Hunters.
Lost in my musings, I didn’t notice how quickly we reached the Delaware River until we were suddenly upon its panorama of puffing steamers and white ship sails. Allison still hadn’t spoken to me, but she did manage to rouse herself from her grief long enough to order her driver to take us straight to the ledger office.
While much of Philadelphia was lined with clean streets and elegant buildings, the wharves along the river were dingy and crowded.
My nerves jumped back into action. Marcus could already be here, waiting. I scanned every face for Elijah’s, for yellow eyes; but for each person who passed, I missed four. With the horses and cabs rushing about, searching the crowded wharf was nearly impossible.
Nonetheless, as we pulled to a stop in front of the brownstone ledger office, I couldn’t keep my gaze from darting around. Or my ears from straining for howling hounds.
Allison cleared her throat, and I turned my attention to her. “Thank you,” I said. “I . . . I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Perhaps one day I can repay you.”
She scoffed. “Don’t worry. I intend to call in my debt one day.”
“Of course.” I blinked, again struck by her unpredictable moods. But not wanting to waste another moment on her fickleness, I nodded once and climbed out of the carriage.
As the driver handed me my bag, Allison slid to the carriage door. “Send me a telegram from
Paris. Let me know you have made it alive.”
Now I was truly startled. What did she want from me? Friendship or enmity?
With the hope that it was the former, I said, “Yes. I promise to write.” I bowed my head. “Good-
bye, Allison Wilcox.”
She pulled back into the carriage. “Good-bye, Eleanor Fitt.” Then, with the abruptness that marked all of her movements, she yanked shut the carriage door and left.
And so it was that I found myself standing at the harbor with nothing more than a carpetbag and a drumming heart. The area stank of fish and river—that muddy smell of turbid waters—while the wind
I’d missed in the city’s center swept over me with full force.
Before me was the brownstone ledger building; behind me was everything I knew. Sure, I had read of places all over the world and dreamed of one day seeing them, but I’d never actually left
Philadelphia before. I had no idea what was out there.
But I did not look back.
As soon as I was firmly inside the ledger office, black and white tiles led me to a wall of ticket counters. However, planted directly in my path was a middle-aged woman in an olive dress that was at least five years out of style. She stood unfolding bills and counting— aloud— as I strode toward her.
Sympathy flashed through me as I circled around her. She wouldn’t get far with only ten dollars.
Worse, she was going to get robbed if she wasn’t more careful. Why, she had her steamer ticket dangling halfway out of her pocket!
With a final cringe at how loudly she advertised her naiveté, I marched to the nearest counter, where a bearded clerk waited. I dropped my bag at my feet.
“I need to buy passage to Paris.”
“Can’t go to Paris direct,” he said, his voice gravelly. “It’s not on the coast.”
“Obviously.” I glared in my best Mama impression. “But I need to go to France.”
“So to Le Havre, then.”
“How far is that from Paris?”
“It’ll be half a day’s train ride.” He consulted a booklet of timetables. “There’s only one direct steamer to Le Havre, but it’s full. Obviously.” His eyes rose to mine. “What with the Exhibition, we got foreign travelers everywhere. You won’t be able to get a cabin for two weeks.”
I grimaced. I’d forgotten about the Centennial Exhibition. It had been running so long now—four months—it had blended into the background of Philadelphia for me. “Two weeks absolutely won’t do,” I declared. “I must leave now. What else is there?”
“Well, C.G.T.’s Amérique to Le Havre leaves in two hours.” His eyelids lowered, as if I was wasting his time. “But that lady over there just bought the last second-class ticket.” He motioned to the olive-clad woman, who still stood organizing her pitiful funds.
“Now,” he went on, “there’s only one cabin left, and it’s the most expensive.”
“How expensive?”
“Seein’ as the Amérique is the first ship in the world t’have electric lights, that it don’t take on steerage passengers, and that it includes every meal, the answer is very.”
“I didn’t ask for a history lesson,” I growled. “I asked for the blasted price.”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“Ah,” I breathed, rocking back. That was expensive—certainly more than my emergency money of a hundred and twelve dollars and forty-seven cents. But I kept my face blank because confound it if I would let this man know my financial woes.
“And how much does a train from Le Havre to Paris cost?” I asked.
He glanced at his booklet. “Average cost is . . . fifty francs.” His gaze rose to mine. “Which is about ten dollars.”
Ten dollars . An idea hit me—a reckless, desperate idea. An idea so low that if I thought about it too hard, my morals would come barreling in to interfere.
I glanced back at the middle-aged woman. She was finally putting away her money, and I could only assume she’d be leaving at any moment.
I spun back to the clerk. “And you’re absolutely certain there’s no other boat leaving today?”
“Nothin’, Miss.”
“And what is the cost of a second-class ticket?”
“Why d’you ask when there ain’t one—”
“What. Is. The. Cost?”
“Seventy-five dollars.”
“Thank you,” I said through gnashing teeth. “And which steamer is the Amérique? I’d like to . . . observe it before I decide on that first-class ticket.”
He jerked his thumb to the left. “The big one with the wheels. You can’t miss it.”
“The big one. Very clear,” I muttered, and before my temper or conscience could get the best of me, I twisted on my heels to leave.
As I’d feared, the woman in olive was gone. So I hefted my carpetbag onto my shoulder, gathered my skirts in my fist, and darted for the street. By the time I stepped outside, it was to find her on the opposite sidewalk and almost to the municipal pier.
I surged after her, my mind racing as fast as my feet and with my scruples flaring to life. You shouldn’t do this, they said. This isn’t like you.
“But,” I whispered in response, thinking how aptly Shakespeare had said it: “Diseases desperate grown. By desperate appliances are relieved.” If I wanted to protect Mama—protect myself—then this was what I had to do. Marcus had come for me because I had the letters. Now I was leaving
Philadelphia, and I prayed that he would follow me to Paris. Follow me to the Spirit-Hunters.
I slowed only once in my pursuit, to yank out seventy-five dollars, and then I marched directly for the woman. Fortunately, she was as scattered in her walking as she had been in her money counting.
And even more fortunately, her steamer ticket still dangled dangerously from her pocket, flipping this way and that in the breeze.
“Pardon me,” I called. “Ma’am?”
She hesitated beside a stack of crates around which dockers buzzed like bees.
Perfect, I thought, hurrying to her side. My heart was lodged far into my throat, pounding hard, but