The Curator

PART I

NEW PEOPLE

Maybe Especially So

The city—nicknamed the Fairest by poets and municipal advocates for its river, the mighty Fair—jutted from the body of the country like a hangnail from its thumb.

Folklore told that it was founded by a stonecutter who built a castle there and kept it empty in tribute to God, and was granted eternal youth as a reward; until, after a few hundred years, a family of beggars sneaked inside and their sudden appearance shocked the stonecutter such that he fell dead. More likely, the initial settlement was established by seafarers of Nordic origin.

In modern times, the city was distinguished by the line of handsome, heavy-browed monarchs who kept seat there; by its congress and its courts; by the efficiency, fortitude, reach, profitability, and diversity of its mercenary army, which was said to include speakers of more than twenty languages; by its river, the Fair, which descended from the country’s mountain region to split the metropolis in half, into east and west, and to drown its fresh waters in the ocean; by the peninsula’s high bluffs, which diminished seaward in parallel to the Fair; by the bustle and trade of its port; by its two cantilevered bridges; by the modern convenience of its network of electric trams; by its vast urban parkland, the Royal Fields, and the Royal Pond therein, where boaters rowed in vessels whose prows were carved into the likenesses of the nation’s heavy-browed monarchs, from Macon I to Zak XXI; by the competition among its luxury hotels as to which establishment had the most luxurious cat as its mascot; by its cultural landmarks, such as the theaters and the museums and the Morgue Ship; by the three towering monolithic stones that dominated the plateau above the Great Highway a few miles beyond the city limits and to which, by tradition, newlyweds from all over the world traveled with hammers and picks in order to chip tokens to signal their shared commitment; by the irony of its stinking gray waterway’s name; by its factory fires; by its neighborhood fires; by its teeming lower district, the Lees; by the fecund poor who populated the Lees and gave their new generations to nourish its plagues and armies; by its vestiges of paganism; by its secret societies; by the tartness of the brine used to pickle its oysters; by the bands of industrious delinquents that crowded its streets; by the courage and strength of its men; by the wisdom and perseverance of its women; and, like all cities, but maybe especially so, by its essential unmappability.

New People

Prior to the uprising she had labored in domestic service at the National University, but now D contrived to obtain a position at the Society for Psykical Research. Everywhere in the city new people would be needed—would they not?—to fill the places that had been occupied by members of the deposed regime and its supporters. This was true not only with regard to the government and the military, but all across day-to-day life, where every place from schools to shops to gasworks to theaters had been ruled over by the elites for as long as anyone could remember.

Although she had passed inside the Society’s walls just once, as a young girl, a picture of it remained in D’s mind, of the Grand Hall where she had waited one morning for a servant to retrieve her older brother, who had been a junior member. The floor had been covered in a gold and red carpet that looked thick enough to her child’s eye to bury a marble in; books filled the high shelving that spanned the walls; at a writing table a woman in a sweeping blue hat bent over an open ledger, marking lines with a compass and a ruler; on a neat little stage was arrayed an exhibit of conjurer’s tricks; from the ceiling hung a large mobile of the galaxy, its sun the size of a croquet ball and its eleven planets the size of billiard balls; and in front of the fireplace was a gentleman in tweed breeches, asleep in a leather chair with a smile on his face and his hands tucked under his armpits.

In the difficult years that followed her single visit, D had often retreated to the idea of calm and possibility that the commodious and civilized room seemed to represent. If such a perfect space could quietly exist inside a city like this one, maybe there was something else, something more—another part of life, concealed.

Her visit to the Society and its Grand Hall had taken place roughly fifteen years earlier, at a time when an insurrection against the wealthy and the powerful was unimaginable. It was not long afterward that her brother, Ambrose, died after a short bout of cholera. The two events, the visit and Ambrose’s death, were connected in her mind.

D often thought of her brother’s final words. They had been awestruck, parched but clear: Yes, I see you. Your… face.

Whose face? Ambrose had been nothing if not secretive, forever slipping off, and he sometimes said things D had not known whether to believe or take seriously. Once, he had told her that there were other worlds. Maybe it was true. D was almost certain that he had seen something in those final moments, not a hallucination, something real and amazing. There had been conviction in his voice.

If there was an afterlife, or other-life—anything else, anything at all—her brother was the one D wanted to find there.

In adulthood, however, this hope had occurred to her only dreamily, on the occasions that errands sent her along Legate Avenue, when she would pause to glimpse, down the byway of Little Heritage, the fine brick building that housed the Society for Psykical Research, tucked away in the shade of twin poplar trees.

Until opportunity presented itself. The revolution had all but thrown open the Society’s bright-red door and invited her inside.

D asked her lover, a lieutenant in the Volunteer Civil Defense named Robert Barnes, if he could help her, and he said he would do anything she’d like, but—psykical research, Dora? Was that the kind of club where frivolous rich women went in order to have their palms stroked, and to engage deceased eminences in conversation? Because that was what it sounded like.

Lieutenant, D replied, just who is giving the orders around here?

They went to the headquarters of the Provisional Government, which was located at the Magistrates’ Court near the mid-east bank of the river.

On the plaza they found an aide to Crossley. While the students and the dockmen’s union and other radicals had fomented the unrest, it had been General Crossley’s alignment with the opposition leaders that accelerated and solidified the revolution. Without the muscle of Crossley’s Auxiliary Garrison, they could never have forced the regime into retreat and out of the city.

The aide, a Sergeant Van Goor, was posted at a small table. He wore large emerald cufflinks, and as he propped his chin on his fist, one of the emeralds reflected a spot of watery green light into the eye of the statue of a rearing tiger that dominated the center of the slated plaza. D suspected that the cufflinks had only recently come into Sergeant Van Goor’s possession.

Her lieutenant explained what they wanted and pledged that she was a patriot. That so? Van Goor smiled at her. She lowered her eyes and nodded.

Lovely. I’m convinced, he said. Go to it.

But Robert wanted her to have something more official; he didn’t want any trouble or confusion. He dug a scrap of paper from his pocket and wrote out a declaration. It granted D authority over the Society building and its grounds in order to preserve the public’s rightful property until such time as the freely elected government is established and an assessment undertaken for its future use. He read it aloud to the aide.

Van Goor chuckled, said it was handsome, and carefully made his initials on the bottom of the paper.

The pair walked northeast with their elbows linked.

An upright piano, a tattered tablecloth, broken wine bottles, a rubber tree with its root ball exposed amid the shards of its pot, scattered books, and a thousand other things, flotsam of the deposed government and its supporters that had been dumped from wagons and carriages, littered the National Boulevard. D thought, With all the domestics being promoted, everyone will have to learn to tidy up their own messes. People were only beginning to emerge after the fighting that had driven the Crown’s Home Guard from the city.

Those they passed wore jolted expressions, and stood casting glances here and there, as if to locate themselves amid the scattered wreckage.

Everything’s all right now, the lieutenant assured several of the disoriented strangers without being asked. They blinked and smiled tentatively and tipped their hats in response, and seemed to come back to themselves.

Are you sure, sir? one woman blurted. She peered at Robert through the scratched lenses of a pair of tiny spectacles. Her skirt was black and dusty; a nurse, D guessed, or a teacher.

Yes, he said.

They’ve surrendered?

They’re gone, the lieutenant said, and they’re not coming back.

D saw the woman in the dusty skirt frown, but what Robert had said seemed to satisfy the others nearby, several of whom clapped and hooted. Come on, then, announced one bystander, inspired, and a group gathered around the carcass of a toppled carriage to muscle it off the tram tracks.

D spied her lieutenant grinning to himself. In profile, he looked his rank: curly black hair hooking the tops of his ears and fringing the nape of his neck, excellent straight nose just ahead of his strong chin. It sneaked up on her every now and again, how much she liked him. When he said that everything was all right and would stay that way, you could believe that it was true.

Other young men wearing the green armbands that designated membership in the Volunteer Civil Defense were stationed on the streets to maintain order. Robert, like many of the Volunteers formerly a student at the university, flashed ironically casual salutes to his fellows and they flashed them back in return.

A little boy, feet stuffed into some rich woman’s canary-yellow evening slippers that he must have scavenged, ran up and saluted the lieutenant. Robert halted, froze the boy with a dour squint, and abruptly snapped a salute back at him. The boy dashed off squealing.

One man called to the lieutenant from beneath a shaded second-floor window: How can a hungry man be of service, Officer?

Her lieutenant hollered up to him to go to the encampment on the grounds of the Magistrates’ Court. He told him where to find the aide who had signed D’s declaration. Tell him Lieutenant Barnes sent you. He would be fed and something would be found for him to do; there was no shortage of work to be done.

Thank you for your help! I won’t shame you! I’ll work hard at whatever I’m set to, the man called after them. Once I’m at it, there’s no one can outdo me. May a cat smile on you, sir! And your lady!

There were several more encounters like this one. Each time, Robert stopped and spoke to the person, offering advice on how to find food or work or whatever sort of help they needed. D was impressed at how he didn’t shy away from these people, many of whom were visibly in want, clothed in rags and unkempt. By the way he held his shoulders after each of these consultations, she thought her lieutenant was impressed with himself as well.

They neared the edge of the Government District, where Legate Avenue’s embassies bumped against midtown, and turned onto the avenue. Here, signs of the conflict diminished. Along the row of embassies, the flags of other nations still hung, their colors resplendent in the clear morning sunlight, though the ambassadors and diplomats had all departed. In its unprecedented vacancy the avenue seemed to lay itself out just for them—all the way to the iron post bearing the street sign that read Little Heritage Street.

Events Leading to the Overthrow of the Crown’s Government, Pt. 1

A man named Joven, the owner of a firm that manufactured fine ceramics, accused the currency minister, Westhover, of gross swindle.

Joven’s firm had been contracted to produce more than two hundred plates, bowls, vases, and ashtrays to fill the cabinets and dining room tables in Minister Westhover’s home in the city, his lodge in the country, and his estate on the Continent. Each piece was designed to incorporate Westhover’s device, an illustration of the currency minister in Roman costume, holding a scale laden with coins on one side and wheat on the other. The set for each residence was inked in a different color: red in the city, green in the country, black on the Continent.

These details became common knowledge when Joven, the offended retailer, printed a venomous pamphlet about the affair entitled

A MAN THAT’S WORD CANNOT BE WEIGHED.

The pamphlet recounted that Westhover had accepted delivery of the order and unilaterally changed the price, offering only a small portion of the agreed-upon amount. Joven, the pamphlet continued, refused the altered terms and demanded his products be returned; the currency minister had ignored him, kept the pieces, and used his influence in the courts to frustrate Joven’s attempts at legal recompense:

The Minister is friends of the Magistrate that ruled the case, they are Neighbors, which is Outrageous and Not Proper in a Law Hearing.

Further implied by the manufacturer’s cri de cœur was that the image of the currency minister was wildly idealized.

I even rendered him according to his Fancy of himself because that was how he liked and Wished although he is Not a trim man.

In retaliation, the currency minister authored his own pamphlet. This paper declared that Joven’s factory used inferior materials, which resulted in a thin and unsatisfactory plate, and that everyone knew that Westhover was simply robust. It is lamentable that individuals of low character and no family are allowed to insult their betters. The minister sued for defamation and swiftly won damages.

The whole matter, to that point, played as comedy, welcome relief from the mood of increasing discontent among the citizenry.

Cholera was even more rampant than usual in the poor neighborhoods of the Lees District at the lower tip of the city—to warn visitors not to drink water or eat food from the area, gloves were pinned under the knockers of the houses where the sickness was present, such that whole streets of tenements wore the hand. A dockmen’s strike had collapsed, its ringleaders debarred. In the countryside of the Northland Provinces an early-summer drought had seared crops, and the cascading effect had raised the price of bread, of beans, of meat, and so on. The army, under Frankish contract on the Continent and commanded by the great Gildersleeve, had been bogged down in the mountains after a series of defeats and suffered heavy casualties. The once-beloved general had become a symbol of doddering weakness; rumors said that, in seedier areas of the city, louts would tear the sleeves from your jacket and force you to burn them right there in the street, or else absorb a beating.

The specifics of the minister’s ostentatious plates were delicious confirmation of the profligacy of a Crown and a government that lectured the public on the connection between their flagrant spending on spirits and gaming and idolatry and the conditions of their poverty. The simultaneous comeuppance of the imperious businessman who held these deranged ideas about fairness was even more bitterly satisfying, an ancient play performed with fresh zest. Everyone knew that Joven’s mistake had not been the use of inferior materials. His mistake was to forget how things worked. True, Joven had been successful and made money. But men such as Westhover—who was not the first or even the second currency minister in his own family—men like that were money.

Newspaper cartoons lampooned Joven’s squat stature and nearly bare head. The artists indicated his lunacy by wilding his eyes and drawing four or five hairs in apoplectic jags. In one cartoon he waved around a plate leaking glue from a dozen cracks and yelled, See? Finest craftsmanship! In another, he sat atop a giant pile of dish shards and spurted tears, wailing, I s’pose I don’t want them back anymore, while each of his four outraged hairs gushed tears of its own.

Perhaps Joven was mad, or what qualified as mad in those waning days of the previous government; for, obdurately, even after the court ruled against him, he refused to let the matter lie.

Joven had grown up in the impoverished neighborhoods of the Lees, close by the bay. He had never attended any school, but learned his trade from a mudman, and started off using rock kilns to fire crude plates fashioned from Fair River muck. Later, he had developed a special technique, mixing Fair sludge with ground bone to create hand-molded pieces that were smooth enough to pass for factory quality and, gradually, one setting at a time, built his capital.

As a child, Joven had avoided cholera and other diseases. When he was a youth, the army missed him. He never married. All he ever did was work, expanding his business without connection or influence, until he had a factory and a warehouse and a gabled manor in the Hills above the Government District—a manor, in fact, that stood not too far from the ancestral estate of Minister Westhover.

The pads of Joven’s fingers were burnt nerveless from his early years, operating close to the fires with makeshift implements. He had a menacing, head-down stride that made people who weren’t even in his path jump aside at his approach. No one in his association had ever heard him say that he liked anything. If something—a design, a cup of coffee, a seat in a carriage—met his standards, he would sometimes bark, Yeah! but that was as close to praise as he ever came. He did seem to relish destroying flawed plates, hurling them down to shatter at the feet of his foremen, so hard that the shards sometimes rebounded and nicked his hands. At Joven’s firm the employees had nicknamed their chief the Charmer, or just the Charm, for his dearth of social graces.

Even as a boy, selling single cups and pots, Joven never gave a penny of credit or cut a bargain. Dozens of saloonkeepers and cookshop owners in the Lees maintained invisible monuments to the Charmer’s insolence. Here was the street corner, the doorway, the spot along the bar, where young Joven had stood in his muddy bare feet and stared at them with his lip out, and pointed his numb finger, and said a deal was a deal, make it or not.

Which is to say, not even his own people liked him. It did not matter that he had achieved prosperity of a kind that illiterate river rats never achieved. He was admired for his genius, and envied for his luck, but the Charmer had never been one for making friends.

The gates of Minister Westhover’s mansion opened on a cool spring morning. Four chestnut horses clomped through an ankle-deep mist and pulled the minister’s shining white carriage into the street. Joven, who had been waiting beside the fence, stepped out and whipped a plate sideways through the air. It was a replica that he had made himself of one of the plates in Westhover’s set.

Joven still possessed the form he’d honed skipping rocks from the banks of the Fair: the plate spun fast and true. It struck the carriage door and splintered a gash in the glossy white wood.

There’s your thin materials, you chiseling fuck! He scampered forward and snatched up the plate from where it had clattered to the cobbles. Joven waved the intact plate gleefully about his head to show the passersby—domestics, delivery boys, streetsweepers, carpenters on their way to a site. Perfect! Not so much as a chip out of his ugly face!

The driver of the carriage drew his horses to a halt. The currency minister opened the cracked door and peered out. The liveryman descended from the box, followed by the footman.

Joven charged at them with the plate in one hand and his other clenched in a fist but was taken off his feet by a shot from the pistol that the footman had removed from his jacket. The slug struck him in the hip and Joven fell over.

The plate dropped, this time hitting the cobbles just wrong. It broke and flopped into two clean semicircles.

Hold him, Westhover called from the carriage, and the liveryman and the footman went to where Joven lay and pinned his arms and shoulders to the cobbles.

A small brazier had been built into the carriage to keep the government’s chief economist warm on brisk mornings like this one. Using an engineer’s mitt, Westhover extracted a hot coal, climbed down, and approached the group.

Joven struggled, but they held him fast. The minister crouched on the street and tried to stuff the red rock into his mouth. Joven clamped his lips shut and swung his head to and fro, receiving burns on his cheeks and nose, but not letting the currency minister push the coal in. He made growling noises as he jerked his head back and forth. In the scuffle, the vapor on the ground stirred and the mist licked over their backs and limbs.

After a minute or two, Minister Westhover grunted, tossed away the coal, and flung off the smoldering mitt. He staggered up from the man prostrate on the ground.

The minister, younger by a decade than the businessman but heavy and unfit, was breathing hard. He appeared flustered. Snot clung to his blond mustache. His blue silk tie had bunched up at his throat. He patted his pockets, blinking and swallowing and dragging in breaths.

The minister’s men released Joven’s arms, and rose. The mist began to seep back into the little clearing that had been carved out by the struggle.

Joven propped himself up on an elbow and spat at Westhover’s shoes. The skin of his cheeks and nose was peeled and raw where the coal had pressed.

He was triumphant. You can’t make me eat your shit! Burn my nose off, but I never will!

The crowd lingering at a distance, the maids and the men with handcarts, murmured uneasily. Joven’s cry echoed what they were thinking: You saw it! You saw it! He tried to kill me!

Joven shoved himself after the minister, pushing crablike with his palms, apparently wanting to get close enough to do more than just spit. Blood from his hip wound smeared onto the stones, the mist dulling it to black paint. He laughed as he scrabbled toward Westhover; no one had ever heard that before, the Charmer laughing. He thinks it’s all for him, the chiseling fuck, anything he wants to take! Break any deal! He thinks he can kill an honest craftsman in the street!

The currency minister inhaled and pursed his lips. He rubbed his thumb over his fingertips, as if to make sure the nails were even.

Abruptly, Westhover stuck his hand in the pocket of his footman standing beside him, yanked free the pistol, and shot Joven twice in the chest.

The uncouth, uneducated, char-fingered crocker who had risen so far above his station was blown flat, dead, right there in full sight of more than thirty witnesses. A gasp of mist puffed up and slowly settled down on the corpse.

Someone in the crowd sobbed. Murder, someone else said, and several voices agreed. The currency minister shoved the pistol at his footman and the footman took it.

We saw! a woman yelled. She was seconded and thirded. A man asked, Why did you have to do that?

Westhover didn’t answer. He stalked back to his carriage and climbed in, slamming the cracked door shut. His men returned to the box, and they drove the carriage around and back through the open gates of the mansion, and closed them behind.

Constables arrived a few minutes later and ordered the crowd to disperse. Meanwhile, the mist had reduced Joven to a dark mound.

An inquest was held the next day and the matter was put to rest with no charges filed. The currency minister, investigators for the magistrate determined, had acted within the bounds of self-defense.

What About That Big Place There?

But as they turned onto Little Heritage they saw that the Society building had burned.

Whether it was an accident or a case of arson, it was impossible to say. In the midst of their retreat, the Home Guard and the portion of the Constabulary that had remained loyal to the Crown had set fire to parts of the city indiscriminately. The Provisional Government was only beginning to make a survey of the damage. Still, Little Heritage Street was the furthest thing from a main thoroughfare. The cause might just as likely have been a tipped candle or a fireplace spark. Her lieutenant explained these obvious things to D as they stood on the sidewalk and regarded the ruins.

The neighboring structures were undamaged. The effect was like a rotten tooth in an otherwise gleaming smile.

D ventured along the path as far as the poplar trees. The red door had been blasted clean from its hinges, and stuck at a slant in the grass of the lawn. The roof had fallen in. Mounds of scorched timbers and bricks and roof slates were visible through the empty doorway. Beneath the ash stench was a deep, muddy tang, as if the heat had been so powerful that it boiled the surrounding earth. Warmth still radiated from the wreckage, and a mist of blackish particles lingered above the remains of the structure.

The beginnings of the plan she had never allowed herself to fully believe in, that she would discover some record of her brother in the Society, some proof of the meaningfulness of his final words, disintegrated. The model sun and its planets were cinders, the writing desk where the lady in the hat had worked in her ledger reduced to sticks, the drowsy man’s place by the hearth buried under layers of debris. The Grand Hall was gone along with the rest of the building—along with Ambrose.

But she couldn’t afford to dwell in disappointment, not in her position. You could retain pictures of perfect rooms and memories of dead brothers in your head, but when you were on your own you lived on your feet. You continued forward, always, if you wanted to continue at all.

Dora? Her lieutenant had come up beside her. Are you all right?

She looped her arm through his and brought them around to start back along the path. I’m fine. I hope no one was inside.

None of the spirits were injured, Robert said. I think we can be sure of that.

D had not gotten the impression that the Society for Psykical Research had much to do with ghosts, but she did not quibble. In truth, she had never understood precisely what the Society was about, just that it was a place where the members undertook certain investigations and studies—and that Ambrose had, briefly, been one of them.

That is comforting, Lieutenant. I hadn’t thought of that. Being a ghost seems melancholy, but at least you can’t be incinerated. Since the establishment of the Volunteers she had taken to addressing him by his rank.

To the rest of his circle, the other young revolutionaries from the university, D was the whispery little maid that Bobby had shrewdly taken as a lover, a plain gray dress and bonnet who kept near the walls. They couldn’t know how it actually was between them. That was part of the fun for him, she knew.

Robert said, And even if they were vulnerable to fire, they could have been away at the first whiff of smoke. Spirits can pass through walls or windows, or they can slip under doors. Or they can expel themselves through the mail slots, like letters in reverse. It’s up to each individual spirit.

Where did you learn all this?

My nurse.

She was a drunk?

Yes. I liked her very much.

D told him it really didn’t matter, she had just admired the building, that was all. She didn’t want to explain about Ambrose, or about her family, and that made it easier between them anyway. Robert liked her the way he thought of her.

I know you wanted to do your part, Dora, but there are countless other places that need looking after. We’re not even on the street with the good museums.

They had retraced their steps to the foot of Little Heritage, where the street’s first building, a looming edifice with a foundation of pocked stone blocks, dwarfed the corner. Robert gestured to the right, north on Legate, past the embassy of the ousted government’s foremost ally. Let’s go over to Great Heritage, and I promise we’ll find you— He paused, and shifted his gaze to the great pile of stone blocks beside them. Wait, though. What about that big place there?

Something Is About to Happen

Some boys had taunted her one day many years ago. D was with her brother. She was eight. The boys were loitering outside an apothecary’s shop, and they wore smart blue school caps and uniforms and looked to be a couple of years younger than Ambrose, who was fifteen, no longer a boy at all. Her brother held D’s damp hand, while in her elbow she cradled her baby doll.

Oh, darling, I can’t help but notice what a pretty baby you have there! one boy howled. His hair was white-blond and, like a grown man, he had a gold watch chain that drooped from his vest pocket. In the shop window behind him, there were boards with painted pictures—a man with a bandaged head, a woman with a bulging eye, a red swollen toe shooting black lines of hurt—to communicate the variety of injuries treated by the apothecary’s pills and tonics.

"Oh, darling! one of the others crowed, picking up after him. It’s a baby!"

It happened that her doll was named Baby, and she did think Baby was very pretty in an ivory nightgown with a lace-trim collar. The abuse of the older, nicely dressed boys confused and embarrassed D, and she sniffled as her brother led her away.

They made cat sounds, hisses and growly screeches. Their leader kept on with his sneers. And that must be your little wife! Well done, sir, well done!

D wondered why her brother didn’t tell them to stop; he was bigger than them. But Ambrose didn’t even glance their way.

Instead, without pausing or twisting down to her, he whispered, Hush now, D. They like when you cry. I would never let anyone harm you. Do you believe that?

She said she did, but really, she wasn’t sure of anything. She had not known that there were boys in the world who would yell at you just because you were small and you had a toy that you loved. D cried harder and the tears dripped on Baby.

Good. Now, just stay close and pay attention, Ambrose said. Something is about to happen.

The boys did not follow and their voices receded as the siblings walked around the corner onto the next street. D’s brother told her to stop, and to look about herself. Look as close as you can. See everything.

D saw:

Handsome houses that resembled their own, three-leveled except where they were four, with stone stoops that abutted the sidewalk. The thin parallel bars of the tram tracks, splitting the middle of the cobbled avenue, and within the fenced enclosure of the tram stop, a man who had removed his boot and stood, balancing on his other foot, to use a finial to scrape something off the boot’s sole. On the far side of the avenue, a woman in a maid’s apron and bonnet walking with a basket of lettuce on her head. Farther down, the neighborhood streetsweeper shoveling horse-droppings into his wheelbarrow; the shovel blade clanged off the stone. Grackles perched on the tram wire that hung above the tracks. The cloudless gray sky.

D returned her gaze to her brother. Like the mean boys, Ambrose wore a school cap, but his was a shade of gray not much darker than the sky, and he pulled it low to the tops of his eyebrows. In the years to come, D would picture him most vividly this way, sharp nose and a clever, jutting, top-teeth smile below a visor of shadow.

Do you see what’s happened?

No, I don’t think so.

We made them disappear. It’s our special magic, D.

She knew it wasn’t true. People couldn’t be made to vanish, no matter how much you hated them. She appreciated the fantasy for the gift it was, though, a soothing idea that belonged only to them. The fair-haired boy might have had a fancy watch chain, but he didn’t have a brother like D’s, and he would never get to see that rabbit’s grin her brother reserved just for her; and he didn’t have a sister like D he could trust and rely on no matter what.

Maybe in that way, by comparison to what D and Ambrose shared, the boys were made so small it was like they disappeared.

Mother hated it when he called her D instead of Dora, but that was part of their closeness. In her infancy, Ambrose’s tongue had tended to tangle itself in the tail of her name, and he’d settled on D as an alternative.

Nurse delighted in telling this story. The young sir announced, ‘I’m not going to exhaust myself trying to say the whole thing. Why should I? She’s not so big she needs more than a letter anyway!’

D could not remember thinking of herself any other way. It made her feel special, seen and noticed by him. Perhaps a letter was a little thing, but there were only twenty-six of them, and her brother had given the fourth to her.

I love you, she said, and he patted her shoulder and said he loved her too.

As they stood there, the maid with the lettuce basket on her head carefully stepped around them.

When they got home, Nurse had collapsed to the floor in the doorway between the back hall and the kitchen. Father was at work and Mother was somewhere else. Nurse laughed and flapped a hand at them. Nurse had a puffy, creased, jolly face; it was a face like a happy cloud. D had never heard her speak an unkind word, and if she wasn’t laughing, she always seemed to be on the verge of laughing.

Look at this now: my legs went and sat me down! How do you like that? Nurse chuckled some more. Touch of something, I suppose. I’ll be all right.

Ambrose helped her stand. Of course you’ll be all right. He guided her to a seat at the kitchen table. D caught a sniff of her odd, sweet smell, like the smell of the apples around the roots of an apple tree, the spoiled leaking ones that no one wanted.

D sat across from Nurse and reached out to pat her soft, damp hand. She said to Nurse what Nurse had always said to her when she didn’t feel well: Don’t fret, darling, it’s not your Day to Sail.

This caused Nurse to let out a hoot of delight before dropping her head into the crook of her elbow and groaning cheerfully. D patted her hand some more.

Her brother rebuttoned his coat. He’d run and fetch Nurse some tonic to settle her nerves. Look after the patient while I’m gone, D. The apothecary was right around the corner. He plucked the ash shovel from its hook by the stove and promised to be back soon.

A month or two later, a day came when Nurse fell sick again.

Ambrose had warned D this was likely to happen and asked her to accept the extraordinarily important responsibility of fetching him immediately if it did. It was vital that their parents not learn about Nurse’s fragile condition. This was because instead of walking directly home after school as their parents supposed, D’s brother often arrived only minutes before his mother returned from her day’s shopping and appointments. If Nurse was dismissed, her replacement might not be as tolerant of Ambrose’s tardiness.

I’m not the fellow Mother and Father would like me to be, D. I don’t want to work in a bank, or be husband to someone who’d want to marry a banker. I’m not like them. Ambrose had winked at her from the shadow beneath his gray cap’s bill.

What are you like? D asked.

I’m interesting, he said.

Am I interesting? She couldn’t imagine being interesting like her brother was interesting, but maybe there were gradations.

Do you know interesting people?

You, she said.

Well, said her brother, there you have it. You are. Or you will be, because it rubs off. I made friends with one interesting person, one thing led to another, and now I’m part of a whole set of interesting people, and we’re going to save the world. I hope you’ll want to join us eventually. Now, what do you say? Can you be my spotter and run quick if Nurse is ill?

D had said she could. At the same time, she’d wondered, Save the world from what?

Before she left the house, D tucked a pillow under Nurse’s head where she had gone to sleep on the bathroom floor. Just as Ambrose had told her, she took the tram for two stops, got off, and walked to the corner where the street sign read Great Heritage Street in one direction and Legate Avenue in the other. From there, she continued along Legate a block farther to the street sign that read Little Heritage Street. On Little Heritage, just as her brother had described, the second building from the corner was made of bright brick and had two tall, skinny trees in front.

She hurried across the street and up the path to the red door inlaid with a silver triangle, and knocked.

A doorman took her brother’s name, welcomed her to the Society for Psykical Research, and ushered her inside. He brought her through a tiled lobby to a curtained entranceway. This led through to what the doorman pronounced the Grand Hall, miss. He instructed her to abide there while he went to retrieve the young gentleman from his studies, and marched away to a second curtained doorway at the far end of the long room.

D was glad to abide right where she stood. Her family circumstances were more than comfortable and she had never wanted for food or clothes or shelter, but the distinctly adult majesty of the room in which she had been deposited was overwhelming. She felt that her commitment to her brother had brought her as far as could reasonably be expected. She also bitterly regretted neglecting to bring Baby for support.

Bookshelves stretched the Hall’s great length, and rose to its high ceiling, where a constellation of colored balls—planets, she realized—was strung, suspended by a spidery apparatus of bent silver wires. In the center of the apparatus was the largest ball, the yellow-painted sun. The whole construction moved slowly clockwise, and as it did, peels of light skimmed the curves of the planets.

Quiet, intent activity was taking place throughout the room. In the middle of what seemed like acres of gold-patterned red carpet, there was a woman at a writing desk with a ledger. A lavish touring hat sewn with pearls and flowers was tilted at her crown, screening her face, and she used a measuring instrument to draw lines in the book. At the top of a ladder attached to the wall perched a man examining the titles on the highest shelf. Off in a corner, a small group stood drinking from cups and saucers and chatting. Two identical women—twins!—in high-collared gowns were in consultation over a globe on a bronze stand.

Not too far from D, in a leather armchair by the marble fireplace, slumped an older man in tweed breeches. Even he, in his slumber, seemed happily occupied: his hands were clamped under his armpits, his sleeping mouth was lifted in a thoughtful smile, and there were blooms on his cheeks from the heat.

The Hall smelled wonderful, like cedar and woodsmoke and leather and polish and wax.

D balanced on the vast rug’s lip, the toes of her shoes sunken into the pile of the burgundy-colored carpet—checkered with triangles like the one on the Society’s door but gold instead of silver—and her heels on the threshold. The fabric of the curtain grazed her back. How had her brother ever found the courage to move beyond this spot?

She stared up at the planets, strategizing that if she focused