Alma Katsu - The Taker

“Is that all? Moving money around? I would think a clever man like you would be able to do such a thing with just your little finger.” I punctuated my words with an obscene little gesture that involved my own pinkie finger and an insinuation of the mouth, a gesture I had seen made by rent boys that sent an unmistakable message to most men and was certain to capture his attention. Which it did. Discretion seemed to run out of his ears like sawdust from a ruptured child’s toy and he gazed at me with his jaw dropped open. If he didn’t already suspect this was a household of bum-licking harlots, he knew for sure at that moment.

“My dear, did you just-”

“What else did Adair ask of you? Nothing, I’m sure, that will keep you busy far into the night. Nothing that would keep you from, say, entertaining a visitor…”

“Tickets on tomorrow’s coach for Philadelphia,” he said, hastily, “which I told him was quite impossible. And so I am to rent him a private livery…”

“For tomorrow!” I exclaimed. “He is leaving so soon.”

“And not taking you with him, my dear. No. Have you ever been to Philadelphia? It is an extraordinary city, much more lively in its way than Boston and not the sort of place that, say, Mrs. Pinnerly would be apt to visit. Perhaps I could show it to you-”

“Wait! How do you know I’m not to travel with him? Did he tell you?”

The solicitor grinned at me most salubriously. “Now, don’t fret. It’s not as though he’s running off with another woman. He’s going with a man, the happy beneficiary of all these damned money transfers. If your master were to consult me, I would advise him to simply adopt this fellow, for it would be easier in the long run-”

“Jonathan?” I asked, wanting to shake the lawyer by the shoulders to get him to stop his prattling, to pull the name from his mouth like a reticent snail from its shell. “Jacob, I mean. Jacob Moore?”

“Yes, that’s the name. Do you know him? He’s going to be a very wealthy man, I can tell you that. If you don’t mind my saying this to you, perhaps you should consider setting your sights on this Mr. Moore before word gets around… umm…” With his assumptions of my intentions, Pinnerly had painted himself into a corner and I enjoyed watching him try to extricate himself. He cleared his throat. “That is not to say that I imagine for one second that you… and the count’s benefactor… I apologize. I believe I’ve overstepped the bounds of my position.”

I clasped my hands demurely. “I think you have.”

He handed me his glass and picked up his satchel. “Please believe me when I say I spoke in jest, miss. I trust you shan’t be going back to the count with any mention of… um…”

“Your indiscretion? No, Mr. Pinnerly. I am nothing if not discreet.”

He hesitated. “And I suppose the question of a midnight visit…?”

I shook my head. “Is out of the question.”

He gave me a strangled look, torn between regret and longing, and then sped out of the peculiar house of his most bizarre client, happy (I’m sure) to leave us behind.

It seemed that staggering sums of money were being transferred to accounts in Jonathan’s name and the fateful trip to Philadelphia would begin tomorrow. Adair was ready to make his move, which meant that time had run out for me-and Jonathan. I had to act now or spend the rest of eternity in regret.

I went to Edgar, the head butler, the one entrusted with overseeing the other servants and running affairs for the house. Edgar had a suspicious and larcenous heart, like everyone else who found a place in this household, from master through the servants, which is to say he could be depended on not to do his job very well, but only to the minimum degree necessary. It is a terrible trait in a servant if you wish to have a well-run household, but the perfect attitude for one in a house where convention and scruples have been flung out the door.

“Edgar,” I said, folding my hands primly before me like the proper lady of the house. “There is a repair needed in the wine cellar that Adair would like attended to in his absence. Please send someone to the mason’s and have a wheelbarrow of stones and a wheelbarrow of brick delivered to the basement this afternoon. I’ve already hired a man to do the job once the count has left on his trip.” When Edgar looked at me slyly-the wine cellar had been a crumbling mess the entire time we’d been in the mansion, why the rush now?-I added, “And you needn’t trouble Adair about it; he’s getting ready for his trip. He’s entrusted me with this matter in his absence, and I expect to see it done.” I could be high-handed with the servants; Edgar knew better than to cross me. With that, I turned and strode away, to put the next step of my plan in play.

The next morning, the household was consumed with preparations for Adair’s trip. He had spent the morning picking out the clothing he would take with him and then sent the servants to pack for him and load the rented livery. Jonathan had shut himself up in his room, where he was also supposedly packing for the trip, but I sensed that he couldn’t bring himself to go and that a fight loomed.

I hid in the pantry with the cook’s mortar and methodically ground the phosphorus into dust. As I laid out the things I needed, I was as nervous as I had ever been, sure that Adair would pick up on my emotions and be forewarned. In truth, I didn’t know the extent of his powers, if they could truly be called powers. I’d made it this far, though, and had no choice but to gamble with my life and Jonathan’s by going the rest of the way.

The house by then was still and it might have been my imagination, but seemed to be tense with unspoken emotions: abandonment, resentment, lingering anger with Adair for what he’d done to Uzra, uncertainty about what lay ahead for all of us. Carrying a tray with the doctored wine, I went past the shut bedroom doors to Adair’s room, which had been quiet for the hour since the servants had carted the trunks away. I knocked once and, not waiting for an answer, pushed the door back and slipped inside.

Adair sat in a chair he’d pulled close to the fire, which was unusual in itself as he usually reclined on a bower of cushions. Maybe he sat more formally because he was fully dressed for travel, that is to say, like a proper gentleman of the time and not bare chested as was his habit. He sat stiffly in the armchair in breeches and boots, a waistcoat and high-collared shirt, bound at the neck with a silk cravat, his frock coat hanging over the back of a second chair. His suit was made of dark gray wool with very little embroidery or trim, far more sedate than his usual attire. He wore no periwig, but had brushed his hair back and had it tied trimly. His expression was of sadness, as though he was forced to go on this trip under pressure and that it was not of his own design. He lifted his hand and it was then I noticed the hookah set up next to him, and that the room smelled of sweet opium smoke of the strongest variety. He drew on the mouthpiece, cheeks sucked in, his eyes half closed.

I put the tray on a table near the door and crouched on the floor next to him, gently lacing my fingers into the stray curls on his forehead, brushing them away. “I thought we might spend a minute together before you go. I’ve brought something to drink.”

He slowly opened his eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to explain about this trip to you. You’re probably wondering why I’m going with Jonathan and not you.” I quashed the urge to tell him I already knew, but waited for him to go on. “I know you can hardly bear to be separated from Jonathan, but I’ll take him away from you for only a few days,” he said mockingly. “Jonathan will return, but I am going to do some traveling on my own. I may be gone for a while… I feel the need to be by myself. This need comes over me from time to time… to be alone with my thoughts and my memories.”