“In the future?” he asked, perplexed. “How many years in the future?”
“Many,” she said.
“But how—”
“I’ve worked out the details. It shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then: “You wouldn’t want to perform the task yourself?”
“I’m afraid I have too many other things to do. And I’m afraid I don’t have much time.”
He put the cup and saucer on the table, surprised. Was she ill? But if she was, she would never say.
“And,” she added, “it will help them.”
He exhaled. They had been gone for six years. He couldn’t see how they could be helped now. But they had been supporters of education for all people, no matter what color their skin. And he had spent quite a few evenings in front of their hearth.
“Yes. Yes, I will make the necessary arrangements if you think it important.”
“Thank you,” she said. “There is also a donation in the envelope.”
Suddenly, the fire was too warm, his cravat too tight. He had come as a friend, and he was to be treated as a paid employee. “Pardon me?”
“A rather large donation. For your school.”
“Their money?” he said.
“No. Mine.”
“Money they bequeathed to you.”
She laughed. “They did bequeath plenty to me, it’s true, but not what you think. It is my money I give to you. I have my own investments. My own interests. My own profession. I always have.”
“Interests,” he said. “Yes. I did hear tell of a fearsome man come to New York City some months ago looking for a runaway from Virginia. He claimed a woman had divested him of all his coin and other valuables, warned him that if he dared to meddle with any runaways or anyone else, he would be dealt with most harshly.”
“How curious,” she murmured.
“And then this woman tossed him into the Hudson. Of course no one believed him. Eventually he stopped speaking of it, for the shame was too great.”
“Shame over the wrong thing, I’d wager.”
“But that was before he disappeared entirely. Some people said he went back to Virginia. Other people believe he did not escape so easily.”
“Fascinating.”
He chose his words carefully, as he always did. “Have you heard the stories as well? About this man, and others like him?”
Her lovely mouth twisted into a smile. “Why do you ask? Do you think anyone misses men like them?”
The uneasiness had come over him again. His eyes roved over the bookshelves, the table in front of him. A sheaf of paper was stacked neatly there. On the top page, in an elegant hand, were the words: The Lost Ones, a story by A Lady.
“Are you the lady in question?” he asked.
“Oh, I am always and forever a lady.”
Though he did not believe that was an answer, he nodded. He took another sip of the tea despite the fact it was already going tepid.
She said, “I have one more request that might prove a little more painful.”
“Oh?”
“Your walking stick. It was a gift.” A statement, as she knew exactly who had given it to him.
“Yes,” he said, running his fingers lightly over the dragon’s head.
“Do you think you could part with it?”
“Part with it?”
“They didn’t tell you when they gave it to you, but it has more than one use. It is not just a walking stick.”
“Pardon?” he said, his voice growing an edge. This was too much. This sounded mad.
“Let me make their apologies now that they cannot. There is much they couldn’t say to anyone, even to you.”
“And giving up my walking stick will help them?”
“It will help others.”
“How?” he said, the edge getting even sharper.
“It is a beginning,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“They knew they could trust you with it,” she said.
“Not enough to explain,” he said, standing. He picked up the walking stick. He had carried it for years, liked the weight of it, the feel of it. But he was not a man who would keep a gift that hadn’t been given freely. He was not a man who needed a crutch.
He held out the walking stick, and she took it. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He considered her and wondered if the gleam in her eyes wasn’t as bright as he had known it to be, if her spark was truly fading out. “I’m sorry, too.”
After that, there was nothing left to say.
A few moments later, he was outside. He tucked the envelope inside his coat, trying not to feel naked without the walking stick, the reassuring message engraved on the ring below the handle: All that opens is not a door. True. A heart opens. A mind.
Well, he still had those. And he wanted to get them home to his own hearth, his own bed. The wind had picked up, an icy curtain wafting off the river. A shadow appeared in front of him, startling him, but it was nothing but the moonlight passing through the trees. The streets were empty now, and the windows dark. He heard creaks and moans, and he told himself that this was just the wind in the bare branches, the guttural utterings of discontented ghosts. And yet, sneaking underneath the creaks and the moans—a whisper, a cough, the heels of furtive boots. Not just from one direction, but from every direction. Behind him. To the east. To the west. From everywhere at once.
A shiver chased down his spine. The uneasiness he had felt in Ava Oneal’s parlor grew and grew till his open heart was fit to beat out of his chest, his open mind a flood of revelation that threatened to drown him.
Someone was coming.
And something was coming. War, yes, a long and bitter war that would shake the nation to its very soul.
But something else, too. Something bigger, something that could swallow the whole of the world, bones and all.
Charles Reason lost all reason, and ran.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank my indomitable agent, Tina Wexler; my incredible editor, Jordan Brown; and the always fabulous Debbie Kovacs at Walden Pond Press for shepherding York from its rocky beginnings some four years ago through to its current form. Thanks to Sasha Vinogradova for the gorgeous cover art, designer Aurora Parlagreco for the beautiful design, and art director Amy Ryan for her vision. And thanks to Danielle Smith for getting the word out. I’m lucky to have you all on my side.