of the line, I’m aware of Olive and Andy quietly tagging behind.
Even if I hadn’t been to Hardwick’s house once already, I’d know which direction to go. Hardwick must have the contents of nearly a dozen gold-filled safes at his house, because it’s like a toothache throbbing in my jaw. Blindfold me and bind my hands, and I could still find my way.
But even without my powers, there’s no mistaking our path.
First we follow carriages as they rattle past. Then the carriages stop, jamming together at an intersection, waiting in what is only the slightest semblance of a line. We maneuver through the traffic to the place where impatient guests disembark from their assorted rides and join small throngs flowing along the margins of the street. Lanterns light the street and the gardens beyond the wall. Music swells, a Mexican band playing waltzes in the son jalisciense style, with violins, harps, and guitars. Laughter and shouts of delight rise above the music and float toward us.
A line of people awaits entry at the garden gate. Becky takes the baby from Mary.
“I don’t mind holding her,” Mary says, maybe a little bit wistfully.
“I need something to do right now,” Becky replies, clutching the nameless girl to her chest like a shield.
Ahead of us, several people are turned away—first a group of drunken miners, and soon after, a white man and his Indian wife.
“What if they don’t let us in?” Becky whispers.
“Then we give up this life of crime and get a good night’s sleep?” the Major says.
I glare at him before realizing he’s joking.
“They’ll let us in,” Jefferson says confidently.
“I know the fellows at the gate,” I assure them, indicating Large and Larger. But the baby, sensing Becky’s anxiety, fusses in her arms, so the Major leans over and sings softly to her.
“There was an old woman tossed up in a basket
Seventeen times as high as the moon
Where she was going, I could not but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom
‘Old woman, old woman, old woman,’ quoth I,
‘Oh whither, oh whither, oh whither so high?’
‘To sweep the cobwebs from the sky,
But I’ll be with you by and by.’”
The baby giggles and grabs at the Major’s beard; he leans down farther to let her take hold of it. “That’s a silly song,” Becky says, and though her words are judgmental, her tone is soft and her gaze fast on his face.