buying any.”
With that, Brand left the room, letting the crowd’s laughter and the sound of clinking glass usher him outside into the frigid night. Outside, the doorman returned Brand’s wave with a nod and went back to holding down the concrete patio. Snow flurries kicked up in a sudden gust and Brand lost his footing. He skipped down the steps in a quick shuffle, only just saving himself from falling on his nose.
At the street, he hailed a waiting cab, a sedan that had just dropped off another of Chicago City’s wealthy drunkards. Brand stepped up to the car and noticed a shifty movement in the corner of his eye. He turned to see the gypsy woman and her husband descending the stairs. Halfway down, they drew up short and the air around them fluttered and shook. The fabric of the night whipped aside and a shivering tramp stood astride a rickety rusty bicycle, an old Boneshaker with metal wheels. The tramp flickered in and out of Brand’s vision, like a candle flame in a draft. He seemed hollow beneath his skin, but gradually filled in as he stood on the steps, like he was the bottom bell of an hourglass. Brand’s feet carried him up to the scene before he knew what was happening. He stopped a few steps below the trio. The tramp pulled a satchel up from inside his loose overcoat and reached into it. He drew out a metal tube and held it out for the gypsy woman.
“For you, um, I guess. . .Ma’am. Is that—”
“Yes, is correct. For me. Ma’am,” the gypsy said, letting a bright tinkling laugh follow her words into the night air. “Is okay. Ma’am or mother. I am called both.” Madame Tibor took the tube from the tramp’s outstretched hand and replaced it with two coins.
“What’re. . .I get paid for this job?”
“Is for passage. You are messenger now; immortal. Still may need passage in future,” she said. Brand caught a gleam in her eye as she spoke. “Coins are for that.”
“But I—” the tramp spotted Brand and skittered down the steps, dragging his heavy bicycle as he came. “Mitchell Brand, I know you.”
Brand’s eyes rounded at the tramp. It was Old Man Farnsworth. No question. Same beaky nose. Same squinty eyes and tousled thinning hair like the man had been running his fingers through it non-stop for days on end. Brand staggered away, down the steps, nearly tripping over his feet. The tramp, Farnsworth, followed until they stood a few feet apart by the curbside.
The cab waited behind Brand, the door still open. Snow flitted down around the men and they stared at each other. Brand took in the old man’s features more carefully. He’d filled in now, no longer a shell of his former self. But he looked a damn sight worse than the last time Brand had set eyes on the man. Farnsworth the Tramp stared back with a look of shock and wonderment. His eyes welled and his lip blubbered.
“It’s me, Brand. It’s Josiah Farnsworth.” The voice cracked and rattled in Brand’s ears, but it was the old man’s all right.
“What the blazes gives with this?” Brand said.
“I— I didn’t know it’d come to this, Brand. I just wanted to protect my little girl. She won’t have to worry about Nitti or the Mayor or anyone coming now. It’s all gone. I made sure of it. It’s all gone and done without her. She won’t have as much as if I’d been alive to give it to her, but she’ll be okay. You’ll tell her, won’t you? Tell her for me?”
Madame Tibor’s voice came down to them. “Messengers should not spend time talking to mortals.”
Brand flicked his eyes her way. Her face seemed to glow a burnt orange against the darkness of the wintery night and her scarves had caught the draft to form a swirling aurora around her head. Brand had a reply on his tongue when the air shook around him. Farnsworth straddled his bike again and pulled the city aside. Like outside the Brauerschift garage that morning, Brand saw the twinkling of a city skyline appear as if behind a curtain. Then
With that, Brand left the room, letting the crowd’s laughter and the sound of clinking glass usher him outside into the frigid night. Outside, the doorman returned Brand’s wave with a nod and went back to holding down the concrete patio. Snow flurries kicked up in a sudden gust and Brand lost his footing. He skipped down the steps in a quick shuffle, only just saving himself from falling on his nose.
At the street, he hailed a waiting cab, a sedan that had just dropped off another of Chicago City’s wealthy drunkards. Brand stepped up to the car and noticed a shifty movement in the corner of his eye. He turned to see the gypsy woman and her husband descending the stairs. Halfway down, they drew up short and the air around them fluttered and shook. The fabric of the night whipped aside and a shivering tramp stood astride a rickety rusty bicycle, an old Boneshaker with metal wheels. The tramp flickered in and out of Brand’s vision, like a candle flame in a draft. He seemed hollow beneath his skin, but gradually filled in as he stood on the steps, like he was the bottom bell of an hourglass. Brand’s feet carried him up to the scene before he knew what was happening. He stopped a few steps below the trio. The tramp pulled a satchel up from inside his loose overcoat and reached into it. He drew out a metal tube and held it out for the gypsy woman.
“For you, um, I guess. . .Ma’am. Is that—”
“Yes, is correct. For me. Ma’am,” the gypsy said, letting a bright tinkling laugh follow her words into the night air. “Is okay. Ma’am or mother. I am called both.” Madame Tibor took the tube from the tramp’s outstretched hand and replaced it with two coins.
“What’re. . .I get paid for this job?”
“Is for passage. You are messenger now; immortal. Still may need passage in future,” she said. Brand caught a gleam in her eye as she spoke. “Coins are for that.”
“But I—” the tramp spotted Brand and skittered down the steps, dragging his heavy bicycle as he came. “Mitchell Brand, I know you.”
Brand’s eyes rounded at the tramp. It was Old Man Farnsworth. No question. Same beaky nose. Same squinty eyes and tousled thinning hair like the man had been running his fingers through it non-stop for days on end. Brand staggered away, down the steps, nearly tripping over his feet. The tramp, Farnsworth, followed until they stood a few feet apart by the curbside.
The cab waited behind Brand, the door still open. Snow flitted down around the men and they stared at each other. Brand took in the old man’s features more carefully. He’d filled in now, no longer a shell of his former self. But he looked a damn sight worse than the last time Brand had set eyes on the man. Farnsworth the Tramp stared back with a look of shock and wonderment. His eyes welled and his lip blubbered.
“It’s me, Brand. It’s Josiah Farnsworth.” The voice cracked and rattled in Brand’s ears, but it was the old man’s all right.
“What the blazes gives with this?” Brand said.
“I— I didn’t know it’d come to this, Brand. I just wanted to protect my little girl. She won’t have to worry about Nitti or the Mayor or anyone coming now. It’s all gone. I made sure of it. It’s all gone and done without her. She won’t have as much as if I’d been alive to give it to her, but she’ll be okay. You’ll tell her, won’t you? Tell her for me?”
Madame Tibor’s voice came down to them. “Messengers should not spend time talking to mortals.”
Brand flicked his eyes her way. Her face seemed to glow a burnt orange against the darkness of the wintery night and her scarves had caught the draft to form a swirling aurora around her head. Brand had a reply on his tongue when the air shook around him. Farnsworth straddled his bike again and pulled the city aside. Like outside the Brauerschift garage that morning, Brand saw the twinkling of a city skyline appear as if behind a curtain. Then
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