The Crimson Skew (18 page)

Cassandra's face lit up. “That would be
so
helpful.”

“Then I'd be glad to help.”

“Thank you so much.”

“No, Cassandra,” he said, handing the paper back to her. “Thank you.”

—August 10, 16-Hour 10—

THE PLOTTERS HAD
been reduced to four when Miles left for the Indian Territories. But they continued to meet, of course, their goal being more urgent than ever, and on August tenth Winnie and Nettie were happily devouring a blackberry tart made by Mrs. Clay while they waited for Shadrack to join them. Speculation as to the meaning of Cassandra's clues—reported by the housekeeper to the junior plotters—flew around the table.

“She must hate Broadsy as much as we do!” Winnie declared triumphantly.

“She might not hate him,” Nettie said thoughtfully, taking a forkful of tart. “Perhaps she has some long-term plan of her own that involves the crimson fog.”

“I just want to point out,” Mrs. Clay sniffed, “that I might have been wrong about the origin of the fog, but I am very right about its dangers. If anything, this means it is even worse than we thought.”

“But the problem is that we don't really
know
anything,” said Nettie. “Until we find this Sorensen—and even then . . . he might know something, or not
.”

The knob on the side door rattled, and the door flew open. “Well, my friends,” Shadrack announced. He brought the outside air, dank as an extinguished fire, into the room with him. “I have good news and bad news.”

“And we have blackberry tart!” Winnie announced, holding up his laden fork.

Shadrack smiled. He sat and gladly accepted the plate Mrs. Clay handed him. “The good news,” he said, diving into the tart without delay, “is that I located Sorensen's office at the university. He is, indeed, a member of the botany department, and he has been working there for nearly thirty years.”

“Oh, he must be
old
,” Nettie said.

“Rather. The bad news,” Shadrack swallowed the tart, “is that Sorensen has not been seen in his office for months. He is missing.”

“Missing?” the plotters echoed.

“Yes. And Sorensen, while his wife passed away some years ago—the departmental assistant informed me—does have two grown children and several grandchildren in Boston. He has reason to stay in the area, and it is unlikely that he would
willingly disappear without a word of explanation, as he has.”

“Broadgirdle,” Nettie said grimly.

“Very possibly. So our answers are not as near as I hoped. But,” he said, pausing briefly for another bite of tart, “we do have another lead as to the location of the missing Weatherers, thanks to Cassandra. We have the addresses. The two warehouses and the farm in Lexington are the most likely prospects. That is where we shall start our search.”

“I can go,” Winnie said quickly.

“You
can
, no doubt,” Shadrack replied just as quickly, “but it would be both dangerous and foolish.”

“Why isn't Cassandra doing this herself?” Nettie asked. “I'm not ungrateful, of course, but I am trying to understand what her part is in all of this.”

“You ask a good question,” Shadrack said, “which I have wondered myself. She is playing a deep game here, and I cannot pretend to understand the objectives fully. The best I can say is that she is also working against Broadgirdle but perhaps believes that pursuing these leads openly while working as his assistant would put her in jeopardy.”

“So she gets us to help,” Nettie said.

“Yes—in some ways, we are helping her as much as she is helping us. She's suggesting a division of labor, perhaps. While she infiltrates his office and learns what she can, we take action to pursue the leads.”

“It seems dangerous to me,” Mrs. Clay said unhappily.

“But we
have
to do it,” Winnie insisted.

“We already are,” Shadrack put in. “Winnie and his colleagues at the State House have been following every lead.” Winnie nodded gravely. “Nettie has been tactfully observing Inspector Grey's progress on the investigation.”

Winnie scowled. “Or lack of progress.”

“He is not entirely to blame,” Shadrack said. Then he addressed Nettie. “Perhaps we should tell your father about this most recent development. When Broadgirdle is apprehended, it must be official. I think it is time for Inspector Grey to investigate anew.”

Nettie shook her head. “My father is persuaded that by arresting Mr. Peel he arrested the right man, Mr. Elli. He believes Broadgirdle is innocent. And I don't think these hints from Cassandra are going to change his mind. In fact—we can't even tell him where the hints come from. Think about what it will cost Cassandra if we can convince him to look at these addresses and it turns out that nothing is there.”

Shadrack hesitated.

“Nettie and I can go!” Winnie repeated. “Broadgirdle doesn't know us, and we look perfectly innocent.” He adopted an expression of beatific gentleness that made him appear disturbingly empty-headed.

Nettie smiled. “I agree with Winnie. Just as a first step. If there's anything to see, we bring the matter to my father.”

Again, Shadrack hesitated. “Very well. I can see the difficulty of persuading Inspector Grey with so little tangible evidence. But I can't see the sense in sending the two of you to explore alone. We shall go together.”

Winnie beamed. “Fizzing. Where to first?”

“I think the warehouses. We can go tomorrow afternoon, when I return from the ministry.”

He looked at the two eager faces before him and felt a pang of guilt. The deception he had set in motion was for their own safety, he reminded himself. Broadgirdle was far too dangerous for two children to reckon with. The next steps he would have to take alone.

S
OPHIA, RIDING ON
Nosh in front of Bittersweet, had a clear view of Salt Lick. Wide streets of pounded dirt were lined by log-frame buildings. Each building resembled a large box stacked atop a smaller one; narrow passageways ran between them. Down a passage to her left, Sophia saw the fleeing hindquarters of a panicked horse, trailing a saddle and what looked like a blue blanket. Smoke plumed out into the street through
the buildings' narrow windows. A woman leaned out of one near them and screamed, “Ivan! Ivan!” before abruptly collapsing inward and disappearing from sight.

It was evident that the crimson fog had struck everywhere. Having never seen Salt Lick before, Sophia could hardly compare, but it seemed to her that the city had been shattered. Fires burned in open doorways, charring the buildings, and in the middle distance, smoke filled the horizon. The street outside the station was almost empty. A lone man sat in the dirt, weeping quietly into his hands. Sophia shuddered.

“The cruelest thing about the fog striking at dawn,” Bittersweet said behind her, “is that people are often at home with their families. They turn on each other.”

Sophia could hardly comprehend his words. “Then the fog is a poison,” she said, trying to reason it through.

Bittersweet did not speak for a moment as Nosh circumvented an overturned cart and clopped quickly down a side street. “A poison, yes. In small doses it only distracts and confuses, but here . . . the quantities are almost lethal.”

The red sediment that covered Salt Lick gave it an unearthly aspect: it coated every building, every street, every motionless figure that lay strewn in their way. Salt Lick had no public clocks, as Boston did. Instead, there were thick logs standing on every corner: gradual sculptures carved away carelessly or lovingly, inexpertly or skillfully, by passersby and residents. They were not time markers; they made strange, ornate sentinels that watched the city impassively. The carvings' ridges, intricate and rune-like, were dusted with red. Here and there,
Sophia could see footprints tracking through the red dust, winding through the silent streets. “Small doses?” she asked.

“Yes. The fog comes from a flower.”

It made no sense. “This was done by a flower?”

“No,” Bittersweet said firmly. “This was not done by a flower. This was done by men.”

Sophia did not understand, but she put aside her questions for a more pressing concern: “Where are we going?”

“Out of the city—to safety.”

“My friends will not know how to find us.”

Bittersweet hesitated. “I hope they will. I am trusting Nosh. He said we were to find you, and that's what we've done. I hope Goldenrod can help the others.”

Sophia realized that she had not mentioned Goldenrod. “How did you know she was with me?” she wondered, turning to look at him over her shoulder.

“Nosh knew,” Bittersweet said. He set his mouth in a line. “Nosh is the only one who knows anything these days. The old one will not speak to me.” He frowned. “What is it, Nosh?” He stared over Sophia's head at the packed dirt road before them. Here the footprints were many, and the red dust had already been worn away, leaving a muddy track in its place. “Very well,” he said, to some silent comment made by the lumbering moose. “Do what you can.”

“What's wrong?” Sophia asked.

Before he could reply, there was a whooping sound in the narrow passage between the buildings to their left. Sophia turned to see a cluster of young men hurrying toward them
and recoiled instinctively. She saw before her, suddenly, a flock of guards from the palace in Nochtland, swooping toward her with their obsidian spears. Then they changed, appearing as hooded figures with beaked masks: the Order of the Golden Cross that had pursued her through the Papal States. Sophia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady herself. She was beginning to understand how the red fog worked, combining sight with imagination and imagination with memory. But understanding it did not stop the sight from making her heart pound.
There are no Nochtland guards,
she said to herself steadily.
There are no clerics of the Golden Cross here.

Nevertheless, the whooping sound continued. Sophia opened her eyes and looked back. The intruders had turned out of the passageway and were following them down the street. Now she could see them clearly: seven of them, all but one barefoot. They were hardly more than children, and yet they carried heavy sticks; one wielded an ax.

“Looters,” Bittersweet said in Sophia's ear.

Already, they were burdened by their strange spoils. One wore a tall silk hat and a velvet cape and carried a silver-tipped cane. Another wore a glittering array of necklaces. Yet another hauled a finely made saddle on his shoulder; it made keeping up a challenge.

“Hey!” one of the boys called after them. Nosh picked up his pace and Sophia heard the boy's footsteps patter. “Hey!” he called again. In a moment, they were all running in pursuit. The others took up the cry, shouting as their feet pounded in the dirt.

What do they want from us?
Sophia thought, panicked. “We don't have anything,” she shouted over her shoulder.

“They won't listen,” Bittersweet said grimly. “They're just in it for the chase now.”

Sophia leaned down toward Nosh's neck as the moose ran faster.

Bittersweet let out a breath that sounded strained. Glancing down, Sophia saw his hand just beside her. He held it palm up, as if waiting for raindrops. Suddenly a thin, green tendril appeared above his palm. Sophia gasped. Bittersweet turned his palm outward, toward the passing buildings, tossing the tiny plant aside.

“How far, Nosh?” Bittersweet asked over the sound of the moose's hoofbeats and the cries of the gang. There was a stone building on the corner with wooden eagles affixed to the beam over the doorway. Their open wings, dusted red, were held high, and their open beaks seemed to cry in silent victory.

Nosh turned at the corner, and Sophia's eyes widened. Thick, fronded vines were covering the log buildings on either side, making them into lumped mounds that were hardly recognizable. The vines were reaching and growing, interlacing with one another like serpents, ducking into the narrow windows and burrowing into the chimneys. Unbidden memories folded into the present once more, and she remembered standing deep underground below the city of Nochtland, watching as trees with luminous leaves sprang from the earth. It was the same lithe movement, the same surprisingly silent opening of sprout and leaf. She remembered vines that crawled before her
in the dark, illuminating the way upward to an unseen opening, and she felt again the panic of knowing there was someone behind her, in pursuit. Her feet would not move quickly enough. The way was too long; there was no knowing where it ended.

Sophia closed her eyes and opened them with a deep breath: there was a clear path ahead of them, bordered by green vines. And more—here there was no trace of red sediment, other than in the road below their feet. The vines had overwhelmed it.

At the next corner, Nosh turned again, and Sophia saw that they had reached the edge of Salt Lick. A lone building, still powdered crimson, stood untouched by the vines. A blue flag attached to one of the strange, carved posts of Salt Lick fluttered uncertainly beside it, marking the town entrance. Nosh galloped past it and down the long dirt road that stretched ahead, toward a cluster of wooded hills. Gradually he slowed his pace. Sophia could feel the great breaths filling the moose's lungs. She realized that she could no longer hear the looters. “Won't they follow us?” she asked Bittersweet.

In response, Nosh stopped and turned. Sophia saw that the road they had taken out of the city was gone. Entirely consumed by vines, the entrance to Salt Lick was nothing but a verdant wall, as if the place had been abandoned and overgrown ages earlier. The fluttering blue flag alone remained visible, the only movement in the green stillness.

“They won't follow us,” Bittersweet said. “But we should keep moving
nonetheless.”