Iron Cast (12 page)

The Wellses were expecting Corinne on the twelve o'clock train. The cab dropped her off with only a few minutes to spare, and she ran through the station with her suitcase banging against her thighs. A few people gave her strange glances when she ran to the arrival platform. The train hadn't come yet, and she could see her parents at the opposite end of the platform. She cursed and stepped behind a potted plant. When the train pulled in, she waited until the rush of people disembarking had flooded the station; then she wended her way through the crowd and tapped her father on the shoulder.

“Corinne!” he said. “You always sneak up on us.”

“Very light feet,” she said. “Those dancing lessons at school have their practical applications.”

She dearly hoped her parents would never call on her to display her so-called skills, which the headmistress of Billings detailed in quarterly letters to the Wellses. Corinne embraced them each in turn. Her mother asked about the Latin competition, and Corinne gave purposely vague answers to all her questions, until finally her mother gave up and started telling her excitedly about some fete that had gone better than anyone expected. Corinne tried to listen, but she couldn't stop thinking about the two men outside the club, why they looked so familiar, and Ada's insistence that the Hemopath Protection Agency wouldn't trust the bulls to deal with the Cast Iron. The HPA had been formed by special appointment from the mayor less than a week after hemopathy had been declared illegal. Supposedly the agency's purpose was to ease the integration of hemopaths into society through mandatory registration, but in the past six months, it had become obvious that the HPA was more interested in sweeping hemopaths off the streets for any imagined
offense than in helping them integrate into society. Corinne had never come face-to-face with any agents, but if tales were true, they were ruthlessly efficient and handpicked for their heightened resistance to hemopathy.

It was hard to focus on anything with her mother rattling on, and finally Corinne pushed her anxious thoughts aside. She would tell Johnny tomorrow about the incident. He would know what to do.

Her father had driven the Mercedes, and Corinne rode in the backseat, popping three aspirin when her parents weren't watching and trying not to grimace. The taxi and the train station were bad enough without having to ride in the family's metal deathtrap all the way to their estate in the countryside. Perry and Constance Wells lived close enough to society to be involved, but distant enough to still seem important. Corinne had asked her mother once where the money came from, since her father's job as a banker didn't seem lucrative enough for their style of living. Her mother had said it wasn't polite to ask about finances, though Corinne later overheard phrases like “family money” and “old blood.” She didn't care enough to ask more, which was something her brother, Phillip, found disgraceful.

“Our name means something around here,” he'd told her once. “You should be grateful to be a part of it.”

The Wells name didn't mean anything around the Cast Iron or the other clubs—other than the reputation Corinne herself had built. That was all that mattered to her anymore. These holidays at the family estate were just bumps in the road.

Her mother had lunch served promptly at half past one, and Corinne sat down with her parents in the sunroom for sandwiches, fresh tomatoes from the hothouse, and a cucumber drink that she
actually quite liked. The Latin competition was not mentioned again, to her relief.

“Where's Phillip?” she asked, once she felt recovered enough to actually engage in her mother's one-sided conversation.

“He's with Angela and her family today,” Mrs. Wells said. “I was just saying in the car that he'll be driving back tomorrow morning.”

“Sorry, I must have been distracted.” At least she would be gone when he returned. She loved her brother, as a sister ought, but that was the only feeling she could conjure. “Like” was not something she'd felt toward him in years.

“I expect you'll give a speech at the rehearsal dinner on Tuesday,” her father said. “You've always been good at that sort of thing, Corinne.”

Corinne nodded absently before dropping her fork. Rehearsal dinner.

“His wedding is next week,” Corinne said.

Her parents exchanged a glance.

“Of course it is, darling,” her mother said.

“Don't tell me you forgot,” said Mr. Wells. “What sort of environment is that school, if you're too busy to remember your own brother's wedding?”

“I didn't forget,” Corinne said, though of course she had. “It just . . . sneaked up on me.”

“Me too,” said her mother. “Just yesterday I was remembering that no one has even bothered to ask the caterers if they can come early, because of course we can't expect the florists to set up at the same time, and Phillip is absolutely useless, but he doesn't want Angela being bothered with the arrangements.”

Her mother kept talking, but Corinne shared a look with
her father and gleaned from his glazed expression that it was all right to tune her out. The rest of the afternoon passed in a dreary, familiar monotony. Corinne refused to let the maid help her unpack, because then her mother would find out that the entirety of her suitcase was a hairbrush and a brick wrapped in a blanket to add weight. She'd sold all her school possessions after moving to the Cast Iron. There were always a few dresses in her closet at her parents' estate to tide her over.

She took a walk with her mother through the rose garden, but after half an hour the winter chill forced them inside. Fortunately her mother was too preoccupied with the wedding to insist on more quality time. Her father had already sequestered himself away in his office, so Corinne had free rein of the house. She headed straight for the study in the oldest part of the house, where most of the construction was wood and brick. It had been her grandfather's when he was alive. He was her mother's father and had come to live with them after his wife had died.

As a child, Corinne would sneak in while he worked and finger the knickknacks on the shelves. Sometimes, when he wasn't busy, he would tell her where they came from. There were wine corks from France, a dagger from Spain, and a crimson quill from the village where Shakespeare was born. Then there was the brass pocket watch from nowhere special, with its simple engraving:
Love, Alice.
Corinne never knew why it captured her imagination as it did, but she would spend hours sitting at his desk, watching him clean it, learning how to wind it, trying to convince him to tell her who Alice was. Her grandmother's name had been Dolores.

Her grandfather told her many times who Alice was, but every time she was someone different. Sometimes she was a lion tamer he'd met at a circus in Romania, or a fearsome pirate who had
boarded his ship in the Adriatic Sea, or an opera singer in Venice who could shatter glass with only her voice. Corinne had never particularly cared to hear the truth. What she loved best were the stories.

All her grandfather's possessions were gone now, packed away or given to relatives. The study was kept furnished but empty. After his funeral, Corinne's visits to her parents' home had dwindled to only holidays and very special occasions. She didn't see the point in coming more often than that, not when he was gone.

Corinne sat in the chair behind the desk and took out the pocket watch. She wanted to clean it, but she didn't have the right supplies. Instead she set it on the desk and traced the etched swirls on the back with her fingernail. She recited a poem by Christina Rossetti, even though there was no one around to see an illusion. She liked the way the words felt on her tongue without artifice. Beautiful and poignant and rhythmic, like the ticking of the watch beneath her fingertips.

Even though Ada knew that it was smarter to stick around the Cast Iron, she didn't want to while away the day doing nothing. Besides, she wasn't about to eat soggy leftovers for lunch when her mother lived only five blocks away.

She pulled on her coat, gloves, and a warm cloche hat. The common room was empty—she, Corinne, and Saint were the only ones living down here right now. Other members of Johnny's trusted circle drifted in and out on the current of their erratic lives. There had been one memorable summer when every inch of floor space was filled with blankets, pillows, and dirty socks.

Today everything was peaceful. The seating area was cluttered as usual, with books and sheet music and half-cleaned instruments.
As she walked past Saint's open door, she caught a glimpse of his red hair, but she didn't slow down. The sharp scent of paint and brush cleaner followed her all the way to the stairs.

She knew that someday, somehow, she would have to find a way to at least acknowledge his presence, but not yet. She was still having nightmares about Haversham.

At the top of the stairs, Gordon was in conversation with someone, which was strange enough by itself. What was stranger was that the visitor was Charlie.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him, leaning in for a peck on the lips. Charlie never showed up at the Cast Iron during the day. It wasn't that he wasn't welcome exactly, just that the rivalry between the Red Cat and the Cast Iron hovered between friendly competition and something much more caustic. Several years ago Luke Carson had tried unsuccessfully to edge Johnny out of business. It had escalated from mudslinging to violence in less than a month, ending only when Johnny had shown up at the Red Cat during a performance, sat down right at Carson's table, and calmly promised to burn the club to the ground if Carson didn't back off. That was how the story went, anyway. It was one of Corinne's favorites. Supposedly the two club owners had buried the hatchet since then, but Ada was still careful not to spend a lot of time with Charlie when Johnny was around. Just in case.

“Good morning to you too,” he said, his mouth working into a smile. He looked dapper in a brown coat and slacks, holding his hat in his hands.

“Morning,” Ada said, heading for the back door. “Did we have plans?”

“Not as such.” He skipped ahead of her to open the door. “Hold on—you take care, Gordon, you hear?”

He waved farewell before shutting the door. Gordon returned the wave, which was another first.

“Why does Gordon like you?” Ada asked.

“We've been together for nine months now,” Charlie said. “Haven't you figured out that everybody likes me?”

Being best friends with Corinne meant being practiced at looking unimpressed. Ada put on that expression now and crossed her arms. Charlie chuckled and offered her his arm. She wanted to be annoyed at him, but his expression was so earnest and genuine that she tucked her hand under his elbow and walked with him to the street. The alleyway wasn't the most pleasant place to have a conversation, what with the stench of garbage lingering.

“You hear about the raid the other night?” she asked.

“Why do you think I came?” He slipped his right hand over her fingers on his arm.

“We're all fine,” she said.

She wanted to tell him about the close call with the cops, but the words curdled in her throat when she remembered the dead look in their eyes as she'd played them into oblivion. Charlie didn't have any family to support, and he made enough money at the Red Cat that he never had to run cons with Carson's crew. Charlie was a songsmith who played hope and joy better than any other feeling. Ada, on the other hand, could make a grown man forget his own mother's face with only a few bars. She could play loss so keen that regs would sometimes fall to their knees and weep. What did that say about her?

“I wish I'd been there,” Charlie said.

“I'm glad you weren't,” she told him. She coughed around the lump in her throat and realized that she had inadvertently brought them back to the argument they had started and never finished
before the show. She worried her lip between her teeth and waited for him to speak.

The street was quiet today, with a crisp cold breeze and a sky the color of a troubled sea. Ada could smell the bakery around the corner, and somewhere distant a child was laughing.

“If you'll tell me why you're mad at me, I'll apologize,” Charlie said. “I just don't know what I did.”

It took Ada a few seconds to figure out that he wasn't joking.

“You didn't do anything,” she said. “I'm not mad.”

Charlie pulled her gently to a stop and turned to face her, holding her hand between them. He studied her face intently, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to believe her.

“I never know exactly what you're thinking, Ada,” he said at last. “I love that about you, but I also can't help but feel that there's something you aren't telling me. Something you don't want me to know.”

Ada wanted to deny it, but she couldn't get the words out. The truth was that there were a thousand things she didn't want him to know. Things that scared her about herself. Things that shamed her. Things she didn't trust to anyone but Corinne. Being with Charlie was easy, and she was terrified of losing that.

“I just want to be with you,” she managed to say. That was true, at least. “The rest doesn't matter.”

“You told me you wouldn't have wanted my help at the asylum.” The accusation in his voice was gentle, but it was there.

“Because I don't want you to get hurt.” Because if he risked that much for her, she could no longer pretend that whatever was between them was simple and uncomplicated.

“I want to be there when you need me,” he said, gripping her hand more tightly. His brown eyes were golden bright in the
daylight. He moved a half step closer, just close enough that she could feel his warmth pressing up against her. “I love you, Ada.”

The words were somehow both a succor and a crushing blow. Love had never been on the table before. Love wasn't simple and uncomplicated. Ada wanted to slide her hands around his neck and feel his lips against hers. She also wanted to run away.