The book of living secre.., p.11
The Book of Living Secrets, page 11
Farai’s wrists and neck were adorned with strands of dark blue beads, but her clothes were all black, stained from work, sturdy and practical, tall leather boots rising to the edge of her shortened skirt.
“What’s the story with all of this?” Connie asked, nodding toward Mississippi. “This cowgirl thing.”
Farai and Geo shared a look, smirking.
“Oh, please. Don’t pretend like you ain’t heard of me,” Missi replied, huffy. She took her bicycle by the handles and began walking it down the center aisle of the church.
“I’m not pretending. I haven’t heard of you. Honest.”
Behind her, also leading her bike, Geo vented a whistle, the universal sign for This is about to get awkward.
Or ugly.
“My daddy was the Tulsa McClaren, and I was his assistant. We ran the most popular trick-shot show this side of New York City.” Missi doffed her cowboy hat and held it to her heart.
“Which side?” Connie couldn’t help but ask.
Farther down the line, Farai snorted.
“This side, damn it!” Missi snapped. “North side!”
“I can’t imagine there’s a lot of competition between here and Canada . . .”
“I think I like this Clacker,” Geo added. “She’s brassy.”
“Would you two hush up? I’m tryin’ to tell a story!” They reached the front of the church, where a young boy was crouched with the big shaggy black dog Connie had seen on the way in. He looked them up and down, his gaze lingering on Connie, before he opened the doors and let them out.
Missi dropped her voice to a whisper as they lined up outside on the silent street and climbed onto their bicycles. It took Connie a few tries, but she was a quick study when it came to anything remotely athletic. The wobbles were out of her system after just a block or two.
“We did this one trick where Daddy stacked three cans on his head and I shot ’em off one by one. Blindfolded. We came all the way from Kansas to give them somethin’ they ain’t never seen before. A Wild West horse show just like Bill Hickok’s! But better, obviously. Spine-tingling and rip-roaring!” Missi sat back on her bike, not even holding the handles as she pedaled, gazing up at the sky and sighing wistfully. “We called it the William Tell-Your-Friends. Ha! That show sold out for a month straight, and we would’ve taken the act all the way to California if everything hadn’t gone to hell.”
“I’d like to see that trick some time,” Connie said. “Sounds impressive.”
“Sadly, you won’t be seein’ it tonight, girlie. We don’t pull our weapons unless a monster shows up or those Clackers get real ornery with us.”
“Just for defense,” Farai underscored. “It will cause too much attention.”
“The servants’ entrance is an old smugglers’ tunnel that runs under the neighbor’s house,” Connie said, using a stage whisper. “And there’s a chicken coop on top of the hatch, but it’s empty.”
Geo nodded along to every word and swore under her breath. “Feh. Tunnels. If we get caught down there, it will be a bloodbath, nowhere to hide.”
Mississippi led them, turning right down a side street three blocks north of the church. “Then we don’t get caught.”
“While you ladies are inside, I will find us a ride back,” Geo said, mimicking cracking a whip and flashing Connie a devilish smile. “Tonight we steal in style!”
Connie stuck as close to Missi’s bike as she could. The streets were unlit, and with the stars veiled behind fog it was almost pitch-black in the street. Missi’s white fringe at least made her easy to follow, and soon they had pedaled out of the church neighborhood, north and slightly east. The homes gradually grew larger, the roads smoother and with flatter cobbles. Connie had biked, run, bused, driven, and trained all over Boston, and she tried to use that knowledge to place herself in the city. Her money was on the Congregation hiding out under King’s Chapel, but she wouldn’t know for sure until she saw it again in the daylight.
More and more, the brick row houses sprouted towers, balconies, and grassy turnarounds for carriages. They shied away from the light, the occasional home vibrant with candles and lanterns, the glow spilling out onto the street. Slowing, Missi brought them to a stop at an intersection, and down the road to their left, Connie could hear music and laughter. A row of black carriages with stamping, nervous horses lined the block; some of the drivers lingered in groups on the sidewalk, smoking and chatting in low tones. Ahead, a pair of darkened mansions flanked the bright, merry atmosphere of the Byrne household, and to the right of the last house lay a modest yard protected by an iron fence.
The white-trimmed chicken coop was right where Connie had hoped it would be.
“Not bad, Clacker,” she heard Geo whisper.
Come by the secret way I have described, my love. I do not care if my family forbids it—I will have you there, and under the solstice moon we will kiss, and all our pretty declarations of love can be made, ratified by starlight.
That meant Moira and Severin were somewhere inside, doing all their ratifying. She knew it was stupid and dangerous to want a glimpse of them, but she dared to stupidly and dangerously hope. The spell that had carried her far from home had been made because of Moira’s book, and now she would be in her actual house. It was so ridiculous, so absurd, Connie couldn’t help but laugh.
Missi dismounted and nudged Connie’s leg with her elbow. “Somethin’ funny?”
“No, just something in my throat.”
“Fine, cough it out. Pull yourself together, would you? It’s showtime.” Missi wheeled her bicycle across the street at a run and the others hurried after her. Connie joined in, watching Missi vault over the fence and motion for Farai to pass her the bike. One by one, they handed the unwieldy contraptions across, and Missi hid them against the side of the empty town house, somewhat sheltered by crawling ivy and overgrown bushes.
Missi huddled the girls together near the coop, speaking in less than a whisper. “We go down and have a look around, get the lay of the land. Then we bring out whatever we can, leave it here, go back for more, and let Geo try for the carriage. Not worth riskin’ a third trip.”
“You three go down without me,” Geo replied, moving back toward the fence. “I want to see if I can snatch a carriage on Hawkins—gives me a chance to lose them before I return here.”
Missi clapped her on the shoulder and ducked back toward the coop. “Then it’s decided.”
There was no sentimental speech, no fussing, just a general deploying her troops, a coach sending her team out onto the field. Connie understood that energy, thrived in it. This was a familiar tension, second-nature focus and determination. Missi went first into the coop, then Connie, with Farai guarding the rear. The door squeaked, the bushes rustled, and they scampered inside while Geo disappeared into the night.
“How can it be empty and still smell like chickens?” Farai grumbled.
“Some smells are forever,” Connie replied.
“No more discussion—we go through this tunnel silent as can be.” Missi knelt and ran her hands around the flat surface of the wooden hatch, feeling for the edges. Someone had already scattered the concealing hay to the corners of the coop. Severin. Connie shifted from foot to foot, licking her lips. Back home—back in her real life—she didn’t normally break rules, but now she had found herself wrapped up in a heist. A heist that was her idea, no less.
Missi cracked the hatch open and slid onto the ladder, sticking her tongue out in disgust. “It don’t smell no better down here, ladies,” she hissed.
They followed her into the secret passage. It wasn’t anything glamorous, and it stank with the wet, wormy smell of post-rain pavement. None of them were short girls, and the ceiling only just accommodated their height. Missi paused, brow furrowed. Then she pointed to the candles dropped at intervals down the tunnel, melting against the stones, just pale, glowing puddles.
“Someone came this way,” she whispered. “Keep your eyes open.”
Connie tried to swallow without gulping and giving herself away. She knew exactly who had come through, and why. It didn’t matter, she told herself; Severin would be enjoying himself at the party, dancing the night away with Moira while her mother stewed in the corner, plotting a way to separate her daughter from the common boy masquerading in fine clothes.
They scurried down the length of about a half block, the slope of the ground gradually trending upward. At the end, another ladder waited, leading up to a closed hatch. Connie just hoped it was open; it never said in the book if the doors could be latched.
Mississippi climbed up and prodded at the hatch with her fist, and after a few nudges it dislodged, not square and hinged like the coop hatch, but round and slotted into grooves like a manhole. After sliding it quietly aside, Missi pulled herself up. Connie glanced at Farai, reading the deep lines etched into her forehead. Farai smoothed her silver-white hair back from her forehead, blowing out a breath. This was the moment of truth.
A hand waved from above, signaling them to climb up. The hatch led them into a dark larder, cold and silent. The shelves were stocked floor to ceiling with crates of fruits and vegetables. An entire smoked ham leg hung from a hook near the door that led, Connie guessed, to the kitchens. Missi pressed her forefinger to her lips—that door was cracked open, a dangerous shard of light falling diagonally across the larder floor.
Farai immediately began opening crates with utmost care, rummaging without a sound, but Missi went at once to the tied-up bunches of herbs hanging next to the ham, as fresh and pretty as bouquets. She snatched as many bundles as she could carry, then scooped a box of potatoes into her arms.
The plums, Missi mouthed, a few times until Connie understood.
They had all that they could carry for that trip, and Farai descended back into the tunnel, a sack of potatoes the size of a toddler swung over her shoulder. The way back was more cumbersome, laden as they were with loot, but Connie made it back to the chicken coop first, her athleticism paying off. She pulled herself up the ladder and then motioned for the others to hand her the goods. Once everything was piled in the back corner of the coop, Connie joined Farai and Mississippi back in the passage.
“I hope Geo hasn’t gotten herself into too much trouble,” Farai murmured.
“No time to worry. If she doesn’t make it with the carriage, then we find our own way back,” Missi replied, marching down the tunnel.
“You would leave her behind?” Connie asked.
“She would do the same to me, to any of us. That food will save lives, lots of ’em. Those plums are worth their weight in gold.”
Connie pictured the bone-thin children eating their broth and black bread, and wondered if this stolen stuff would be the difference between their recovery and death. She knew then that the stolen goods had to get back to those starving children, no matter what.
When they emerged into the larder on their second trip, something was different. Before, nothing had emanated from the room beyond but the soft crackle of a fire, but now there were voices. Mississippi didn’t seem to care, bolting immediately for the leg of ham and grunting under the weight of it before passing it off to Connie, who cradled it like a baby. The thing must have weighed at least twenty pounds, and given her ravenous stomach, it smelled like pure meaty heaven. It would feed the Congregation for days.
It’s not a Pigmalion, but it will do.
Farai filched another sack of vegetables—turnips this time—and Mississippi chose a crate of canned sardines. It was hard to believe they were going to get away with it. Missi was already nodding her head frantically toward the hatch, urging them to plunge back into the tunnel. She didn’t need to ask twice; Connie’s heart hadn’t stopped thudding in her chest long enough for her to catch a satisfying breath since they found the coop.
But the larder had been well and truly raided. They had pulled it off. Connie shuffled toward the hatch with her massive pig leg, already dreaming of ham and potatoes before bed, when she heard it.
A laugh. No, a giggle.
She knew that giggle.
Connie froze, paralyzed by the impossibility of that giggle. More paralyzed by the possibility of it. And yet she would know it anywhere, in any reality, hers or this messed-up literary dimension. She whirled, unable to conjure a single coherent thought, hypnotized by hope, curiosity pulling her marionette strings, bringing her to the door.
She had to know. Had they run into each other? Of course. Of course she would have picked that place and that time to land in the book. . . .
“Constance! Hey! Hey, Clacker! What the hell are you doin’? Get over here—it’s time to run! Don’t make me leave you behind.”
The voices next door stopped. Then came the footsteps, angry ones. The door to the larder burst open, bringing Connie face-to-face with a slight, dark-haired, angelic-faced young man.
“Constance, you damn fool!” she heard Missi shout.
“What is the meaning of this?” the young man demanded. His eyes raged from hers to the girls behind her, crouched around the secret hatch. “My God, you’ve come to rob them!”
She had to know.
Connie pushed him aside with her shoulder, and there, behind him, dressed in violet frills and lace, stood her best friend. Gasping, Adelle dropped her teacup, the china shattering at her feet.
“Connie!”
The young man’s fist slammed into her cheek, but it didn’t matter. Now she knew.
14
This was no ordinary menu but one of pure extravagance, not just the generosity of a host to one’s guests, but a celebration, and that celebration, Moira knew, was for her. Her engagement. She had no love for Kincaid Vaughn in her heart, nor, she was sure, could she ever dredge up more than feelings of mildest friendship for him. But her mother refused to believe that it was true, or, if it was true, that it mattered.
So the solstice-fete menu would reflect Mrs. Byrne’s joy at her daughter’s upcoming nuptials. The vastness of this bliss included oyster and terrapin stews, pickled oysters, roast beef, beef à l’anglais, leg of veal, veal Malakoff, grouse (boned and roasted), smoked ham, smoked beef tongue, a variety of pâtés, and salads of chicken and lobster, and then, for dessert, ices, naturally, and sponge cakes—almond sponges and vanilla—lady cake, pound cake, dame blanche, jellies, and creams, and no mean assortment of wines and champagne.
Such a meal might encompass her feelings for Severin. For Kincaid Vaughn, however, Moira’s passion was not even an old, half-eaten potato croquette.
“Bon appétit,” she thought, feeling hungry and in love, a most dangerous combination.
—Moira, chapter 14
Adelle slid to her knees next to Connie, throwing her arms protectively over her, hugging her tightly.
“This is my friend!” she shrieked at Severin, watching Connie rub her jaw, down on the floor but propped up on one arm. An enormous smoked ham leg rested against her waist. “I can’t believe it, Connie. I can’t believe I actually found you!” She pulled her into a hug, and Connie sank against her with palpable relief.
Adelle leaned back, studying Connie intently, examining her face, her clothes, her hair. It was Connie, yet it was so hard to believe. Tears spilled down Adelle’s cheeks, hysterical, giggling hiccups gathering in her throat. “But why are you carrying a ham?”
“Who is this?” Severin demanded, looming.
“My friend Connie. Please don’t hit her again; she’s like a sister to me.” Adelle scowled at him. The Severin she knew would never strike a woman. It didn’t comfort her much to think that he had done it to protect her. This was her best friend, her partner in crime, her platonic soul mate. Then she noticed the two other girls who skulked in the shadows behind Connie.
“I do not think these ruffians are here for a social call,” Severin growled, refusing to step back.
“Look at the brains on Frenchie,” a redheaded girl in a ridiculous cowboy costume said. Less ridiculous were the two pistols she had drawn on them. “Ain’t nothin’ gets past you. Now, if you will excuse us, we were in the middle of robbing you blind.”
“You see!” Severin fumed. “Adelle, these are not the sort of women you should associate with, and no friend of yours should either.”
The redhead rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Oh please, Severin. Just because you traded in your fishhooks for silk tails doesn’t mean you’re better than us.”
“Let it go, Missi,” the other girl said. She was tall and narrow, with brown skin and striking silver-white hair. “This is not the time. We need to get topside.”
“Give me one good reason why I should not rouse the whole house,” Severin warned.
At that, Adelle pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the shooting pain in her leg. “Because . . . Because I won’t let you! Connie wouldn’t associate with bad people, Severin; you have to believe me. You have to trust that I know her.”
“We’re the bad people?” the cowgirl snorted. “Connie here says you’re the one being held against your will.”
“I’m not,” Adelle promised her. She turned back to Severin. “Everyone just be calm, please.”
Connie has a 4.25 grade point average. She’ll be valedictorian if we ever get out of this mess. Soccer team co-captain, biathlon state qualifier, never touched a cigarette or beer in her life . . . Adelle heaved an exasperated sigh, furious with all the things she couldn’t yell at him.
“I am sorry,” Severin muttered, shaking his head and storming back into the kitchen. “But I cannot stand by while a blatant crime is committed.”
The cowgirl cocked her pistols.
“Wait!” Adelle limped as quickly as she could to Severin, wrapped herself around his right arm, and tugged. There had to be a way to stall him. You know him; you know all about him. “You said you were at my disposal. That you were coming to my aid. Was that just a lie?”
