Breath of Earth (20 page)

“That's fair.” Ingrid kept her voice cool, though she inwardly winced at him calling her “Miss” again. “There's nothing there about deviant geomancy? About Papa?”

“No. Nothing directly about geomancers at all. Just that there's a Gaia Project, it needs kermanite, Augustinian had the contract, and that the result could end the war.”

“Your father has to know more than that. Do you think he would help us?”

“Absolutely.” Cy didn't hesitate. “The greater issue is how to talk with him. I can't exactly waltz into Atlanta. Even the family household over in Wedowee's bound to have spies. Government's got to know that eventually I'll cave in and go home. Only time Father ever leaves is for business and opera.”

Ingrid perked up. “Opera? He loves opera?”

“Father practically joins the larger touring companies around the country.”

She laughed. “I'll be damned.”

Cy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“
Lincoln
is opening here tomorrow night. I have Mr. Sakaguchi's planner up in your bedroom, the tickets right inside. Would your father attend a show like
Lincoln
?”

“Don't assume that because I'm from the South, we're all bound to be bigots in white sheets.” Coldness cut with his words. “Remember that Lincoln was the one who rebuilt Atlanta, and he even lived in Savannah for a few years before he passed. Father met him more than once and thought highly of the man.”

Chagrined, Ingrid looked down and rubbed the shirt buttons with her thumb. “If your father's a regular on the circuit, I imagine he and Mr. Sakaguchi have met. If not in the theater, then at Quist's afterward. I attend but—well, I'm just a secretary, of course. I don't directly interact with his companions.”

“What do you do, then?”

“I quietly sit beside Mr. Sakaguchi during the opera and when he socializes later on, I wait at a table toward the back with his appointment book. If anyone gives him a calling card, he comes by and passes it to me. I can't stay with him.”

A dark cloud passed over his face. “You're segregated with the manservants.”

“Well, yes.” She was surprised by his reaction. “Very pleasant men, for the most part. Likely the best company in the room.”

“I can believe that. I'm not implying that their company is an insult; many'd be better businesspeople than the folks they
work for, granted the opportunity. I do wonder why you attend at all if you can't truly be part of everything. You needn't do it for the money, not as they do.”

“Who says I'm not doing it for the money? I'm a grown woman with a job to do.” She paused, almost laughing at how much she sounded like Mama—Mama, who'd come home from her suffrage marches and returned to the business of minding house and was damn proud of the job she did. “True, I'm not an opera floozy. No one would ever mistake me for a high-society woman, but I
like
being there.”

Sometimes she yearned for an especially pretty dress or the attention of a dashingly handsome man, sure, but her presence there was akin to peering through a portal into Fairy Land. That sparkle on the other side was never meant for her.

Being in the auxiliary, cradling the heat of her magic, wearing shoes—that bothered her much more. There, she knew she already
possessed
power, and yet couldn't admit it.

Ingrid shrugged. “Besides, I even dress up a tiny bit. Nothing showy, but something more than a cotton smock. There in the crowd, the lights dimmed, I blend in with everyone else to enjoy the show.”

The door from the lab burst open. “Ah, the opera.” Fenris reentered with a cocky sway even as he held his upper body rigid. He wore a slim pair of Levi's and a brown button-up shirt with red suspenders, all dappled in oils and muck like his previous clothes. “Diamonds and crystals and glitter. Like your old days, Cy.”

Cy stood and frowned at Fenris. “Stayed at the door the whole time, did you?”

Ingrid stood as well. At the movement, her cotton trousers made an effort to slide south. She gasped, causing Cy to turn around just as she hoisted her pants up to the waist again. His lips quirked.

“I don't need a wrench in hand to be working. Some of my best handiwork is done up here.” Fenris tapped his head.

“Did I just hear a hollow sound?” asked Ingrid.

“Yes. Ha ha. Good to see you're feeling better after . . . whatever happened.”

“You're the one who's walking around after your chest was sliced open. You're supposed to take it easy.”

“This
is
taking it easy!”

“It is,” confirmed Cy. “Normally he'd be about knee-deep in machinery or using welders or some other incendiary material.”

“Laudanum, I must say—and I'm sure the lady will forgive me—is one hell of a drug. I can see the appeal of lounging about in some Chinatown basement in a cloud of bliss. But I do prefer real clouds. Speaking of which . . .” He tapped Cy on the arm. “We have a ready airship.”

“I reckoned you'd finish today. I booked your mooring tower already. It's the closest dock to our place, straight down Harrison. The crew's paid to man the tethers so you can take—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Ingrid held up a hand. “You're telling me that that you used my kermanite and completely reassembled the entire engine compartment and hull in a single day? That's ludicrous, even for a Sprite class.”

“It's Fenris speed.” She couldn't help but note the pride in Cy's voice.

Fenris shrugged without the slightest hint of modesty. “I did most of the work last night before that Chinatown escapade. It's a simple matter of knowing how the pieces fit together.”

Ingrid shook her head in awe. “You two. No wonder the military wants you.”

“They actually don't want me. Yet. I'd like to keep it that way.” Fenris sniffed. “My real work isn't meant to roll off some assembly line.”

A knock shuddered through the front door. The three of them froze, staring at it, then at each other.

“Expecting any clients?” Fenris asked Cy.

“No. Could be someone new, though the sign out front says we're shut.” Cy stepped up to the peephole. Ingrid put a hand to her chest, keenly aware of her state of undress and ready to duck into the workshop. “It's Lee.”

Cy unlocked the door. Lee hobbled inside and dropped onto the nearest seat with a sound between a groan and a whimper.

“Oh, Lee.” Ingrid held her fingers to her mouth.

His face was mottled in shades of purple and green, interspersed with lumps. One eye was swollen shut and bulged like a frog's. He cradled his left arm close to his body and leaned on the right, and adjusted his position with little twitches. His yellow patch was gone, and part of the sleeve with it.

“Damn,” said Fenris. “Speaking as a recent authority on pain, you look like hell.”

“They called me a yellow man.” The words emerged like he had a mouth stuffed with cotton. Lee paused, and the way his head tilted, Ingrid imagined he was trying to smile. “Now I'm a green-purple man.”

Rage curdled inside her, hot and cold all at once. “Did the soldiers do this to you?”

“No. Other men did this, by the wharf.”

“They could have killed you,” she whispered. By God, if she could get ahold of the men who did this, she'd make them hurt.

Lee shrugged and met her eye, as well as he could. “Part of being Chinese.”

“Can I get you anything?” asked Cy. “Water, coffee? I can run up the block and grab a pitcher of steam beer.”

“I might even share my laudanum,” added Fenris.

Ingrid couldn't think of anything sensible to say. She ached to hug Lee, but by the way he held his side, she feared that contact would only cause more pain.

“Believe it or not, I looked and felt worse earlier, but I made it to a plant
lingqi
doctor.” Lee looked at her and sighed. “I'm not going to drop dead. This isn't your fault, I swear it on the Bible.”

“You're not even Christian!” she blurted.

“And when did you last go to church?” He drooled and slurred. “I'll swear on any holy book you want. Swear it to your mother's spirit.”

There was particular gravity to that. Ingrid knew how seriously he regarded his ancestors' spirits. She granted Lee a nod of grudging tolerance.

“You better have what you need from the house,” Lee said.

She glanced at the papers still strewn on the floor. She loved Lee, but he couldn't know about what her father had done, or Cy's family, or that the Unified Pacific was directly at fault for the disastrous earthquakes in China. Cy caught her
eye, and without a word he stacked the letters. She turned back to Lee, her arms folded over her chest to hide her bosom.

“Yes,” she said, leaning against the wall. She resisted the sudden urge to yawn. “We think there may be some people at the opera tomorrow who can help us learn more about this mess with the Unified Pacific and Mr. Sakaguchi.”

“I hope you're not wearing that outfit. The shirtwaist look is too New York.”

“My evening dress is at the house.” She put a hand to her hair. “I'm a mess.”

“You have the tickets?” Lee asked. He swiped drool from his chin and winced.

“I grabbed Mr. Sakaguchi's personal books the first time we left. Cy, do you have a suit?”

He clamped the box shut and tucked it beneath his arm. “A suit, yes. A suit for opening night at the Damcyan? No. They wouldn't even let me clean washrooms in the suit I own, wearing it or using it to scrub.”

“Why're you worrying about this, Ing?” Lee tilted his head back and closed both eyes. “Oh, right. Your duty's to worry about everything. I'll get you a dress. There's plenty of time. Damn, Cy, you're freakishly tall, but there must be something available.”

Ingrid frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Who runs most laundries in San Francisco, in or out of Chinatown? I know people. I'll take care of it. You rest.” Lee hobbled to the front door.

“Lee . . .” she said, and stopped. As if he needed to be told to be careful. He offered her a tiny nod and a grimace of a smile, then slipped away.

She eased herself into a chair. The excitement of the letters' revelations was fading away, and she was suddenly exhausted to the bone. Maintaining that bubble had taken a lot out of her, and then her and Cy's near drowning . . . She rubbed her cheeks with both hands. If she remained still for much longer, she'd probably fall asleep.

“Ingrid.” Cy held the box up. “I'm going to have this and everything else of importance packed in the airship.”

She nodded. “Good. We'll leave immediately after the show.”

“And where exactly will we be going?” asked Fenris.

“Good question.” Cy looked to Ingrid.

Where would Mr. Roosevelt be? He traveled so often between Japan and America. He had mostly attended operas as a courtesy to Mr. Sakaguchi—his pursuits tended to be more physical, more rugged. “North, I would guess. I think the papers said he was in Portland, Oregon, last week. He has an estate in Seattle, too.” Better to try those cities first than go to his family stronghold all the way in New York.

“Guess that means I need to get the
Bug
to that mooring tower. Don't get shot while I'm away. Or do . . . other things again.” Fenris cast them a strange look and then headed out as well. His thin body and scurrying grace reminded her of a rangy alley cat.

She yawned so widely her jaw popped. “Another full day here. Now I'll be in constant fear of injuring myself and harming the city.”

“Don't fret too much. You can use my bed upstairs again, with all that metal keeping you off the ground. At the opera, I'll be there to watch your back.”

“Watch my back. Yes. Because God knows, all we need is for Captain Sutcliff to waltz in.”

“It's bad enough that he might arrest you, but think on what they did to your father.” He leaned closer, his brow furrowed. “Think about what they'd do if they knew you can do the same, and so much more.”

“Thank you, Cy. That will help my anxiety
immensely
.”

His lips grazed her forehead. She closed her eyes to absorb the fleeting touch.

“Just remember that we're in this together. We'll talk to my father and be out of the city lickety-split. You won't hurt a soul.”

Ingrid desperately hoped he was right.

APRIL
17, 1906

Once the momentum of the day slowed, Ingrid had no energy to spare. She collapsed in Cy's bed and into a slumber so deep that a Durendal attack couldn't have awakened her. Sometime in the morning, she stayed awake long enough to inhale some onigiri, then collapsed in bed again. Fenris's voice at the door finally coaxed her to wakefulness. The opera started in three hours. It was time to get ready.

Lee arrived with an older Chinese woman with hair so tightly coiled it seemed to tug taut lines in her face. “She'll take care of your dress, Ing. She doesn't speak English, but she'll make herself clear,” he said, then left again. He looked unusually strained, and not simply due to lingering bruises.

In the privacy of Fenris's chamber, the strange woman kicked Ingrid's feet to force them together and walked around her in a tight circle. She jerked up one of Ingrid's arms to full extension and placed her hands on Ingrid's hips to measure
her waist. Ingrid shrieked when the stranger cupped a breast and hefted it in a hand, the way one judges a melon at a market stall. At that, the woman grunted and left.

With a fitting like that, Ingrid was left in dread of what she might be forced to wear. She might not be attending the opera with Mr. Sakaguchi, but she wasn't some society lady either. She didn't want to be shined up like a filly going to auction, and God help her, she did not want to wear pink. It made her feel like a large piece of fruit.

Cy dragged a washtub into Fenris's room. There wasn't sufficient time to heat the water, so Ingrid was forced to do a chilly birdbath reminiscent of her dip in the bay the previous day.

A short while later, the woman returned with a dress.

“I can't wear this.” It broke Ingrid's heart to say that because she wanted to wear the garment, but more than that, she wanted to
belong
in such a gown. She never would. “Another dress. Please.”

The woman scowled at her and pointed at the clock. Setting a cotton bag on the side table, she exited.

Ingrid drily swallowed. There was no time for another dress. This one would have to do.

The Dress. In her mind, Ingrid saw it as a proper name, as it was indeed a proper dress—blue silk, in a stylish kimono cut. The silk ended at the elbow, and from there bell sleeves flowed out in complementary navy-blue lace. The lace wasn't itchy to the touch, but soft as velvet. The same fabric was repeated in the obi at the waist and the hem at the ankle. The bodice was intricately sewn with beads that formed a tangle of vines and starry jasmine buds.

Inside the bag were slippers, jeweled hair clips and a silk hair band, a girdle, a vial of sweet floral perfume, a handbag in floral-pattern blue silk, and—miracle of miracles—a hairbrush and comb.

Ingrid perfumed her hair in an effort to eradicate the musty, salty smell, and then brushed out her locks with ginger strokes. She studied the floor in dread that her tangled hair might cause an earthquake, but nothing happened. Yet. The blue sheen was still there.

Maybe once a Hidden One was riled, it took it some time to calm down. That's all.

She kept an eye on the clock as she dressed and primped, and scampered out the door with a few minutes to spare.

“Well, well,” said Fenris. He sat on a box just outside the room. His arms were folded across his chest, cuffs rolled back to the elbow.

Ingrid envied Fenris. He was comfortable in his skin, his clothes. He could walk down the street by himself right now, after dark, and just be a man out on the town. No worries about catcalls or abuse or lewd invitations. It didn't seem fair at all, that for a woman to get rights she had to fully assume the role of a man down to his swagger and blasphemy.

“Does it . . . does it look okay?” Ingrid blurted. A flush crept up her neck. Fenris being Fenris, his bedroom contained only a small stand mirror. Ingrid couldn't see how she looked, but she knew how she felt: strange,
guilty
. Like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother's best evening gown, and her backside would be swatted sore when she was caught in the act.

The dress fit as if it had been made for her. The beaded bodice hoisted up her breasts for all the world to see. As much as she hated the tight compression of corsets and girdles, by God, the garment did its job and defied gravity in a way that put an airship engine to shame. The skirt swished and rippled with Western-style pleats.

Fenris cocked his head to one side, lips pursed.

“Sorry. You don't have to answer.”

“What, you think I'm not qualified to speak on the subject of dresses? I'm familiar with them, the way a dog knows a collar.” Fenris's voice softened. “You. You can wear a dress.”

Ingrid pressed her hand to the cleavage she'd never displayed before, suddenly shy rather than embarrassed. “It's not the sort of thing someone like me should wear.”

“Someone like you. You use it like an excuse.”

“What?”

“You're afraid people will talk when they see you? They will. People will always find something cruel to say, no matter what color your skin is, no matter how you're dressed.” Fenris shrugged. “That's because most people are idiots.”

“It's just—I never simply
go
to the opera. I didn't want this dress. I'm a secretary—”

“It was your job to be a secretary. That's it. Tonight, you're with Cy, not that warden. You might have been a damn good secretary every other time you've attended the opera, but that's not the issue tonight. A secretary is not what you
are
.”

She flashed back to what Lee said earlier, about her need to find that out. “Then what do you think I am?”

Fenris looked away, expression wistful for a matter of seconds,
then glanced back with a scowl. “Late, if you don't get in there.” He jerked his head toward the front of the shop.

She walked onward. He didn't follow.

Cy stood by the office entrance. A white coat spanned his broad shoulders, with two tails draping over his buttocks. Black trousers, pleats perfect, led to shiny black shoes. He turned as she entered. His brown eyes widened behind the small round lenses.

“Oh,” he said.

She stared back at Cy. “Oh.”

Whoever had fitted Cy had done a masterful job. The jacket buttoned perfectly at the front, the taut drapery from the shoulders and armpits indicating fabric of the highest quality. A black silk tie adorned his chest. He had shaved, complete with a slight nick on his chin, and his wavy brown hair looked stiffer due to some sort of pomade.

The shoes, however, were definitely not him. They shone like mirrors. Cy belonged in shoes with soles lovingly worn thin.

But for now, he portrayed what they needed him to portray. He looked the very part of a young businessman. And Ingrid—she wasn't sure what she was supposed to portray. Certainly some people would recognize her from past visits with Mr. Sakaguchi, but tonight, she was Cy's companion. Definitely not a secretary.

She already could hear the snide whispers. That she was his mistress. That it was the only way someone like her would be
allowed
to dress like this. She'd seen other women endure the same treatment. Goodness, even going as Mr. Sakaguchi's
secretary—even with people knowing about him and Mama—there was always gossip.

To have people assume that of her and Cy—was it really such a bad thing?

A throat cleared behind her. “The
Bug
is moored down the way. We can embark once your show's done,” Fenris said.

“Good.” Cy fidgeted with his tie.

“I barely had a chance to talk to Lee a bit ago. If he comes back, tell him he needs to rest,” said Ingrid to Fenris. “And you should do the same.”

Lines of exhaustion seemed to highlight the fierceness in Fenris's eyes. “Here I was, starting another pot of coffee just so I could stay up and wait for you. Or should I be collecting money for bail? No, that's right. If either of you is caught, you'll go straight to the military clink.”

“We'll be careful,” Cy said. He plucked up a black square-crown hat accented with a band of silk.

“Famous last words.” With that, Fenris turned and stalked deeper into the warehouse.

Cy extended an elbow to her. “Shall we, miss?” His face crinkled in a smile.

A rush of heat zipped straight to her chest. Good God, that man's smile made her want to strip right down again. Unable to speak, she nodded and hooked her arm around his.

San Francisco glowed. At just shy of eight o'clock, the sun had barely dipped beyond the knife's edge of the Pacific, but Market Street sparkled more than it had in the daylight. Electric signs stacked over each other competed for attention as
they peddled German beers and Spreckel's fine-grain white sugar and lubricators for high-powered kermanite engines. Autocars glimmered under thick lacquers of wax that reflected the riot of color above.

They debarked from the cable car, Cy offering Ingrid a hand as she hopped to the ground. Her slippers' thin soles allowed her to feel each pebble and crack in the sidewalk.

“So,” said Ingrid, her heart in her throat. “Here we are.” She clutched her handbag in a death grip.

Beautiful women laughed gaily as they strode past in their ermine opera cloaks and diamonds. The men wore hats like Cy's, brims crisp and lines smart. Despite having been here many times, Ingrid was dizzied by the cacophony outside the Damcyan Theatre. It took her a few seconds of disorientation to realize it wasn't merely her nerves.

Horses snorted and whinnied. Harnesses jangled. Carriage drivers yelled and more than one whip cracked. “Control your damn horse!” yelled a man from an autocar.

“Ingrid.” Cy grabbed her arm with a gloved hand. “Are you okay?”

“Look at the horses, Cy.” She flinched at the sound of hooves striking a car, followed by more trumpeting horns and profanity. “The geomantic Hidden One of Ireland is said to be a giant kelpie who sometimes tries to buck off her rider—the island.”

“They're reacting like those fish in the pond earlier, aren't they?”

“Yes. I wish Mr. Sakaguchi were here. I listened to his tales so many times, but I don't
know
them, not like he does. I'm not saying I don't want to be here with you—”

“I understand.” He squeezed her arm. Another horse balked. She wondered if they saw the blue fog as she did, if they felt the heat of the earth.

She almost smacked herself on the forehead. “Oh, I'm such a fool,” she muttered.

“Why do you say that?”

“I slept the whole day through and I didn't think to grab any empty kermanite before we left.”

Cy looked troubled. “I'm a fool right along with you. I busied myself with loading the
Bug
and scarcely thought beyond that.”

She made a mental note to grab the kermanite from Mr. Thornton's car when they returned to the workshop. The sudden thought of the British warden caused her to bite her lip with worry. If he was a captive like Mr. Sakaguchi, God help him. San Francisco just needed to hold on for a few more hours. Then she'd be gone before she could make things even worse—make San Francisco into another Peking. She looked around herself, envisioning a landscape of bricks and dead bodies, and shuddered. The auxiliary—that disembodied hand—had been bad enough.

Oh, Papa. Alive out there. Tortured. Where would they use him next? At another rebel stronghold in China, or to crush the nascent rebellion in Manila? The papers printed rumors about the Chinese and Thuggees cooperating to access arms and supplies. Maybe the Unified Pacific would move to dominate India and strike a major blow against Britannia in the process. No one would even know a weapon had been used. It would be God's will, the whims of the earth.

Then there was Russia and the Ottomans, so powerful, so well established. They seemed content to let the children squabble, but how long would that be the case? Headlines fussed about the Russian settlements in the territory of Baranov a few thousand miles north and how that could be a launching place for an invasion of Canada or the American Northwest. The fault lines along the northern crest of the Pacific Ocean were naturally active, the geomancers few. A well-placed earthquake there could cause a tsunami to level enemies on the other side of the world.

Ingrid had yearned for years to be recognized as a geomancer, but she didn't want
this.
She wanted the power, but she didn't want to be a weapon, a tool.

Another horse reared in its shafts. Wheels cracked against a curb.

Men and woman mobbed the sidewalk in front of the theater. “Finish China! Save our jobs! Finish China . . .” they chanted.

Signs screamed out their messages beneath an electric glow.

YELLOW THREAT IS REAL
!

THE ENEMY DOES YOUR LAUNDRY—SHAME ON YOU

GOLD-STAR MOTHERS SAY “DROP HELLFIRE” & SPARE OUR BOYS