The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“Not like we are,” he says with finality.

The stovepipe-hatted man outside shoves the beggar woman off him and shouts loudly enough that we can hear it through the glass. She rains a hail of curses on him the likes of which are surprising, even for someone who’s accustomed to the Bowery.

I start backing away, one foot at a time.

“Come now,” my father says, seeing the horror in my face. “It’s all to the good, don’t you see? Tonight the entire city will celebrate. Some radicals may have tried to shut it down, but they’ve failed. This canal will bring all the country together, and into the future.”

“No,” I whisper. “No, it’s not to the good.”

“Annie, be reasonable. In any case, it’ll never be outlawed entirely, no matter what your mother’s ladies’ group likes to think. Your mother agrees with me. She knows how important slave money is to our enterprise.”

Mother knows?

But of course, Mother knows. And she doesn’t care, either. She just sees the money, and the political opportunity. She just sees what she wants to see.

I grope for the ceramic base of the large palmetto plant in my aunt’s drawing room, bend double at the waist, and heave into it. My stomach is empty. Nothing comes out but bile. I spit, to get the awful taste of the truth out of my mouth.

“Annie!” my father cries.

Slavemonger. That’s what the note said. With a flourish at the end, like the tail on a snake. But maybe the flourish was really an S. SlavemongerS.

I look up from the planter, my mouth hanging open, a rivulet of saliva hanging from my chin. My father is looking down on me with a mixture of fear and concern. He’s stopped just short of resting a hand on my back.

I was in the library with Wes. And I read the note with that awful word. I was upset, desperately upset. And then . . .

I glance up at my father’s horrified face, and I begin to laugh.





CHAPTER 7


Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God!

She just disappeared! What the hell am I supposed to do?

I look around in a panic, but it’s not like anyone is going to know that anything’s happened. I feel like I’m supposed to be doing something. Like I need to spring into action. But what? Who do you call when your . . . when your . . . when someone just disappears?

I look back down at the note.

Slavemonger. She seemed really upset by that. But why?

“Is everything okay?” someone asks behind me, and I jump so hard I almost drop the paper, which would be bad since it’s, like, an antique and everything. The librarian is standing there looking at me like I’ve grown two noses.

“WHAT? Oh yeah. I’m fine.” I try to cover how completely freaked out I am by the fact that this girl who’s been stalking my every waking moment has just literally disappeared into thin air.

“You’re sweating,” the librarian points out.

Gingerly I reassemble the note into its little origami square and place it back in the library box without meeting the librarian’s eyes. Yeah. I’m sweating. You bet I am. It’s all I can do not to barf right in this library box.

“Yeah, well. It’s super hot out.” I give her a big fake cartoon character smile. “July in New York. Am I right?”

The fact is, the air-conditioning in here makes it completely arctic. She’s even wearing long sleeves. The librarian gives me a funny look, and says, “Uh-huh. Just let me know when you’re done with those materials, okay?”

“Sure,” I say. “I will.”