Irving Shea’s, when I appraised the objects of the wealthy with a cool eye.”
“Yeah, I remember that, too,” he said.
She nodded regally and walked on. “I remember a time when the world was full of beauty and I never imagined that cruelty prowled the mansions.” She stopped, and leaned a hand against a lamppost. “Or that madness lurked in my own mind.”
A lot of things had happened since then: years in an institution, years on the street.
She straightened. “But I recall the way to Irving Shea’s mansion, and I will get there, give my message, and get back before Guardian worries too much about me. Because he proved one thing tonight—even one level down is too close. Those people who hunt him are always watching, waiting like spiders in their webs, and if it hadn’t been for me, they would have caught him.” Recalling the gunshots, she frowned. “I hope they didn’t wound him. We can’t survive without him down there. Oh, look! Here we are!”
She stared up at the grand steps that led from the street to the mansion’s massive front entry. The lights on either side of the door were not authentic. “But they were last time I was here. Probably they were broken in one of the recent riots, and replaced.” Windows on the second level were lit, and in the entry, too. She put one foot on the broad concrete step—and stopped. “I can’t climb those stairs. I don’t belong. Not anymore.”
Day’s light grew, but slowly, blocked by the murky air. “No one will see me,” she assured herself, and slipped around the corner, close to the building, and crept toward the back, toward the servants’ entrance. Lights shone from the ground-level windows in the basement. “That used to be the kitchen.” She saw it in her mind, and recited, “Kitchen is as big as a lobby. Open pantry shelves. Cupboards to the twelve-foot ceilings, gas stovetop with six burners and a grill, two ovens—no, three. And a huge fridge. Ugly table, though.” Getting on her belly, she low-crawled under the wrought-iron fence that protected the property and peered in the windows. Yes, it was the kitchen . . . and people were in there. Three people.
At once she tried to crawl back, terrified that they would find her, hurt her.
Then she remembered . . . she had a message. For Irving. So she ducked out of sight and scratched on the window. She waited a moment, then poked her head back around and checked.
The people inside the kitchen stared at her: an older man in a black suit and tie, a small, gray-haired woman in a black dress and wearing a scowl, and an old, old man seated in a wheelchair, eating from a bowl at the kitchen table.
New kitchen table. “Granite tabletop with oak frame,” she said. No one moved, so she scratched again, and waved frantically. “I have to talk to Irving,” she shouted, and pointed into the house and then at herself, over and over, until the man in the suit moved toward the back door.
On her hands and knees, she rounded the corner of the house.
He opened the door.
Light from inside streamed out and illuminated the concrete stairs that led down to the kitchen.
He stepped out and said, “Miss, can I help you?”
“I have a message for Irving,” Taurean shouted again.
“Come in, then.”
He was a very odd man, formal in the way he dressed and the unique lift of his speech, but at the same time he seemed unfazed by her—and that didn’t happen often.
She crawled to the stairway.
“Can I help you rise?” he asked.
“I have to keep my head low. They’re after me, you know.”
He nodded as if he knew who
they
were.
That did not happen often, either.
She sat on her butt and eased herself down one step at a time.
He stepped aside as she got to the bottom, and with one final glance at his calm face, she scurried into the kitchen.
“Would you like me to leave the door open,” he asked, “in case you wish to leave suddenly?”
“No. They’re out there. Shut them
“Yeah, I remember that, too,” he said.
She nodded regally and walked on. “I remember a time when the world was full of beauty and I never imagined that cruelty prowled the mansions.” She stopped, and leaned a hand against a lamppost. “Or that madness lurked in my own mind.”
A lot of things had happened since then: years in an institution, years on the street.
She straightened. “But I recall the way to Irving Shea’s mansion, and I will get there, give my message, and get back before Guardian worries too much about me. Because he proved one thing tonight—even one level down is too close. Those people who hunt him are always watching, waiting like spiders in their webs, and if it hadn’t been for me, they would have caught him.” Recalling the gunshots, she frowned. “I hope they didn’t wound him. We can’t survive without him down there. Oh, look! Here we are!”
She stared up at the grand steps that led from the street to the mansion’s massive front entry. The lights on either side of the door were not authentic. “But they were last time I was here. Probably they were broken in one of the recent riots, and replaced.” Windows on the second level were lit, and in the entry, too. She put one foot on the broad concrete step—and stopped. “I can’t climb those stairs. I don’t belong. Not anymore.”
Day’s light grew, but slowly, blocked by the murky air. “No one will see me,” she assured herself, and slipped around the corner, close to the building, and crept toward the back, toward the servants’ entrance. Lights shone from the ground-level windows in the basement. “That used to be the kitchen.” She saw it in her mind, and recited, “Kitchen is as big as a lobby. Open pantry shelves. Cupboards to the twelve-foot ceilings, gas stovetop with six burners and a grill, two ovens—no, three. And a huge fridge. Ugly table, though.” Getting on her belly, she low-crawled under the wrought-iron fence that protected the property and peered in the windows. Yes, it was the kitchen . . . and people were in there. Three people.
At once she tried to crawl back, terrified that they would find her, hurt her.
Then she remembered . . . she had a message. For Irving. So she ducked out of sight and scratched on the window. She waited a moment, then poked her head back around and checked.
The people inside the kitchen stared at her: an older man in a black suit and tie, a small, gray-haired woman in a black dress and wearing a scowl, and an old, old man seated in a wheelchair, eating from a bowl at the kitchen table.
New kitchen table. “Granite tabletop with oak frame,” she said. No one moved, so she scratched again, and waved frantically. “I have to talk to Irving,” she shouted, and pointed into the house and then at herself, over and over, until the man in the suit moved toward the back door.
On her hands and knees, she rounded the corner of the house.
He opened the door.
Light from inside streamed out and illuminated the concrete stairs that led down to the kitchen.
He stepped out and said, “Miss, can I help you?”
“I have a message for Irving,” Taurean shouted again.
“Come in, then.”
He was a very odd man, formal in the way he dressed and the unique lift of his speech, but at the same time he seemed unfazed by her—and that didn’t happen often.
She crawled to the stairway.
“Can I help you rise?” he asked.
“I have to keep my head low. They’re after me, you know.”
He nodded as if he knew who
they
were.
That did not happen often, either.
She sat on her butt and eased herself down one step at a time.
He stepped aside as she got to the bottom, and with one final glance at his calm face, she scurried into the kitchen.
“Would you like me to leave the door open,” he asked, “in case you wish to leave suddenly?”
“No. They’re out there. Shut them
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