"I hold a wolf by the ears"
December 30, 1894, Sunday
"Do you think he may have forgotten?"
Robert was always so anxious when he presented someone to her. Afraid, perhaps, that he might fall into the criteria of men that disappointed her if his suggestions fell short. She would never think less of him. His judgement was as good as hers, though that did not stop her from thinking less of Perrin Baudelaire.
Rosalind tapped impatiently at the table, her mind elsewhere.
The image of Columbia in flames had not left. Not since the worried mother at Harper's, not since the day after Christmas when Comstock had wanted to see a rival defeated. How Comstock chose to act with the knowledge was not of her concern, but if the repercussions were drastic, enough to threaten the city, she might intervene. Or at the very least, caution him. He could very well be his own downfall, certainly not the first time he would be. Gambling on tears was no different than gambling on horses, or whatever vices Dewitt fell into.
Perhaps there was only one Anna Dewitt across all universes. Each Booker Dewitt, each Zachary Comstock, selling her to another because their constant was an endless cockup of gambles.
"…Yes two nights ago…Several of them. Absolutely ghastly. Poor Margaret. Her husband and now two of her sons…"
"…The Wards and the Flecks are amongst the missing as well…"
Rosalind inclined her head. There was an unusual level of chatter in the restaurant, very hushed. Enough to take note, though Robert stared anxiously at the door, hoping his prospect would arrive.
But she was well equipped to deal with a man who did not show—quite accustomed to it. Across the table, she admired his features. Robert was the only man who had been waiting for her, so eager for her arrival. Witnessing his face for the first time, watching the veil of a universe fall before her, she knew there would always be distinction. There would always be difference.
He sighed and set about straightening his teacup on the saucer; a quarter turn clockwise and back again as he always did.
"Forgive me, Rosalind," he started, "Perhaps I was too careless in my—"
She waved her hand to stop him and picked up her fork. "Perhaps he has been held up. Or fallen ill," she offered. Most often that was not the case, but she did not care, only that she meant to console him.
When she divided the last portion of her slice of pie and brought it to her mouth, Robert looked briefly upset. "Regardless, I've been terrible company this morning."
In truth, they both had. She had been concerned with previous viewings and he had all but kept his eyes on the door.
"Oh, I imagine we're terrible company in any capacity. I much prefer to keep to myself."
He finally smiled, his expression easing.
"You haven't eaten much. Are you still hungry?" she asked. At the very least, they'd not waste this visit to New Eden.
"Believe it or not, but I've actually had several cups of tea. And," he looked at the empty basket of crumbs at the center of the table, "Whatever was in that basket."
Rosalind smiled too. "Well, I'd say—"
"…What do you suppose happened?…"
"…Oh a tragic accident. So many lives…"
Robert raised his eyebrows in question.
She pursed her lips. "There's been talk of…something. Have you heard?" She gestured to the room and the increased chatter. Above the clinking of plates and utensils, there was a buzz, a hum.
He listened for a moment, then shook his head.
"If you're done, I should like to investigate."
Immediately, he nodded and wiped the corners of his mouth and stood.
Rosalind hid the dangerous quirk about her lips behind her napkin and let him hold her coat. He was always so eager to drop what he was doing to assist her, to leave his entire universe for her.
They left the Cafe and as soon as they had stepped on the street, Robert inclined his head. "What have you gathered?"
"I'm not certain, but it sounds as if several people are missing. An accident of some sort."
"You think it a tear?"
"If it is, it's rather disconcerting. What is, has, or will occur that we, in some other universe, are opening up malevolent tears in this one? Or," she scanned the skyline. "We must strengthen our theory about spontaneous tears."
Their continuing theory was that these tears were perhaps accidental, or even reckless. Robert did not like to believe they would be so uncaring, in any universe. Regardless, they had to have been made by them. There was no other way. The ramifications of spontaneous tears, true tears that had opened without human intervention, chilled her. Was some event echoing throughout all of time?
"How do we know this isn't Comstock?"
Yes, she had considered their most recent tear viewings, but Comstock had had his eye on one man. Perhaps this was the difference? Had he struck, thinking the outcome would be as it was in another universe, only for it to diverge and fail in this one?
She drew a slow breath. "If that bloody man is at our home again to fix his mistake, I'm going to strangle him."
"Please, allow me," he said sardonically.
"I'm touched," she said. "But as I've said, I'll not have you serve as executioner."
"You coddle me too much, sweet sister."
She did not hide her smirk this time. "Oh go on then. What is the manner of your eagerness to handle our more disagreeable tasks?"
"Because I am here. And you needn't always stain your hands so red."
She glanced sidelong at him seriously then. He was always so contrite when it came to his spells. As if she was inconvenienced by them. Never had she been.
"Robert—"
"—So where shall we head to first? Flag down a newsboy?"
"Let's. Though if that turns up nothing, I may try a telegram to Arthurton. He is always in the know about sordid affairs."
If that was not a viable avenue, they would go back and look through their writings. Better they be prepared for Comstock than get blindsided. How she hated that man. So brash, so foolish. The wrong man to be given a large amount of power in a short amount of time. But the amount of his coin currently outweighed his lacking qualities. And she could control him, for the time being. Control the tears, control the man.
They reached Grand Central Depot, the foot traffic increasing by seven fold as they encountered the beginnings of the midday rush. Columbians were leaving church, heading out for lunch, and visiting friends in other districts of the City. The station was the busiest for gondola transfers, people from middle and upper class blending to get to their destinations.
The Grand Platform had been built after the city lifted, it originally being a mere fifth of what it currently was. The City Planners had scrambled to relieve the demand and Fink had stepped up to the challenge, initiating and completing the expansion in less than a month. She had been impressed, though railways and clockwork were where he excelled.
They were to catch the Emporia gondola at 12:15 on platform 2, but after the Hamilton gondola departed at 12:07, which was of course, after the gondolas from Jefferson, Franklin Center, Finkton Docks, Finkton Proper, and Liberty Yards arrived at 12:05.
Rosalind glanced at the large clock at the center square, grimacing. 12:04. Robert glanced up as well, secured her arm that was loosely about his, and directed them away from the center towards the shops. Under the awning of the Salty Oyster, they heard the transfer bell ring twice, followed by the squealing of brakes on steel cables as doors slid open and the wave of passengers disembarked.
Now, she was quite accustomed to a rush, having spent the most recent years on a university campus, but even this required the most adept pedestrian to study the flow of traffic. If one looked carefully, one could take advantage of how those that disembarked from Jefferson steered clear from the Finkton gondolas, creating a small opening near the center of the pandemonium. One could cut across the entire crowd once they made it past the outer ring.
"Shall we?" Robert prepared.
She gripped his arm tighter and started a determined pace. While Robert was more keen to move with the flow of traffic, darting and stepping around, she made her own way through it. She was a woman, she was well-known, and after enough time, people learned to step out of her way.
They reached the center, navigating through the thinnest part of the crowd and began to enter the current again.
She held onto Robert again, making certain he would not be lost. At that moment, someone barreled right into them, knocking them back a step. He did not stop, and Robert was upset. "Excuse you-"
She gripped his arm and he stopped, concerned. She pulled them to a corner where it was quiet, away from the bustle of the crowd.
"Are you alright?" He all but put his arms on her shoulders, tilting his head to search her face. She hoped it did not look so compromising from a distance. His face was so near she could see her reflection in his eyes, and she knew he would not draw back until she answered.
"I'm fine," she muttered, looking down at her hand and the sliver of paper that had been slipped into it. She had accepted it without question. The letters were scrawled and hasty, written by an unsteady and uncaring hand.
Meet me in the apiary.
Robert scowled. "Surely he could have passed this along more decently."
Rosalind smiled thinly. "You assume all men are decent."
"I assume that a man should know how to treat a lady, no matter his or her standing. A life without decency is unbearable."
Rosalind smiled. "So then, shall we meet this indecent man?"
"Interesting location, that. I have only had the displeasure of being stung once. Are we allergic?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You assume I've had the displeasure more than once?"
"I recall a bee's nest in the oak tree near Pippa's stable and a general bad feeling accompanies the memory. I'm fairly certain it's not mine. I assume it's yours."
"It is," she confirmed, taking his arm once more to head to the apiary. "And it is such a long walk from Girton to the Laboratories," she added.
A gondola to Liberty Yards and a transfer at Patriot's Way brought them to Freedom Fields. Primarily, the district's purpose was to simulate rural areas, an agricultural center for infrastructure stability. There were farms, coops, livestock, nurseries, and bees. The insects were an oversight the City Planners did not properly account for. It had been Fink who demanded and insisted their importance, and she had thrown in her full support. Without bees to pollinate flowers, crops wouldn't grow. Their sustainability would be nonexistent.
Several families that would not have passed City Planning were suddenly prioritized ahead of upper class families and others alike because as beekeepers, their responsibility was infrastructure. There was one main apiary that was responsible for honey production, all others were more or less spread out on the farms to diversify bee population and pollination. It was this, a brick building with an inner courtyard, that she assumed was the meeting place. She had only been here once, when the mortar was still being laid and the only noise that emanated came from bricklayers and carpenters.
Now, as they approached the steps of the apiary, the hum of millions of bees could be felt as if she were surrounded by a full orchestra that plucked a deep, single trilling note. At her side, Robert was surveying each doorway and behind each column for their contact. But even as he experienced the hum, he stretched and opened his jaw as if yawning, clenching and unclenching his fists as if he was in the beginnings of a spell.
She glanced at him seriously, but he shook his head. "It's similar. Let's go," he said, opening the heavy iron gate that led to the courtyard. It was Sunday, and the building was empty of workers.
Her ability to access a situation quickly set into motion. Sunlight filtered without hinderance into the courtyard, casting the covered walkways around it in deep shadow. Easy for someone to remain hidden. She hated this clandestine business of shadows, so she whispered to Robert.
"Stand there," she pointed out, directing him to the darkest corner.
He frowned. "Why?"
"In case of any incidents." She had gone on earlier about her reluctance to have him act as enforcer, but as a precaution and safeguard, she had no qualms, and certainly no doubt of his ability to handle himself should the situation require.
At this, he nodded, his posture changing, and she wondered briefly how many noses he had broken and ribs he'd cracked in that Gentlemen's club of his.
She, however, stepped into the courtyard, to be viewed from all angles with Robert at her back.
"Well, I'm here," she announced. "You've drawn my curiosity. Rather rudely I might add."
It was her experience, and not Robert's, that the amount of these meetings she had had was irrelevant, only that they were always the same. The rooms where they happened always changed. She had constructed a city over dinner. Or likewise, exchanged with an English Lord over tea that she would defend his character in court.
They always came to her, always wanting. Suitor, or scientist, or senator.
This apiary was no doubt the most creative. What sort of man called her this time? While this vantage point gave her little sightline into the dark corridors, she was able to partially escape the immense hum that emanated from the walls, air pouring through the courtyard into the negative pressure created by billions of tiny beating wings.
"I apologize for the encounter, Madame," a voice called out, muffled slightly by the hum. A man emerged onto the edge of the courtyard from the entrance, his pockmarked face appearing more grooved than normal under the harsh light. "It's in both our interests that we don't be seen in each other's company."
She raised her eyebrow. "I'll make that discernment myself." She did not recognize the man, but it irritated her that he had made such an assumption.
"Amos was right to notify you," he continued, unaffected by her comment. "He always said you were different."
"Sutherland," she stated. Perhaps Comstock had been so brash. "What is it you want, Mr.—"
"—Sutherland would like your expertise on a matter."
He did not reveal his name, and she grew to change her ambivalence to dislike. She assessed him from her position, his brown tweed and unruly hair beneath his cap.
"—Clay," Robert called behind her, revealing himself and remaining on the opposing edge of the courtyard. "Silas Bertrand Clay."
Clay regarded him carefully.
"Surely there are others with the Authority you could approach? Perhaps less clandestine," she added.
"No one else has put the city in the sky."
Ah, so it was her particular skills they needed, or so they thought. She did not offer her help so carelessly, and she chose the manner in which she did so.
"There was a fire two nights ago, an explosion in the Sons of Liberty plaza," Clay began. "Several people remain unaccounted for, Perrin Baudelaire included. All men who are missing are supporters large and small of Amos Sutherland. At least forty."
"And? My work revolves around unstable elements." The instability of tears was another matter.
"As I said, Sutherland would like your expertise, Madame, on the matter of unsuspension—"
"—There is no matter of unsuspension. The Lutece Particle is in a constant state of superposition. It will never fall." Why was she discussing this?
Clay nodded as if this was what he wanted to hear. "Can you provide an official report on the matter? The buildings in question, have…" he paused, searching for the right word. "…'Desuspended' as the investigation has noted."
"If there has already been an investigation, why bother with a report?" It bothered her, yes, that the information was incorrect, but so did his insistence.
"Sutherland believes this accident was an act of malice and the report biased by supporters of Comstock."
Rosalind glanced at Robert briefly before asking Clay, "And how are you certain we aren't supporters of Comstock?"
"I'm not. You do business with him, yes, that connection is known. But you are never at the sermons or any other events."
"If you are so uncertain, why come to us at all?"
"Amos Sutherland is a good man, and he has only ever said good things about you, Madame."
"Even the devil can cite Scripture, Mr. Clay."
"Precisely. How can a man so conveniently command a city with prophecy?" he rebounded, but even as he spoke, he removed his cap and swatted at a bee that had come too close to him.
"With fear," Robert said, and the corners of her lips raised as he drew nearer to her. "If what you say is say is true, forty men dead, Sutherland has lost many of his supporters. And he is looking for new ones."
Clay huffed, upset that his hand had been revealed.
Robert was kinder, more considerate than she, but they were still the same. He possessed a ferocity and presence when he wanted to. She would kiss his cheek for his cleverness and intimidation.
With this information, she considered their location, the bee fields, and she was sure she could find a Populist name attached to it. But she was not interested in politics, only funding, and there was only one man in this city so desperate for her work that even Doctor Faust might reconsider.
Sutherland had no true interest in their work, no Populist did, if their lack of support for Columbia's development in the early days proved anything. He only wished to gain the upper hand against Comstock.
Rosalind crossed her arms. "I believe in chances, Mr. Clay. An opportunity cannot be taken if one never allows it to be presented, just as I have allowed you to make your case."
As she spoke, a bee, perhaps the very same bee Clay had swatted away, returned to them, attracted to the flowers near her or the colors on her dress. The three of them watched as it landed on the cuff of her left arm.
She paused, and with her other hand, picked up the insect with two fingers. The men observed as she held it up and crushed it between her fingers.
"Tell Sutherland," she continued without missing a beat, "He will get his report in two days time. However, it is not to be taken as a show of support, but merely of principle. I believe in scientific integrity, especially when it comes to my work."
"Thank-you, Madame. I understand you do this at great risk of your relationship with Comstock—"
"Great risk? Hardly." He knew nothing of the risks she had taken. The very existence of this universe could have ceased because she dared to push the limitations of reality, to look upon her own face and see it smiling back. No, there was only ever one person who had taken the greatest risk of all.
Clay's surprise of her coldness was evident but he nodded. "Two days, " he confirmed. "Madame, Sir." He turned to leave.
They watched him until the heavy gate swung closed and he disappeared from view. Robert crossed the courtyard to her in the center.
"Forty men dead?"
"Missing," she iterated, because that was what Clay had been careful to say. There was something that lurked at the back of her mind, a memory.
Forty was a particular number, one that held biblical distinction for trial and tribulation. Noah endured rain for forty days and nights, the Israelites wandered the desert for forty years, Elijah and Christ fasted for forty days. Surely Comstock, in his theatrics, would choose such an arbitrary number for no other reason. And it was that number that brought to mind a tear session with him the other week. 40 at Revere Way. She had written it and put it aside.
"Are you thinking they might all be in the same place?"
"Hrmm? Oh, I don't know what I'm thinking," she said off-hand.
"Go on, then. You've got a look."
She looked up from the flowers. "'40 at Revere Way.'"
Robert strained to recall the phrase.
"That day for portraits," she told him. "You were exhausted that day, I hardly think you'd remember it."
"I do recall that day being very taxing."
"Yes, you'd nearly punched Comstock."
"A pity I didn't."
"Take small satisfaction that you have, in one universe, brother."
"Sometimes it is not enough, knowing I have done a thing elsewhere, when I should like to do it here."
The humor had fallen from his voice and she was unsure what his meaning was. When she looked at his face to determine so, he turned to scan the darkness of the corridors.
"We witnessed the fire," he said, still facing away. "But if these men are missing, their bodies must be hidden for a reason." He looked back at her. "What's at Revere Way?"
She observed him for a moment, his countenance resembling hers in its cool temperament. In this moment, she wondered if the mirroring was due to dissonance, his absorbing her memories and mannerisms, or if this was something that he already possessed.
"Nothing of note. Farms. A decent walk from here," she offered. If she recalled, Revere Way and Sons of Liberty Plaza were in this district and not that far from the apiary.
He nodded. "Perhaps we shall still make this meeting of ours." He sniffed. "Though, he's cold clay now."
Rosalind winced at the expression, not for indelicacy, but that it was not one she had ever used. It was slang he had picked up in days at Cambridge.
He rolled his neck and stretched his jaw. "This hum is rather like the beginnings of a spell. Shall we?"
Robert offered her his arm once more and they left the apiary.
The weather today was fair. They stuck to the city most days, the dense buildings protecting them from the brunt of the weather. The winter was still far from warming, but out here in the rural districts, it was only the stench of cattle and livestock. The air quality today was particularly awful, a heavy screen of air lingering, intensifying the smell. It reminded her of the Mainland. In England, their summer home was not near any farms, but Americans were still so simple, their Southern States driven by crop, much of their land still unsettled.
From the building, they turned from Gold Street onto Dawes Lane, passing the large sign that sat at the junction.
Columbia Apiary
Est. 1893 by the Figg Family
Her mind made the inevitable connections. Theodore Figg was a very visible supporter of Sutherland. He was a beekeeper, as was his father, and grandfather, he touted. This business with bees had thrust them into a whole new class, one that they fit into like a glove. The Upper class was suddenly interested in all the workings of beekeeping. She suspected now that he had burned two nights ago, for his endorsement of the Populists, his sentimentality of his poorer upbringing. His daughters would grow up fatherless, married off perhaps to one of the Founders' own beekeeping heirs, and the Figg name would slowly fade from memory, like the paint on this sign.
Just as easily, she erased that future, and considered that in another universe, Haddie Figg remained unmarried unlike her sisters, fought to keep her inheritance, her independence, was as versed in law and agriculture as a Southern politician and made Comstock reconsider his actions.
"You've a look again," Robert said.
"Considering the possibilities, considering the names." Forty men was a bold move. She was in the right mind to give Comstock a good slap across the face for his idiocy. Each tear they opened, each universe they interacted with, including their own, was unprecedented, let alone the ethics of them. Those, too, were a variable. What happens normally in one universe might be completely unacceptable in another. Her only consolation, was that if a man died in one universe, she knew he lived in another. It was the only constant that could be true.
They had not even pursued the theory of predetermination. Instead of actively influencing a timeline and events, there was the possibility their actions, each tear they opened, were already chosen for them by some intelligent design or law of the universe.
While she enjoyed the back and forth with Robert, she was curious of the actual legal response this would incite. There was no better subject to converse with Arthurton. He would love the discourse.
Rosalind paused for the slightest of moments, enough for Robert to notice.
"Arthurton," she realized. While he was no means a supporter of the Populist Party in any way, he was someone who was rather outspoken when he wanted to be. If Comstock was ridding his political enemies, surely a British Lord, with a record of debauchery, closely associated with Virgil Gardner, a US attorney with unclear allegiance to Congress, could make an appearance on a list.
"I'm certain he's fine. Probably making a better day of Sunday than we have."
There was truth in his words, but she had to be sure. This business with Comstock, with Arthurton even, has proven to be a double-edged sword, and just like Father's rapiers, its lethality was dependent on how she wielded it.
Now Robert stopped on their walk, and her mind was elsewhere, the abruptness of it causing her to dig her heel deeper into the hard earth. Concerned, she glanced back at him.
"What is it?"
She had come to learn Robert's nuances very quickly, and the firmness of his jaw, the setting of his mouth into a tight grimace, was always a sure sign of his anger—a rare expression.
His eyes narrowed, perhaps the angriest she had seen him.
He nudged his chin in the direction of the adjacent field and it was at that moment she noticed the smell of cattle had mixed with another stench, not unlike Fink's vigor that had burned her hands not too long ago, and she knew it was the smell of burnt flesh.
Famers did not plow fields during the winter, crops grown in greenhouses because of the intense cold at this altitude, but together, they stood on the corner of Dawes and Revere Way, staring at an empty field with freshly moved earth.
"That's it, then," Robert said quietly.
Rosalind nodded. "Let's go."
To know with certainty, to prove a hypothesis, as any good scientist, they had to gather data. But if they began digging in search of these men, they would only be digging their own graves.