The Clockwork Ghost Read online

  “It certainly wasn’t the first personal ad I’ve ever read directed at me. I met my second husband through the personal ads. He was a trapeze artist. Very flexible joints.” Aunt Esther looked at the plate. “Oh, dear. You are all quite the ravenous monsters, aren’t you? I’ll get you more Fig Newtons. It’s a good thing I purchase in bulk.” She swept from the room, leaving them with an empty plate and more questions than answers.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jaime

  The twins’ aunt brought two more plates full of cookies and more cryptic answers to their questions about Nine, her name, and where she came from. No, Aunt Esther said, she didn’t remember much about the place she picked her up except that it was clean, or remember much about the young woman with the overlarge animals except that she and the animals were clean as well. Cleanliness, said Aunt Esther, was a virtue. Along with curiosity, tenacity, and punctuality. Her third husband wasn’t punctual, and that, she said, was the end of that. Tess reminded her that technically she’d never been married, but Aunt Esther waved this off.

  Jaime wondered aloud if being concerned with technicalities was a virtue or a vice and earned a smile and several more cookies.

  Even though talking with the twins’ aunt was frustrating, it was also fascinating to Jaime. Aunt Esther was like a character from a novel. Someone ageless and magical like Dumbledore or Gandalf or Galadriel, someone who had lived so many lives that sometimes they got the details mixed up. Or rather, chose very carefully which details they wanted to reveal, because they had learned the hard way to trust no one.

  Trust no one. The thought flared in Jaime’s head as he and the twins finished their snack and headed for the attic room, where many of Benjamin Adler’s notebooks were crammed in boxes. The letter that had started it all, the letter that had been sent to the twins’ grandpa Ben and intercepted by Tess had had the words TRUST NO ONE scripted on the envelope. And they hadn’t trusted anyone with their discovery of the shadow cipher—until Edgar Wellington. Jaime could still feel the Atlantic Tunnel vibrating under his feet, still see the mandibles of the giant metal machine punching through the wall, smell the dust in the air, feel the horror as the machine mowed Edgar Wellington down mere moments after he had betrayed them. The fact that Edgar had lived, the fact that he didn’t seem to remember that day in the tunnel or the days preceding it, the fact that he’d visited the twins and chattered at them as if nothing had ever happened didn’t lessen the strangeness of it, the dread that sometimes backed up in Jaime’s throat, that woke him up in the dead of night.

  Jaime shook the thoughts from his head and tried to focus on what Tess was saying.

  “Grandpa kept a lot of notes on the Morningstarrs’ associates and guests in this notebook, though I’m sure it’s not a complete list. And sometimes there are just descriptions of people instead of their names.” She dug around in a box and pulled out several leather-bound journals. “I wish they’d had cameras back in the day. Maybe we would have had a picture of someone wearing the dress.”

  They each took a journal and started combing through the pages. Some names scrawled in Benjamin Adler’s tiny, crabbed script were familiar. Eliza Hamilton. Edgar Allan Poe. Charles Dickens. Other names weren’t familiar at all, and they had to look them up on the twins’ computer or Jaime’s phone. Still other people were described by what they did.

  “‘According to the Sun, a lady cellist, apparently quite talented, played in the drawing room after dinner, September 18, 1849,’” read Jaime. “‘Unusual for the time because the way the cello had to be held was considered inappropriate for ladies.’”

  “What wasn’t considered inappropriate for ladies?” Tess said sourly.

  Jaime used his phone to search for female cellists of the nineteenth century and found a Portuguese cellist named Guilhermina Suggia, but she was born in 1885, too late to have been a guest or a friend of the Morningstarrs. He also found a French cellist named Lisa Cristiani, who was born in 1827 and died of cholera in 1853.

  “She toured all over Europe and Russia. Mendelssohn wrote the ‘Song without Words’ opus 109 for her because he was so impressed by her playing. But I can’t find any information about her being in New York City or even in the US.”

  “I’ll write her name down anyway,” Tess said.

  They kept reading. Jaime found a mention of a lady pirate. He used his phone for another search and found the story of one Sadie Farrell, aka Sadie the Goat, who had earned her nickname because she would head-butt her marks in the stomach before robbing them. She lived in New York City until another woman, Gallus Mag, allegedly over six feet tall, bit off Sadie’s ear. Sadie stole a sloop in the spring of 1869 and raided houses along the Hudson and Harlem Rivers.

  “Oh, and occasionally, she kidnapped people,” Jaime said. “But I’m not sure if she’s a real person or just a legend.”

  “Plus,” said Tess, “would a lady pirate wear a silk gown?”

  “Maybe she would if she was visiting the Morningstarrs,” Theo said.

  “I have a feeling the Morningstarrs weren’t that concerned with what was appropriate for ladies,” Tess said.

  They kept scouring the notes, looking for any other mentions of women. They found lady chemists and lady writers and lady blacksmiths and lady poets and lady socialites—sometimes with names, sometimes without, as before. When there wasn’t a name, Jaime and Theo continued to do a little research to figure out some likely suspects. Tess dutifully wrote down all the names, as did Jaime, in his sketchbook.

  After a while, they had a long list of names, but didn’t seem any closer to figuring out the provenance of the dress. Any one of the women on their list could have owned it. Or none of them.

  “The heart on the lace has to be some kind of clue,” said Tess.

  “Or maybe it’s just decoration?”

  “It’s the only decoration on the dress.”

  “We didn’t examine the whole dress, though,” Jaime pointed out. “For all we know, there’s something hidden in the fabric or sewed into the hem or something.”

  “Great. So now we have to break into a dry-cleaning shop,” said Theo.

  Jaime checked the time on his phone, stood, stretched. “We don’t have to break into anything because I have to go back to Hoboken or Mima will kill me.” He couldn’t bring himself to use the word home.

  Tess tossed the journal she’d been reading aside and stood, too. “Okay. Maybe we can take this up again tomorrow? Want us to come to you this time?”

  The twins still hadn’t seen Jaime’s new apartment, but Jaime wasn’t ready for that. “Your grandpa’s notes are all here. It’s not like I’m going to ask you to drag them all the way out to New Jersey.”

  Tess bit her lip, but didn’t say anything. At the door, she gave Jaime a hug. Nine gently nibbled at his fingertips, as if he were the one who needed comfort.

  “Be careful,” Tess said, as he put his hand on the knob.

  “You sound like my grandmother,” Jaime said.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  Jaime texted his grandmother to tell her he was on his way home. Then, he took the Underway back to Grand Central Station in Manhattan, but instead of hopping another downtown train, he did what he’d been doing more and more of lately: He walked. There had been days during which Jaime walked for hours and hours, taking in as much of the city as he could. Ever since 354 W. 73rd Street had come down—ever since they had brought it down—every single store and monument and building seemed fragile somehow, too easily razed, too easily broken. He’d sit on a bench in Washington Square Park or under the cover of a bus stop or on the stoop of a pizza shop, penciling the buildings in his sketchbook. Then he’d go home and ink them, trying to make them all feel real again, whole again, impervious to everything and everyone, the people who meant to do ill and the ones who meant do well, because, sometimes, the result was the same.

  Today, he walked all the way from Grand Central Station down to Broadway
and Liberty Street. He sat on a bench and stared up at the Morningstarr Tower, once the tallest building in Manhattan. Not too long ago, you could tour the building. Ride one of the ever-shifting escalators. See the writing desk of Theresa Morningstarr, the portrait of a scowling Theodore Morningstarr hanging over one of the grand fireplaces. Take an elevator all the way to the top of the tower, look out upon the whole of the city, the blue-gray water all around. Jaime opened his sketchbook and drew the elegant lines of the building, the Underway tracks spiraling up the tower.

  He did not draw the fences around the building. The caution tape. The CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE signs. The name SLANT plastered everywhere.

  He sketched until his hand ached and his stomach rumbled for dinner. So he put his sketchbook away. Instead of taking the PATH train, he walked back up to 39th Street, where he could catch the ferry. He bought his ticket and joined the crowds of commuters piling onto the boat. Instead of taking a seat inside, he wound his way through the throngs of people and found a place for himself outside along the guardrails. He didn’t mind the wind; he didn’t mind the fine spray. Despite the late hour, the air was still warm, the evening sky bright with the light of the silvery moon. When he leaned over the railing and looked closely, the water below was alive with darting silvery fish. The moon and the water and the fish soothed him, reminded him of the good things in the world, the city they were trying to save, even if the city didn’t know it needed saving.

  In the distance, the ferry slips hunkered under a huge sign that said ERIE-LACKAWANNA. The boat slowed as it approached the slip, finally docking to disgorge its passengers. Jaime had to walk only a few minutes to get to his apartment, in a brand-new building with views of the Manhattan skyline.

  Jaime hated it. Hated the white walls and the spotless carpets and the windows so clear that birds sometimes flew right into them. He hated the blare of the giant televisions coming from the enormous gym downstairs, the helpful security guards, the happy children running through the hallways. He had never once swum in the rooftop pool no matter how hot it got, refused to even get a muffin at the shop on the ground floor. Mima said he was being ridiculous, but Jaime knew she didn’t like the place any better than he did. She was, however, much better at making the best of things.

  Jaime got on the perfectly normal elevator that traveled only up and down, and punched the perfectly normal-looking button, and grumbled to himself as he did. The elevator door was about to close, when he heard a high voice pipe, “EXCUSE ME, PLEASE.”

  Jaime put a hand between the closing doors, and they opened to reveal a small girl, about six, on a blue tricycle. The girl had light brown skin and high pigtails that stuck up like antennae. She was wearing a knee-length white smock splattered with neon paint, black leggings printed with tiny dinosaurs, and red rubber galoshes. A large raccoon-cat sat in the basket of the tricycle, brandishing a cheese curl.

  “Cricket?” Jaime said.

  “Who else would it be?” Cricket said, pedaling the tricycle onto the elevator.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” said Cricket.

  “I live here,” Jaime said.

  “No, I live here.”

  “Since when?”

  Cricket dug around underneath Karl, causing him to chitter in protest. She pulled out a large watch and consulted it. “Since a hundred minutes ago.”

  “A little over an hour?”

  She scowled. “A hundred minutes.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Eleventh floor, please,” Cricket said, jamming the watch back under Karl, who squawked.

  “That’s my floor!” Jaime said.

  “No,” Cricket said, “it’s mine.”

  Jaime pressed “11” again, and the doors closed. “Well, maybe it’s both of ours.”

  Cricket thought about this for a second. Then she said, “It’s mine, but I’ll let you live there.”

  Jaime couldn’t help it, he laughed. Cricket’s scowl deepened, and he laughed again.

  “I’m not laughing at you. I just think you’re funny.”

  Cricket shook her head. “I’m not funny. I am very serious. For example, I have been exploring this building and it’s all wrong. It’s PECULIAR.”

  Even though Jaime, too, thought it was all wrong and also PECULIAR, he asked, “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Way too white and shiny,” she said.

  “You might be right about that.”

  Cricket cut her eyes to him. “I painted my bedroom walls with pictures of aliens and flowers and pizza. It’s much better now, but my mom didn’t think so. She BURST INTO HYSTERICS.”

  Jaime swallowed hard. His own mother had died when he was very young, and he would give anything to have her here, bursting into hysterics over something he’d done. “Some moms do that, I guess.”

  “Hmmph,” said Cricket. “And I don’t like all the wiggle worms.”

  “The what?”

  “The wiggle worms. Haven’t you seen them?”

  Jaime didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. “No. But I’m glad to see you.”

  Now she narrowed her eyes, peering at him with suspicion.

  “I really am.”

  Her face relaxed a little. “I’m glad I’m not living with Cranky Cousin Gordon in Bayonne, New Jersey, anymore. His whole house smells like nachos. He doesn’t even eat nachos. That doesn’t make sense and I don’t like NONSENSICAL things.”

  There was a sharp ding! and the elevator doors opened. Cricket pedaled out into the hallway. Before reaching the end of the hallway, she turned. In a quiet voice she added, “I’m glad to see your famous hair.” Then she disappeared around the corner.

  Jaime smiled to himself as he unlocked the door of the new apartment, heartened to find someone familiar in the building, even if it was an extremely cranky six-year-old who didn’t enjoy being nice to people unless she was guilted into it, and who really should have been getting ready for bed. As soon as he opened the door, the scent of pork, onions, and peppers filled his nose. A pile of fried plantains sat on a plate next to the stove. His stomach grumbled loudly in response.

  “Ah, there’s my hungry boy, just in time,” said Mima. “I think your belly has a sixth sense.” She was still wearing her white coveralls that said THE HANDY WOMAN on the back.

  “Busy day?” said Jaime, as Mima spooned healthy portions of pork and vegetables onto a plate and set the plate on the counter for him.

  “There are a lot of bungling maintenance men in this tiny little city. How these bungling men still have jobs, I don’t know. People like to give bungling men a lot of chances. My parents would tell me that these men have families, they have to have work! As if women don’t have families.”

  Jaime’s grandmother, who he called Mima because she had raised him as if she were his mother, wasn’t like some of the more traditional people in her large Cuban family, uncles and aunts and cousins who’d told Mima that managing a building was beneath her, and repair work was even worse. “Great-Aunt Sylvia said, ‘Manual labor should be left to men. Otherwise, why would they call it man-ual?’ Can you believe that?” Mima coughed in disgust. “Anyway, I have enough work to last me till next year. Jaime, why aren’t you eating? It’s going to get cold!”

  Jaime tucked into the pork, which melted in this mouth. No matter what she made—traditional Cuban dishes or a just a plain old bugburger—it was always delicious. “I think your fingers have brains in them,” Jaime said, “because they make the most incredible things.”

  “My brains are in my brains, silly boy,” said Mima, smiling. She spooned out some food for herself and sat next to him at the counter.

  “You won’t believe who I just saw,” said Jaime.

  “Cricket and Karl,” said Mima.

  Jaime stopped shoveling his food for a moment. “How did you know?”

  “The brains in my brains?” said Mima. “I helped the Morans get an apartment here.”

&
nbsp; “You did?”

  “Of course I did. A lot of people didn’t have a place to go after, well . . . after,” said Mima, taking a delicate bite.

  “That’s nice of you,” said Jaime.

  “You don’t mean that,” said Mima.

  “Yes, I do!”

  “You don’t like this place.”

  Jaime put a bite of food in his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “Do you like it?”

  “Once we get it painted . . . ,” Mima began, but didn’t finish the thought. Their apartment, with its large windows and white walls and huge rooms and two sparkling bathrooms, was spacious and new and terrible, which was why Mima spent most of her time driving around town, doing repair work for everyone else in Hoboken. Sometimes, she called it Broboken, on account of all the bumbling old repairmen and the roving bands of cocky young men who pushed and shoved their way onto the trains and the ferry every morning. She couldn’t stand to be here, either.

  But that didn’t mean either of them wanted to talk about it.

  After dinner, Jaime helped his grandmother clean up the dishes and then went to his room. Like all the other rooms in the apartment, his room was large, with a giant window facing Manhattan. He pulled out his sketchbook and sat down at his desk. He leafed through the pages, examining the drawing he’d made of the dress in Thomas Jennings’s shop, the featureless oval in place of the face, the list of women who could have owned the dress, the sketch of the Morningstarr Tower. He pulled another sketchbook from the packed shelf along the wall. Unlike his other sketchbooks, this book was filled with drawings of the same character. Page after page showed a beautiful brown-skinned woman wearing different costumes: a blue unitard with high red boots; green camouflage cargo pants and a matching green T-shirt; a flat, gold breastplate, thigh and shin guards, a helmet with little wings on it. In some, she carried a sword, in others, she carried a staff, in still others, she had a belt studded with ninja stars.

  None of them were right.

  Yet.

  He turned back to the sketch of the plain dark dress from the Jennings shop. Maybe he would try a simple costume this time. Something old and timeless that wouldn’t compete with the woman wearing it.