The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“Ed?” I say to the sniveling creature cowering on the carriage bench in his new suit. He rubs his eyes and stares at me.

“Here,” I say, pulling the cameo of Persephone off my finger. It glows faintly in the oncoming night. I bring it to my lips for a fast kiss and then slide it quickly onto my brother’s thumb. “You hold this for me while I’m on the barge. Keep it safe. That’s your job. All right?”

He looks down at the trinket with fresh interest. “All right,” he acquiesces. “But only ’til you come back.”

“Fair enough.” I smile. “Now whatever you do, stay here, with Mother and Papa. All right?”

My siblings nod dumbly, and a strange golden glimmer seems to pass over the scene, the fairy wash of light I saw at the park. Like a leaf showing its underside on a breeze. A subtle change.

“Annie . . . ,” Beattie starts to say. Her face crumples and she can’t finish.

“I know. Me, too,” I reply.

Herschel’s hand is around mine, and it’s time for me to go. I slam the carriage door against my mother’s muffled cry of “Where does she think she’s going?” We take off at a dead run, weaving through the crowd.

“They’re going to cast off!” Herschel cries. “We have to hurry!”

The gangplank is thronged with so many people that we’ll never be able to fight our way on. The barge sags low in the water, heavy with bunting and bands and milling people, streamers dropping between the gunwales and the shore. A few rowboats bump up against the hull, full of more people laughing, tossing streamers, a few uninvited young men trying to vault aboard.

“We can get on from the stern,” I shout to Herschel, pointing.

He nods, and we dash through the crowd away from the gangplank to the shade of a tree near the end of the Battery, its branches trailing streamers like a weeping willow. We skid to a stop as a rough-looking young man steps forward from the shadows, clutching a weathered leather bag to his chest. The leather has been branded with the pattern of a spindle.

“That’s Claude,” Herschel explains. “It’s all right. He’s with us.”

“Here, take it,” the man says, thrusting the bag into Herschel’s arms. He has a thick Creole accent. Another contraband. “You sure you’re ready?”

“I’m ready,” Herschel says.

“What she be doing here?” The man gives me a suspicious look, taking in my fancy dress and my prissy curls.

“It’s okay. I’m in the Brotherhood,” I say, fixing him with my steeliest stare.

“Okay?” the rough-looking Creole repeats as though he’s never heard the expression before, and I smile to myself.

Herschel is startled to hear this pledge of revolutionary allegiance from me, but when the suspicious man eyes him for confirmation, he nods, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance. “It’s perfect,” Herschel insists to him. “Her father’s in the corporation. She’s kept us apprised of their plans all along.” He peers at me closely, and then adds with a smile, “It’s oll korrect.”

I grin at him.

The young man’s suspicion morphs into a begrudging respect, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “All right,” he says. “Remember. Paint the letters big. Big as you possibly can. It’s pointless if no one ashore can see.”

“Right,” Herschel says, peering into the leather satchel to confirm its contents and then slinging it over his shoulder.

“Paint?” I echo. “What do you mean, paint?”

“A slogan of liberation. On the barge,” Herschel says, and the tone of his voice suggests he’s reminding me of something I already know.

“Wait. We’re not blowing it up?” I ask.

“Blowing it up?” He laughs. “Of course not! The original Luddites smashed the cotton machines. But if we smash the machines of oppression, they just build more. Our Brotherhood is different. We’re here to change their minds instead. Come on!”