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“And what will I do when I’m inside? I’m not going to be able to search the place. They’ll notice when my cane starts banging into things.”
A gull swooped overhead, shrieking a curse into the sky. A flare of sunlight snuck out from under the clouds on the western horizon. Arguing on Front Street was only giving passersby something to watch. Not sure how to resolve things, I ducked into a dry goods shop, where at least my hands would be warm. “I don’t know if I can do two things at once,” I said in an undertone, “and I have no idea if I could do anything with your eyes, anyway. You might be a mouse with amber spectacles.
“And besides, we have no real reason to think Margaret is in there in the first place. Let me put on a disguise and go talk to Mrs. Morrison.”
“So she can read your mind and realize you’re in disguise?”
“Lord.” We were at an impasse. “We should have just engaged a room.”
We were surrounded by racks of fabric and the odd bits necessary for sewing a garment, the air heavy with the scent of cotton and starch.
“It’ll be fully dark soon,” I said, “and the keeper will be serving her boarders dinner.” The single electric light in the center of the ceiling crackled, sending off odd shadows. “Let’s watch the boardinghouse for a while and see if anything happens to make us think Margaret’s in there.”
I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my overcoat. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Besides, once it’s dark, we may be able to find a way in.”
Two things worked in our favor. We rounded the corner onto Virginia Street and found a small café across the street from the boardinghouse. And, shortly after the waitress had brought our coffees, a team of horses pulled to a stop out front. It was an ordinary cab, with the driver up front and curtains obscuring the windows along the sides. The door opened on our side and a man got out.
“He’s here.”
“Who?” Rafe said, stirring cream into his coffee.
“Oliver Stevenson just got out of a cab, and…” I waited to see if he was alone. He was not. “Margaret’s with him. He’s dragging her by the arm, and…No. Stop.”
With that, I was off. I sprinted out of the café, reaching into my pocket for my coin. No coin, but I still had Rafe’s weird stick, and by the time I hit the sidewalk I had a revolver aimed right at Stevenson.
“Stop. Margaret. Get down.”
She lunged, but Stevenson was quicker. He grabbed her by the waist, with her back to him, a deadly blade at her throat.
“I take it you’ve decided to join us?” Stevenson asked, his voice ugly. His drab blond hair hung in his face and he had the beginnings of a black eye on one side.
“Let her go.” To my credit, my hand did not shake. I kept the revolver aimed at Stevenson’s head, and I was a handy shot, one of the only useful things I’d learned growing up a Fairchild.
“We’ll all go inside, Gallagher can sign the contract, and then you can have your weatherwitch back.”
“No.” Rafe strode past me. By the time he reached Stevenson, the knife was on the ground and Stevenson was on his knees. The fisherman covered his head with his hands, huddled up as if he was in grave pain.
Rafe simply stood in front of him, cane in one hand, the other extended over Stevenson’s prostrate form. “You will leave us alone. Mother and I will not join with you, no matter what.”
Something caught my eye. A running form from the direction of Front Street. “Rafe, watch out.”
The person, whoever it was, flung a ball of witchfire at Rafe, who ducked out of the way. I took a quick shot in the runner’s direction. The blast knocked me back a step and caused the runner to scream. Grabbing Margaret’s arm, I yelled, “get to the cab.”
Jerking the door open, I propelled Margaret in, then ran to the driver. “I’ve got twenty dollars if you can get us out of here fast.”
More runners were coming and Rafe still stood over Stevenson.
“Rafe,” I screamed. “Now.”
He ran to the cab more quickly than I would have expected. More balls of witchfire flew, landing on the damp street and sizzling out. For the moment, I climbed up front with the driver. “Where do you want to go?” he said.
“Start moving before any more of them arrive and I’ll tell you.”
Fortunately, he was willing to follow such an incomplete set of instructions. He called the team of horses into action and found a gap in the Virginia Street traffic. A pair of police officers appeared in front of us, possibly drawn by the flying witchfire, and I sunk down in the seat, hoping they wouldn’t think it was unusual for the driver to have a companion.
“You really have twenty dollars, or were you just pulling my leg?” The driver kept his eyes on the team, but he grinned as he spoke.
I reached for my wallet. “Right here, Mr…”
