The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“Tuesday,” I say. “What Tuesday?”


“What d’you mean, what Tuesday? This one, with her questions.” She jerks her chin at me as she sets the beer mugs down in front of four men at the table next to the one where I awoke.

“I mean, when’s the Aquatic Display?” I ask. “Has it happened yet?”

When I ask this, two young men in shabby work pants sitting together at the rear of the hall prick up their ears. They’re both young, not much older than I am. One of them has curls over his ears, and a skullcap. The other is dark as a Senegalese. They exchange a look.

“Naw,” the beer-hall mistress says, giving me a Croaker-eye. “Not ’til day after tomorrow. And the ward boss making me pay for bunting out of my tribute, too.”

She eyes the unconscious girl who’d been sharing my table with me, then eyes me, and then folds her arms.

“That beer paid for?”

“Um,” I demur.

The girl’s obviously not going to pay. I have no idea who she is. I rummage in my pockets, wondering if this strange memory I’ve stumbled into will supply me with any money. Sure enough, I find a few pennies in my pocket and count them out in my palm.

The woman snatches them out of my hand with a sour look and turns her back on me.

I recognize this beer hall. It’s in a basement on Bayard Street, a couple of blocks from Herschel’s uncle’s store. We used to come here often, though he was always afraid someone would see us. Once, he recognized some young men from his synagogue loafing together in the back, and we turned back at the door.

Tuesday. Two days until the canal opening. Which means my family has absconded to Hudson Square already. What happens today? What am I supposed to do?

I look down at my hands, and find my cameo is still missing.

“Why am I back here?” I whisper to myself, flexing my fingers.

“Why indeed,” the beer-hall mistress hollers at me from across the room, and the men she’s serving chuckle.

There’s a woolen cloak with a beer stain on the sleeve draped over the bench next to the sleeping girl at my table. I feel a twinge of guilt as I reach for it, and then remind myself that this is all dream-stuff, anyway. I tie the cloak under my chin and hurry outside.

It’s late afternoon, with a few dead leaves skittering up the center of the street, riding a puff of autumn wind. The light slants low between the buildings, and though life is stirring in doorways and behind windows, for the moment the street is deserted. I pull my stolen cloak around my shoulders against the chill and trot down the block.

At the corner, I hear footsteps behind me, and I stop, ears straining. The sound of horse hooves reaches me from one street over, and a wagon creaking on its struts.

I whip around to look behind me—no one is there.

Just shadows.

“Stop it, Annie,” I castigate myself.

I turn the corner and walk faster. Pearl Street falls into shadow as the sun slips behind the buildings, and the darkness chills me deeper. My knuckles are growing numb.

I arrive outside the dry goods store and peer in through the window, shading my eyes with my hands, looking to see if Herschel is behind the counter. If he’s not working, I usually walk past. But today, I can’t. Today, I have to find him. It’s too dark for me to see inside, but the door is propped open. I gird myself and step inside.

“Go away,” someone says from a doorway behind the counter. “We’re closed.”

I can’t see who’s talking, but I recognize the gravelly, accented voice of Herschel’s uncle.

“The door was open,” I falter.

“My mistake,” the uncle says.