She snatches him by the collar, smacks him on the back of his head, and scolds him. He’s almost in my grasp when he tears free and darts around the corner into a warren of smaller streets and shanties. The young woman continues calmly toward the docks as if nothing has happened, clutching that bag tight.
I tear after the boy. I’m around the corner and halfway down the street when I catch myself.
The melody of Becky’s gold is moving in the other direction now. Away from me.
The bump was a handoff.
It was done so smoothly that I didn’t suspect a thing. Without my witchy powers, I’d have missed it, for sure and certain.
I dust myself off and turn around as if I’ve reluctantly given up pursuit. My performance is wasted. The boy is long gone, and the young woman is headed away, oblivious to me.
She walks at a normal pace, like a woman with nothing to fear, so it’s easy to extend my stride and catch up. Seeing as how she’s leading me right back to Becky and Jefferson and Hampton, I’m in no rush.
I steadily close the distance and listen for the gold. The shape of it tells a story. She has a secret pocket sewn in the waist of her dress, which she hides by clutching the mostly empty bag in front of her. The pocket holds Becky’s purse and two others, plus several large nuggets of varying shapes and a few loose coins, including a half coin with a sheared edge.
That last one’s call feels sad, like a song in minor key. The shape of it is so distinct and specific that it’s easy to single out from the rest. It becomes my beacon.
As I approach her from behind, I focus all on my attention on that broken coin.
When I first learned to call the gold to me, it was all or nothing. Every nugget, every flake, every piece of dust in range came flying and left me standing there like a statue covered in gold leaf. The first time, it happened when a few folks happened to be watching.
It was dark and rainy, and no one knows for sure what they saw. Still, in the months since, the story spread faster than a summer wildfire. Even some of the miners in Glory have been telling tall tales of a Golden Goddess. They say she’s lucky. That if you catch a glimpse of her in the hills, you’ll be blessed by a straight week of pure color.
There’s no stopping tall tales from spreading, but letting those stories get connected to me will draw a deadly kind of attention. So with Jefferson’s help, I’ve been figuring out how to control my power.
Only a few steps behind the young woman now. The waist of her dress is cinched as tight as it can go, and it still hangs loose. In spite of the cool air, sweat curls the dirty blond strands at the nape of her neck.
I think hard about that broken coin. Then I hold my hand out in front of me and close my fist.
The jagged edge surges toward me, straining against the pocket seams.
I unfold my hand and push the broken coin away.
The gesture is unnecessary—I can control the gold just fine without it—but I’ve found it makes things a little easier, acting like a focus for my thoughts. So my fist clenches and releases, clenches and releases, as we walk down the street. I probably seem daft to anyone looking, but San Francisco is a busy place, and no one pays me any mind.
My friends are waiting just ahead. Hampton has climbed down from the wagon. Jefferson stares at me with a worried frown. Becky seems distressed.
I ignore my friends for the moment and work harder, pulling and pushing the rough edge of that coin like a saw against the seam of the hidden pocket. The young woman’s steps quicken; surely she has noticed something odd by now.
She’s making her way around our wagon, and my friends are stepping toward me, when the seam breaks and the coin comes flying out of the dress.
I mentally grab everything else in the pocket—the other purses, the nuggets, the coins—and imagine a sharp tug downward, just like milking a cow.
A small fortune in gold tumbles from her dress and plops into the mud. She gasps, falling to her knees, ruining her skirt.
“Ma’am,” I say, rushing forward before she can gather it all up herself. “Ma’am, you dropped something.”
She faces me. Up close, she’s even younger than I expected. In spite of her light hair, her eyes are as brown and hard as acorns. An awful lot of thinking is going on in those hard brown eyes.
“I reckon this is yours.” I pick up the broken coin and put it in her hand. It gleams like a half moon. Her palms are calloused, her fingernails ragged as if trimmed by teeth. She did hard labor before turning to thievery.
Her fingers close around the coin, and she slips it quickly into the cheap cloth bag she carries. I squat beside her.
“I don’t know what happened,” she says, quickly gathering nuggets and loose coins into her bag. “I must have tipped my bag when I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Just an accident, I’m sure,” I tell her. “My name’s Lee.”
“Thank you, Lee. I’m Sonia. I can’t tell you how much your kindness means to me.”
She reaches for Becky’s coin purse. I pin her wrist with one hand and snatch up the purse with the other.
“Sonia, I’m afraid this one belongs to my friend. There’s an engraving on the inside of the clasp that says R.J., and I can tell you exactly how many coins are in it and what their weight comes to.”
Her brows knit, and she stares at me with those hard eyes. She tries to jerk her hand free, but I’m not about to let go—I’ve spent my life doing hard labor too, on the farm at home, on the wagon train west, in the goldfields.
Becky, Jefferson, and Hampton surround us. “What’s going on here?” Jefferson asks, genuinely mystified.
“My new friend Sonia here dropped some things, and I’m helping her pick up,” I explain. I hand Becky’s purse to her. There’s a firm set to Becky’s mouth, and unlike Jeff, she knows exactly what we’re about.
Sonia jerks her hand away, and this time I let go. Her face shows relief as she shoves the remaining items into her bag and stands. No one will be turning her in today.
“Thank you for your help, Lee. Not everyone in this town would’ve been so kindly.”
“That little blond-haired boy—is he your brother?” I ask.
“Billy? No, ain’t many left as still got family. Just a few friends.”
Maybe I’d be in her place, if I didn’t have Jefferson and Becky and Hampton and everyone else. “It’s important to have friends.”
She holds my gaze. “Thanks again. Be careful here in San Francisco—this city is full of thieves.” She pauses, her stare unwavering. Then, carefully: “The biggest thieves, the real ones, will take everything you have, even the clothes off your back.”
She rushes off before I can respond. Jefferson removes his hat and scratches his head. “What just happened here?”
Hampton laughs, a deep rumbly sound. “That little slip of a girl just tried to rob Mrs. Joyner. Thought she had a sunfish on the line, but it turned out to be a shark.”
I glare. “I’m the shark?”
“Meant it as a flattery.”
I turn to Jefferson, the question in my eyes, and yes, I’m not ashamed to admit I’m fishing for a compliment.
“Well, you do have a dangerous smile.” Before I can follow up, he says, “But seriously, what just happened here?”