Iron Cast (40 page)

“I'm sorry, Mama,” she managed through her burning throat. “I'm so sorry it has to be like this. It's my fault.”

“A turn in the tale is not the end,” her mother whispered, squeezing her tightly.

“It feels like it, though.”

Her mother rocked back on her heels to look Ada full in the face. Ada tried to memorize every graceful line of her mother's features, the light of her eyes, the scent of bread and grape-seed oil and coffee.

“You must always give more than you take,” her mother said. “You will remember that, won't you?”

“I'll remember,” Ada said. “I love you, Mama.”

Her mother kissed her forehead, sealing the memory there. For a glorious moment, the flame inside her was quiet, and Ada felt at peace.

“I know,” her mother whispered.
“Nakupenda sana.
”

“I know.”

Phillip and Angela's wedding was at three o'clock in the afternoon, just before the setting sun cast a glow over the white steeple of the Old North Church. Corinne arrived at fifteen till with Saint in tow.

“Just sit somewhere in the back,” Corinne told Saint. “And try not to look conspicuous.”

“And when someone inevitably tries to kick me out?” he asked.

“Tell them you're Phillip's uncle Ambrose's son.”

“Who is Uncle Ambrose?”

“Someone whose son they wouldn't want to kick out.”

Corinne went around the back of the church to find her mother, who had a predictable reaction to her daughter's state of dress and overall appearance of having been to hell and back.

“I can't believe you ran off like that. I didn't sleep a wink,” Mrs. Wells told her, as she buttoned her into the dress that had been ordered specially for the wedding. It was a respectable navy blue, with quarter-length sleeves and a hemline that made Corinne feel like a spinster aunt. Angela had probably picked it out.

“Mother, if I'm being perfectly honest with you, it's probably going to happen again,” Corinne said.

“I wish you would talk to me,” Mrs. Wells murmured, fussing over Corinne's hair with a brush. “I don't see you all year, and even when you're home you're somewhere else. And then that horrible incident last night.”

“It's all a big misunderstanding,” Corinne said. If only that were the truth. “It will all be straightened out by the time I go back to school.”

Mrs. Wells made a noncommittal sound and handed Corinne her powder compact.

“Hold this. Those dark circles are dreadful.”

Corinne had thought the compact was silver, but as soon as it touched her skin, she realized it was steel and dropped it.

“Sorry,” she said immediately.

“No, I'm sorry, honey. I always forget,” her mother said, scooping it up and putting it on the table.

“It's all right, I— Wait. Forget what?”

Her mother was silent, patting at Corinne's face with the powder puff.

“Stop it,” Corinne said, pushing her hand away. “Forget what?”

Mrs. Wells sighed and sat down at the table. She put away the compact and fiddled with the hairbrush.

“Mother,” Corinne said.

“I've known since the first time I saw you after you—you got sick,” said her mother. “Your aunt—my older sister—was the same way. She used to write stories, beautiful stories. I was the only person who ever knew how she could bring the stories to life. We had an old iron tub in the house, and she used to cry until she was sick whenever my mother made her bathe in it.”

“You never told me you had a sister,” Corinne said.

“Her name was Alice. When she was a little older than you are now, she—she hurt herself.” Her mother squeezed the brush in a trembling grip. Her voice was thin and tight like a string. “The doctor couldn't bring her back.”

Alice the lion tamer. Alice the pirate. Alice the opera singer.

Alice the wordsmith. Alice who couldn't be saved.

Corinne swallowed hard and knelt down beside her mother, wrapping her mother's hands in her own. The loss of her grandfather's pocket watch was more real than it had been before. She felt somehow heavier without the familiar weight in her pocket.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“That was a long time ago,” Mrs. Wells said, smiling though her eyes were damp. “Stand up, Corinne. You'll wrinkle your dress.”

Corinne obeyed, shaking out the hideously long skirt. For the first time, she considered the significance of her mother's not calling the police the night before. She'd been lying to her family for years, assuming that her mother was too dense to figure it out. But
maybe Mrs. Wells knew more about Corinne's life than she let on. Corinne thought about her mother's refurbishment of the house, of all those iron fixtures replaced with brass, under the pretense that
Garden & Home Builder
had declared it the height of style. Maybe her mother, who stowed the ideals of Down Street so deep in her heart, understood that some secrets should be kept.

“Does Father know?” Corinne asked.

She almost didn't want the answer. She was remembering all the dinner parties throughout the years where her father had expounded on his views on hemopaths, all the years of unfeeling, offhand comments, each one a burr under her skin that she could never quite be rid of.

Her mother seemed to understand what she wasn't saying. She reached out and took Corinne's hand in both of hers. The gold of her wedding rings was cool against Corinne's wrist.

“I thought maybe you would tell him, when you were ready,” she said. “I hoped that you would tell all of us, in time.”

The words weren't a reprimand, and they held no disappointment. Instead they were extended like an olive branch, or a promise. Corinne didn't know what to say. She'd been fighting against her family and her name for so long that she'd forgotten what it felt like to have even one of them on her side.

“Mother, have you seen my—” Phillip appeared in the doorway, cutting himself short when he saw his sister.

“Hello,” Corinne said.

“Where have you been?” he demanded. “Are you okay?”

He came into the room, and Corinne wasn't sure if he was going to throw something or shake her by the shoulders. Instead he pulled her into a hug. The sensation of being trapped inside her brother's bearlike grip was not entirely unpleasant. She hadn't
hugged him since she was eleven years old, the day she left for boarding school.

“We looked for you all night. God, Corinne, we thought—” Phillip choked up, which was something else that hadn't happened in years.

“I'm okay,” she said. “Mostly.”

Phillip held her at arm's length and examined her with a stitch in his brow. His bow tie was off-kilter, and Corinne straightened it.

“I'm sorry,” she told him. “I never meant for things to go this far.”

“And is it over?” he asked. “Whatever it is?”

Corinne shook her head. “Not yet.”

Mrs. Wells stood up. With swift, practiced motions, she dusted off Phillip's lapel and smoothed down Corinne's hair. She let her touch linger, looking between them. There was an emotion in her eyes that Corinne couldn't identify or understand, and it made her wonder why she'd ever thought her mother was anything but fathomless.

“Phillip, you're going to be late to your own wedding,” Mrs. Wells said. “We'll sort this all out later.”

Corinne knew that none of this would be sorted out as easily as her mother made it sound, but she decided to let herself believe for a few precious seconds that it could be. That brief respite gave her the strength she needed to follow them into the chapel.

The interior of the Old North Church was painted all white, but it bloomed pink in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. There was a display of white roses every two feet along the aisle, and someone had draped garlands along the upper balconies. Corinne sat beside her mother in the first pew on the groom's side. The whole ordeal seemed to drag on for hours. By the time Angela
actually made it to Phillip's side at the altar, Corinne was certain that half the congregation was asleep. The minister's smile shone benevolently upon them, and then he started into a speech that had all the indicators of being everlasting.

Corinne sank down a little in her seat and stole a look over her shoulder to furtively scan the crowd. She finally found Saint in the last row, being blessedly unobtrusive. The church wasn't full—which the marital couple would no doubt take as a personal offense—and there was only one other person on Saint's row. He seemed familiar somehow, with a round face, overlarge nose, and long ears. Corinne racked her mind. He was familiar in the way politicians were familiar, not because she'd ever met them but because she had seen their faces plastered across the newspaper headlines.

Saint's drawing. The one of the man who had shot Gabriel.

She craned her head to look back again, no longer caring how subtle she was being. One of the doors of the cathedral had opened slightly, and a latecomer slipped in. She had never seen Johnny in a suit before. She didn't know how it was possible, but he caught her eye immediately, as if he knew right where to find her. He smiled and slid in on the other side of Saint. When Saint saw him, he blanched a ghostly white. He started to stand up, but the man on his other side clamped a hand on his shoulder. Suddenly the man was different. His face had melted into one that Corinne knew very well. It was Guy Jackson.

Johnny leaned over, his eyes still on Corinne, and whispered something in Saint's ear. Saint closed his eyes and locked his jaw. He nodded.

The three of them stood up and left quietly, with Saint between the two men. Corinne strained to see, earning a swat from her mother and a glare from Aunt Maude, who was behind her.

Corinne crawled over her mother and father and the various great-aunts and cousins in her row and made a beeline for the side door. She didn't dare look back for fear her mother's glare would actually turn her to stone. Touching family moment aside, disturbing the Wells-Haversham wedding was treachery that could not be borne.

The street in front of the cathedral was empty by the time Corinne reached it.

“Dammit,” Corinne screamed, heedless of the twittering of two old ladies walking past.

Panic reared inside her, and she ran to one side of the church and then the other. She screamed another profanity, not caring who heard her.

“Cor?”

Corinne spun around to see Ada and Charlie coming down the street.

“He took Saint,” she cried. “Johnny was right here in the church, and he took Saint, and now they're gone.”

They stared at her in shocked silence for a few moments, until Charlie finally blinked.

“Where could they have gone?” he asked. “The Cast Iron?”

“I don't know,” Corinne said. She started to pace. “I don't know. Jackson was with him. We assumed the gunman at the docks was a thespian pretending to be Jackson, but Jackson was just disguising himself.”

She remembered James pointing out how much the sketch looked like Babe Ruth and for a split second felt the awful surge of a laugh. Jackson must be a baseball fan. She should have known. She should have figured it out in time to stop any of this from happening.

“The warehouse,” Ada said suddenly. “Think about it.”

“I'm a little too stressed right now to think about things, Ada,” Corinne said. “So if you could just explain yourself, that would be grand.”

“If Jackson shot Tom Glenn and Gabriel, it must have been because Johnny told him to.”

“But why?” Corinne asked. “Glenn just helped at the docks. He hardly ever came around the Cast Iron.”

“That's what I'm saying. Glenn and Gabriel both knew where the warehouse was and what he was storing there.”

“That explains why he came for Saint,” Charlie said. “Saint said he'd been there before.”

“This is all about that damn liquor,” Corinne said. “We have to find that warehouse.”

“We don't even know if that's where they're going,” Charlie said.

“It's our best option,” Ada said. “We have to try.”

“There are miles of wharves and hundreds of warehouses,” Corinne said. “Saint doesn't have that kind of time.”

“He might be able to help with that,” Charlie said, pointing.

Corinne whirled to follow his finger across the street. Gabriel was standing there, his hands in his pockets, unmoving.

“Excuse me,” Corinne said. “I need to go perform a ritual disemboweling. I'll be right back.”

She marched across the street, ignoring the honking car that almost mowed her down. She tried to think of something scathing to say, but for the first time in her life she had no words. So instead when she reached him, she punched him in the face.

Gabriel stumbled back, clutching his mouth. Corinne shook out her hand and swore, surprised at how badly it hurt. She had a feeling she might have hurt herself worse than Gabriel, which
only infuriated her more. Her chest was tight and aching, and she couldn't seem to catch her breath. When Gabriel lowered his hand, there was blood on his fingers. He stared at it for a second, eyebrows drawn in bewilderment.

“Corinne, please just listen to me,” he said, taking a step toward her.

“No, you listen to me,” Corinne shouted. She shoved him back again with as much force as she could muster, though even then he barely faltered. “I can't believe you ever had the nerve to ask me if I felt guilty. Here's a question for you, Gabriel Stone. Do
you
feel guilty? Because Maddy is dead, and it's your fault.”

He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing bright red across his lower lip.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

Even knowing his secret, Corinne still couldn't read his expression. Whatever he was feeling remained as guarded as ever.