The Map of Stars, page 14
They found them on the grounds outside. The guide was still talking about ghosts.
“In the 1960s, a group of schoolkids claimed that a woman standing on the balcony right up there yelled at them because they were making too much noise. When the kids saw the portrait of Eliza Jumel in the upstairs bedroom, they said they were sure that Eliza was the woman who yelled at them. We’ve had many a ghost hunter here at the Morris-Jumel Mansion.”
“That’s great,” said Theo. “Really fabulous. Yup.” He nodded and then kept nodding, as if he were a bobblehead on a dashboard.
“Are you okay?” said Jaime.
“Ha!” said Theo. “Totally fine! Why?”
“Because you’re acting like a weirdo?” said Tess.
“That’s nothing new,” Jaime said.
“Ha-ha!” Theo said. “Ha-ha-ha!”
The mom of the little girls said, “Maybe he needs to sit down?”
The dad of the little girls said, “He probably needs some lunch.”
“I could use some lunch,” said Jaime.
To the guide, the littlest girl said, “You should have lunch here so people don’t act like weirdos.”
Her sister said, “It should be a ghost lunch. With ghosts.”
The oldest girl rolled her eyes. “Ghosts don’t eat lunch.”
The middle sister said, “What do you know about ghosts, Livvy? You’re scared of your own dolls.”
“Only when they stare at me!” said Livvy.
“We’re going to get my brother some food,” Tess said, hauling on both Theo’s and Jaime’s arms. “Thanks for the very informative tour!”
“You’re welcome!” said the guide. “Come back and visit us soon!”
As they walked away from the house, Theo turned, looked up at the balcony, and, for some reason, shuddered.
They hopped the Underway back downtown. For lunch, they picked up burgers and fries to go at a nearby Bug’s Burgers and brought the food to Central Park. They found a secluded spot to eat. When they were finished, they passed around the brick/block/box to examine it more closely. Instead of a solid brick, there were seams at the corners.
“Tiles?” said Tess.
“Looks like it,” Theo said.
“And there’s definitely something inside,” said Jaime, who shook the box so they could hear whatever it was rattling around in it. Jaime thought they might have to find a tool or a rock to pry or smash off the brick tiles, but they popped off easily, leaving a metal box of some sort, the disc still attached to its front.
Jaime turned the box over. “Maybe it’s a tiny safe.”
“Then we’d need some way to unlock it,” Theo said.
“The disc is still on the front,” Tess said. “Maybe we have to turn it.”
“Yes, but how far? Which direction? How many times?” Theo said.
“Details, details,” Jaime said. He spun the disc the way he had at the Morris-Jumel Mansion. Left, right, all the way around one way, all the way around the other. But nothing happened.
“Maybe it’s a puzzle box?” Tess said. “Does anything slide around?”
“No,” said Jaime. “It feels almost solid. Here.” He handed it to Tess, who tried all the things Jaime had tried. Then Theo did the same.
“Has to be a combination, then,” said Tess. “Something to do with that disc.”
“But there aren’t any numbers on the disc. No letters, either,” Jaime said.
Theo pointed to one of the notches on the edge of the disc. “This notch is a little deeper than all the rest. And there’s a notch on the top of the box. So, if we line these up . . .” Theo spun the disc until the notches lined up and then pulled on the knob. And pulled again. And pulled.
“Welp,” said Tess, “that’s not it.”
“Ugh,” said Theo, splaying himself on the grass.
“Giving up so soon?” said Tess.
“I’m not giving up, I’m resting up,” Theo said.
“By the way,” Jaime said, “what happened back there?”
“What do you mean?”
“How did you know this was hidden in the hearth? And what was the whole laughing-like-a-hyena thing about?” Jaime said.
“Hyenas don’t laugh,” Theo said.
“You know what I mean,” said Jaime.
Theo covered his eyes with both hands. “Promise you won’t make fun of me.”
“Nope,” said Tess. “But tell us anyway.”
“Fine,” Theo said. “The ghost of Eliza Jumel told me that the clue was in the hearth. Happy?”
“I am definitely not happy about that,” said Jaime. “I am the complete opposite of happy.”
“What do you mean, ‘ghost’?” Tess said.
“Is there another meaning of ‘ghost’ that I’m not aware of?” Theo said. “A woman who looked exactly like that portrait of Eliza Jumel was in the secret passage. She told me to go down to the hearth.”
Jaime thought about this. “The Turk did tell us to find the Eliza who haunts the Heights. Haunts as in ghost?”
“Or someone wants us to think so,” Tess said.
“Who would want us to think so?” demanded Theo. “And if that person wasn’t a ghost, then what was she?”
“I don’t know,” said Tess. “Some kind of projection?”
“Projection from where? And how?”
“A hidden camera? Maybe triggered by your face or voice or something?”
“She looked as real as you. As real as Jaime,” Theo insisted.
Tess lifted her hands in surrender. Watching all the emotions tick across her face—confusion, frustration, determination—and Theo flopping around in the grass, Jaime now knew one thing was completely clear: the twins didn’t know anything more about the Cipher than Jaime did. They hadn’t kept anything from him, not on purpose. And even photographs and videos could be altered to tell any sort of story.
Jaime scooped up the box and gave it back to Tess. “Put this away.”
“But we haven’t solved it yet!”
“It’s hot, and I think we need a break,” said Jaime. “Let’s go to a movie or something.”
Tess looked at the block in her hands, glinting in the sun, then tucked it into her bag. “A movie sounds like a great idea.”
Jaime stood. “Come on, Theo. We’ll find a theater with no ghosts in it.”
“Very funny,” said Theo.
Later, while they sat in a second-run theater watching Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse 2, Jaime thought about ghosts, about echoes of people in the things they left behind, and all the ways in which those things and the people they belonged to got forgotten, or erased. Like the Daughters of the American Revolution trying to erase Eliza Jumel from the house she had lived in for fifty-five years. And how, in trying to erase Eliza, they erased Anne Northup and her children from the house, too.
He tried to focus on the movie. He loved the world of the Spider-Verse, a world of many timelines existing at once. But his mind kept drifting. He imagined a timeline in which Solomon Northup was never kidnapped by slavers, a timeline where he and Anne owned their own grand home, and Anne cooked for no one but her own family and her own friends, the people she invited in. And though it was unlike him, Jaime fell asleep in the dark of the theater, dreaming of a place where Anne and Solomon’s children grew strong on their mother’s food and their father’s presence, a place where everyone was loved.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Imogen Sparks
Two a.m. Imogen Sparks crossed her arms to ward off the bite in the air as she walked, her long tulle skirt flouncing, her combat boots quiet as ballet slippers on the sidewalk. The nights were growing colder. Soon the haze and heat of the summer would dissipate, and the chill would sink its teeth in, not letting go of the city until spring. She welcomed it. Fewer people on the streets at night. So much easier to spot anyone on her tail. Like the men she’d lost a few blocks back. Not very good at their jobs, those men, lumbering and clumsy, wearing identical ill-fitting black suits.
Still, it was a bad sign.
Imogen willed herself to walk briskly yet casually past the kids loitering around the Croton Fountain and paused at the door of an old warehouse, where a modest plaque marked it as the home of the Old York Puzzler and Cipherist Society. Not for the first time, Imogen thought it might be better to cover up the plaque, or chisel it off. Not for the first time, Imogen thought it might be better to hire some real guards for the place, instead of the Cipherists taking turns sleeping there at night. But who could they trust with all their treasures—and their secrets—except themselves?
Imogen fished around in her handbag and found her compact. She pretended to check her lipstick while aiming the mirror behind her. No men in ill-fitting suits, no women, either. It wasn’t too long ago that she and the other Cipherists had been accosted at Green-Wood Cemetery by a vicious band of blond lady fighters/news hostesses with the same silly hair and the same talent for kickboxing. And though the Cipherists had gotten the better of those women in that battle, Imogen wasn’t exactly looking for a rematch.
Satisfied that she hadn’t been followed, she slipped her compact back into her purse.
“Ms. Sparks?”
Imogen gasped, whirled around. “Where did you come from?”
A few feet away stood a disheveled man with longish gray hair and a face so ruddy that it was red even in the dark. Broken capillaries mapped his nose and cheeks. His shirt had a ketchup stain on the shoulder. Or maybe it was blood. He held a large envelope.
“Ms. Imogen Sparks?”
“Yes. What? Who are you?”
He handed her the envelope and then smiled with tiny corn teeth that needed a good cleaning. “You’ve been served.”
“What?”
The man whistled and sauntered away.
Imogen tore open the envelope and scanned the papers. A wave of rage flooded her when she read what was on them. She stuffed them back into the envelope and jammed the whole thing into her purse. She jabbed the buzzer next to the door to the Cipherist Society.
“Ray? Omar?” she said. “It’s me.”
No response.
She buzzed once more. “Ray. Come on, wake up!”
Still no response.
“Omar! Hello? Are you guys playing Scrabble again? Without me?”
Again, no response.
Now annoyed as well as enraged, Imogen dug around in her purse for her keys. Of course, they’d fallen all the way to the bottom. She yanked out an enormous jumble of interconnected keychains and searched for her Captain America fob, the one with the shiny brand-new key to the shiny brand-new lock they’d just had installed for extra security. She was about to insert the key into the lock when she saw the scratches on the trim plate. Not scratches, gouges. Tool marks? Had someone tried to pick the lock? A dread far colder than the night chill sank into her bones. This time, she didn’t bother with her mirror. Quickly, she looked behind her, to the left and to the right. The street was empty. She dug around in her purse for the compact “umbrella” she kept for circumstances like this one. Then she slowly opened the heavy wooden door, which squeaked like something out of a horror film.
Inside the small lobby of the building, the air was heavy and still, warmer than it had been outside, with a strange musty smell she couldn’t place. Her heart thumped as she slapped the light switch, and it thumped again when the lights refused to come on.
Someone had left tool marks on the door lock.
And someone had cut the power.
Imogen swore under her breath. She clicked the button on the umbrella that wasn’t exactly an umbrella and a blue glow emanated from its tip. She aimed the blue light all around the lobby, but there was no one lying in wait for her.
“Woman up, Immy,” she muttered to herself. She marched across the lobby to another wooden door and opened it. Behind the wooden door was a shiny steel wall with a keypad in the middle. She touched the keypad and its cover fell away, dangling by its wires. Someone, it seemed, had tampered with this lock, too.
Imogen swore again. She pushed the keypad back into place and punched in the code, hoping the mechanism was still operational. The steel wall opened and Imogen stepped inside. Once the wall closed behind her, she advanced to the next keypad, damaged like the first. She coded in, then stepped back, ready to swing at whoever came at her.
A hole opened up in the steel, dialing wide like the pupils of a cat. The archives beyond were nearly pitch-black.
“Ray?” she whispered, walking slowly out onto the platform. “Omar?”
She almost screamed when another voice, thin and squeaky, said, “Ray? Omar?”
But she could just make out the shape of a large bird perched on the railing.
“Auguste?”
The bird said, feverishly, frantically, “For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”
“You scared me to death! What are you doing up here?”
“And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”
“It’s all right, Auguste,” she murmured, though it clearly was not. The chill in her bones got even chillier as she took several sluggish steps toward the railing and willed herself to look down three floors into the heart of the archives. The endless walls of shelves that housed their books and manuscripts were still neat and tidy. The glass cases that housed priceless artifacts seemed undisturbed. But where were Ray and Omar?
There was a thump and a crash from somewhere below. A dark shape sprinted across the enormous room, heavy feet thudding.
Adrenaline pumped through Imogen’s veins. She ran down the filigree spiral staircase so fast that she made herself dizzy, so fast she nearly fell onto the rug at the foot of the stairs. Jamming herself against a wall of books, she panned the not-umbrella’s blue light around the large room. As it had in the lobby, the air smelled musty and vaguely animal.
Heavy feet thudded again, this time heading for the kitchen. Imogen whipped the light in that direction but saw nothing. A minute later, there were thudding sounds going the other way. Keeping her back against the wall, she slowly sidestepped to her right, panning the light back and forth.
Until she almost stumbled over a body.
Someone was collapsed on the floor behind one of the chairs
“Omar!” she said. She knelt beside him and pressed her ear to his chest. She almost cried when she heard the strong, steady beat of his heart.
At her touch, Omar stirred. He blinked slowly at her, a swelling over his eye, his nose broken and bloody, and then said, “My nose!”
“You’re going to be all right,” she whispered.
“I liked my nose,” Omar said. “It was a good nose.”
“Shhh!” she said. “Someone’s still in the archives.”
“Oh dear,” said Omar.
“Don’t move. I’m going to find Ray.” Imogen stood, and Omar gripped her leg.
“Be careful.”
She nodded and kept moving, listening intently for the footsteps. She eased herself around the glass display cases that housed encrypted letters from Benedict Arnold, belts etched with strange symbols, stones tooled by Guildmen. She made it to the other side of the room, to the bookcase that doubled as a door to the kitchen. She was just about to pull the red volume that opened the door when something slammed into her back. Her forehead hit the bookcase with such force that she staggered, almost falling to her knees. But she did not fall. She swung around and jabbed with the umbrella that was not an umbrella. There was a buzzing sound as her weapon erupted, followed by a bellow of pain.
“Got you,” Imogen said, before she was shoved to the floor so hard that she slid some feet before coming to a stop. There was a ferocious crash and then the shattering of glass, the thunder of heavy feet up the staircase. Auguste squawked and launched himself from the railing above, spiraling down to land at Imogen’s side.
“I’m all right, Auguste,” she breathed. “Are you all right?”
“THE BEAUTIFUL ANNABEL LEE!” Auguste said.
“Does Annabel know kung fu? Because that would be useful right about now,” Imogen said, pulling herself off the floor. She cocked her head, listening for more footsteps, but all she heard was the filigree staircase vibrating like a tuning fork.
Behind her, the bookcase swung open, and Imogen shrieked.
Ray Turnage stood there. “Ugh,” he said, holding his head. “I don’t know what hit me.”
“Same guy who hit me, I think.”
“Could have been a giant sentient anvil, for all I know,” Ray said. “Got me from behind. Never saw a thing. Knocked me clean out.”
Imogen helped Ray to the nearest chair. Then she got Omar seated next to him. She explored the rest of the archives but found no one. Eventually, she went to the kitchen and got Ray and Omar some ice wrapped in towels.
“Omar, what happened to you?” Imogen said.
Omar’s good eye dialed like the door to the archives, as if he’d just remembered how his nose had gotten broken. He said, “I went to the kitchen to get some coffee. When I came back out, someone was in the archives, waiting. A big guy, but that’s all I registered before he hit me. And not just once. And he smelled like he hadn’t had a shower in years.”
“I saw a weird disheveled guy outside. But he wasn’t that big,” said Imogen.
“What guy?”
“Whoever he was, he works for you-know-who,” Imogen said.
“Voldemort?” said Omar. “Really, Imogen. You can say his name.”
“Slant,” said Imogen, with such venom that the name sounded like a swear. “I’m not afraid of saying his name, I just want to spit every time I say it. Anyway, he’s suing us for the building.”
“He can’t do that,” said Ray. “The Society owns this place.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to the Biedermann kids. They lost their home to that greedy jerk. He’s not going to stop until he owns the whole city.”
Omar groaned again. “Now my head hurts as much as my poor beautiful nose.”
“You still have your nose,” said Imogen. “It will have more character now.”
