Against a Brightening Sky (12 page)

“You might be surprised, Dee. Even a minor province would have had a ruling prince before the war.” She forced her gaze away from the princess and back to me, her smile wistful and melancholy. “There's not quite the limit on princesses you might think, but narrowing things down a bit would still help. Now be a dear and get dressed to go out. You're coming along with me to meet Melba. Not that I suspect trickery or anything underhanded, but I want your opinion on how genuine her story appears. We're going to a cozy new café on Belden Lane in the French Quarter. Wear your red shantung and that little white hat you bought last month.”

“Go ahead and admit it, Dora. You'd planned to fetch me all along. I should have known.” I untied my apron and hung it next to the back door. Most days I'd jump at the chance of lunch in the French Quarter, but time with Melba was a steep price to pay for croissants and quiche. “What makes you think I can tell if Melba's telling the truth or not? Suffering through one evening of her company doesn't make me an expert. I barely know the woman.”

“I wouldn't ask you to endure her again, but you have a level of expertise I lack. And if you're going to blame anyone, blame Sadie for suggesting I speak with you before my meeting.” Dora ground her cigarette out in an old saucer I kept for just that purpose. “You heard Dominic Mullaney's story firsthand about what his men saw during the riot. I recall you saying his men saw angels and monsters reaching out of the clouds. What Melba describes as demons gathered outside her house sounds very much the same.”

“Angels and monsters, riding the wind.” I gripped the chipped and worn lip of the drain board, edges biting into my palms. “Banshees.”

“I hesitate to jump to that conclusion just yet. For one thing, this is San Francisco. We're not in Galway or Kilkenny.” Dora's mouth puckered in distaste. “But I'm hard-pressed to think of another explanation, not one that doesn't terrify me a great deal more. San Francisco does have a large Irish population. Magical creatures and spiritual beings have followed the people who believe in them to other lands since the beginning of time.”

Rain-swollen clouds had begun to fill the sky, blotting out the sun and piling up against the East Bay hills. I went to stand behind my chair and folded my arms over my chest, suddenly chilled. “So you're saying this really could be banshees.”

“There is a chance, yes. I'd be foolish to dismiss the idea out of hand, Dee.” Dora poured the last of the tea into her cup, grimacing as she took a sip. The tea must have been lukewarm at best by now. “Stories about black dogs, veiled and shrouded women on horseback, and even tales about a hearse pulled by two headless white horses are very common in the South and throughout the Appalachians. Every small mountain town and isolated hollow has stories of a family member hearing a banshee wailing before someone in the household died.”

“We take Melba and the union men at their word, then, at least for now.” I brushed a finger along the top of the chair, noting the alternating smooth and rough patches. “And if banshees are roaming the streets of San Francisco and inciting riots in their off hours, what then?”

“Don't be absurd, Delia. Banshees can't change their fundamental nature any more than your cat could sprout wings. I'd be more inclined to think Melba is right and she is seeing demons.” Dora smiled brightly and shooed me toward the kitchen door. “Now, go get dressed. I'd like to arrive before the rain starts in earnest. On the way back, we'll stop in to check on Connor and Jack.”

I left to change, thinking hard and searching for answers. All I found were more questions.

More puzzles.

*   *   *

Newcomers to San Francisco were often confused when the short stretch of Belden Lane was spoken of as being the heart of the French Quarter. I was never sure if the confusion arose from not knowing the city had a French Quarter, or that such a short, narrow street was its heart. Both things were true, no matter how strange they appeared to outsiders.

I couldn't imagine the city without the cafés, the bakeries, and dressmaker shops of the French Quarter. The first three thousand French settlers had arrived in 1851 at the end of the Gold Rush, their journey to settle in California sponsored by the French government. Those early French settlers held their place through waves of Chinese, Irish, and Italian immigrants, coexisting with all of them. The enclave still existed, changed as all the city had changed, but still thriving.

The sky had cleared, taking away the threat of rain. Dora parked the car less than a block from the entrance to Belden Lane. Men smiled and tipped their hats as she climbed out of the car, or boldly said hello. Many women would have shied away, or pretended they didn't see, but Dora, being Dora, smiled right back. She wasn't at all shy, but she wasn't flirting either.

Dora fussed with the drape of her coat before tucking her black leather handbag under an arm. “The café isn't right on Belden proper, but a few doors down in this direction. We can walk from here.” I pretended not to notice the shimmer in a shop window and the image of the princess ghost that immediately followed. She'd ridden along with us, her face occupying a lower corner of the windshield. If I'd harbored any doubts she was attached to me and not a specific place, those were gone. “Will Melba be waiting inside or on the walkway?”

“She didn't say.” Dora looped her arm through mine and we set off. She was smiling and extraordinarily cheerful, a combination I normally welcomed. But there was an edge to her cheerfulness, a wariness in the way she watched people, that put me on my guard. “Remember, Dee, I've never met Melba. I'm counting on you to prevent me from questioning a complete stranger about the demons outside her window.”

“I can see how that might grow awkward.” I patted her arm and laughed, maintaining the cheerful façade for passersby. “I promise to point Melba out if you tell me what's wrong. And don't try to put me off, Isadora Bobet. I can tell something is bothering you. You might as well come out with it.”

She gave me an exasperated sidelong glance, but her smile never faltered. “If I knew exactly what was wrong, I'd tell you. All I'm sure of is that we're being watched and have been since shortly after we left your house. What bothers me most is I can't tell
what
is watching us. I should at least be able to tell if we're drawing attention from the living or the dead, but I can't. Each time I attempt to determine where the attention comes from, things become fuzzy. That I can't be sure one way or the other makes me doubly cautious.”

“Let me try. Maybe I can at least sort out who or what is spying on us. We both know spirits hide from you.” I tugged Dora toward a dressmaker's window, pointing out embroidered cotton-lawn collars. She chatted on about workmanship and stitch patterns. That freed me to look inward and cast about for anything out of the ordinary.

I found the watcher in an instant and immediately regretted that I had. The weight of ages come and gone filled its eyes and pinned me where I stood, a presence cloaked in shadows and the dry smell of death. That the sun shone and people were all around didn't lessen my fear. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, until the watcher released me and slithered away.

Old haunts, Gold Rush miners and dance hall girls, Russian fur trappers and long-dead sailors, occupied the space where the watcher had been. These ghosts belonged here; they were a part of this city and its past. The presence I'd sensed was older than any of San Francisco's ghosts, but the watcher was an intruder.

Dora loosened her grip on my arm and peered at me. “My, my, Dee … how interesting. I couldn't see anything, but I definitely felt it leave. What exactly did you do? You seem to have scared whatever that was away.”

A quick glance showed me the princess ghost had vanished from the window. Instinct, or that second sense that told me what to expect from ghosts, said she'd return eventually. She wasn't afraid of me, I knew that, and nothing I'd done had persuaded the ghost to leave. That she left with the watcher was puzzling.

“I didn't do anything.” I struggled to calm my racing heart, no longer panicked but desperate to banish the feel of drowning. “I absolutely wasn't responsible for that—that creature leaving. Whatever that was left of its own accord. Either we got a passing mark or the watcher grew bored waiting for us to do something worthy.”

“Judgment? Are you sure, Dee?” Isadora's eyes took on a faraway look, a sure sign she'd half remembered something and searched for the missing piece. She gripped my arm again, rushing me away from the shop window and toward our meeting with Melba. “Take your time deciding if need be.”

I didn't have to think; the answer came easily. “I'm sure. Do you have any idea what that was?”

She frowned. “No, only bad guesses, and those are likely to be more dangerous and harmful for being wrong. Very few spirit beings judge the living—family or land guardians, for the most part, or individual keepers charged with the safety of an heir. These are old-world creatures, tied to ancient dynasties, and I've not heard of them existing on this continent. Knowing what guardian has taken such a keen interest in the two of us might be the missing piece to a puzzle or two.”

We sidestepped around a young couple. They walked arm in arm, deep in conversation and blind to anything but each other. Seeing the two of them together awoke all my worry for Gabe and how he was weathering the day at work. Changing things for him, good or ill, wasn't within my power. That didn't stop me from fretting.

“Banshees appear to have taken up residence in San Francisco. I'd assume old-world guardians aren't outside the realm of possibility, especially with the number of refugees living here.” Speculation flickered across Dora's face, crystalizing mine. “Alina is a refugee. I can't think of anyone more in need of a guardian.”

“You may be right, Dee. That Alina doesn't remember who her family is may be a guardian's attempt to protect her. My guess is that she isn't able to handle the memory of what happened to her family. That is only a guess at this point.” Dora smiled sadly and patted my arm. “Perhaps we dismissed her resemblance to your new ghost too easily. Sending a telegram to an old friend in New York might help provide answers. Trevor has special access to all the closed and restricted areas of the New York Public Library. The materials I need aren't available to just anyone.”

“And what do we do if the watcher comes back?”

“I'm not at all sure the creature is really gone. My guess is it's taking more care to stay hidden now that we've discovered it exists.” Dora's steps slowed as she checked signs and read addresses. “The café should be very close by. It's called Moulin de Provence. Do you see it?”

“No, but there's Melba.” I pointed to a set of overgrown hydrangea bushes on either side of a doorway and the woman half hidden behind pink bubble-shaped blossoms. Melba Andersen had been thin to the point of appearing ill since the day I met her. A pale, almost pasty complexion added to the impression of someone slowly wasting away. That Melba wasn't riddled by consumption came as a shock to people meeting her for the first time. “I wonder if she wore that shade of green to blend into the scenery.”

“Try to be kind, Delia, and remember she's genuinely frightened.” I rarely saw pity in Dora's eyes, but her expression softened as she watched Melba. “Given Melba's opinions on the occult and prohibition, consulting with me could destroy her reputation. Can you imagine the scandal if word gets out? It took a great deal of courage for her to come at all. Introduce me and we can get on with this.”

“Melba?” She jumped at her name, startled to the point I thought she'd bolt down the street. I put on a friendly, social smile, burying the lingering distaste generated by memories of my last encounter with Melba Andersen. Dora was right; Melba appeared genuinely terrified. “We've found you at last. I'd like to introduce my friend Isadora Bobet. Dora, this is Melba Andersen.”

“I didn't expect to see you, Delia.” Melba clutched her handbag to her chest, fingers digging into brown leather and bled white from holding tight. “I've made a mistake. Forgive me for bringing you out for nothing, Miss Bobet, but I think I should leave now.”

“Mrs. Andersen, please stay.” Dora smiled and stepped up to block Melba's way, lightly touching her arm. Melba wouldn't notice the wince or the tightness around Dora's eyes, but I saw. “I apologize for not warning you in advance that Dee would be joining us. Delia is a colleague and knows nearly as much about these matters as I do. Since we'll be working together I thought it best if she heard your story, too. Let us help you, Melba. Please.”

Melba looked between us, searching our faces for a trace of mockery, hoping to find the truth in Dora's words. I knew the instant she'd decided. All the wariness vanished from her eyes and tension bled from her stance. “There's a small private dining patio in the back. I've made arrangements for us to have lunch there if that's all right with you.”

Dora gave Melba her brightest, most charming smile and took her arm. “That sounds perfect. Lead the way.”

The entrance to a narrow brick pathway lay just past the largest of the hydrangea bushes. Johnny-jump-ups, pansies, and dianthus filled flower beds on either side, making the trip to the back patio both colorful and fragrant. Dark green moss grew in the cracks and spaces between the broken flagstones that formed the patio, adding a splash of color to the gray and white stone. Flowering plum trees grew around the margin, casting leaf shadows that skittered and danced with each passing breeze.

All in all, it was a beautiful, secluded spot, out of sight of the street as well as the café patrons inside. Melba couldn't have chosen a more perfect place for a clandestine meeting. Still, she fidgeted in her chair until the waiter had taken our order and gone back inside. This was more than a mere case of nerves or the fear someone might see her with Isadora.