Ganymede (The Clockwork Century 3)

All the ladies nodded, some more slowly than others. Olivia sniffled and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand, even though she was holding a handkerchief.

“Good. Then keep trusting me, and I’ll be back soon. ”

As if she’d been waiting for an entrance cue, Ruthie chose this moment to swan back down the stairs and into the lobby, looking no different at all from when she’d left it—apart from a sturdier pair of boots than strictly matched her dress, and a few inconspicuous lumps here and there in the long silk jacket.

“I am back,” she declared. “I have a gun, and I am ready. ”

Josephine stood and went to the hall closet. She retrieved a black hooded cloak that was really too warm for the occasion, but she liked having it all the same. “One moment,” she declared. “I need to gather some things as well. Ruthie, since you’re so damn determined to be useful, see if Mr. Crooks wants anything. ”

Ruthie turned the full, blinding force of her charm on Gifford, who appeared embarrassed yet again to have been noticed. Everyone in the room knew by now that he was not terribly accustomed to such houses, and there was literally nothing that anyone could do to put him at ease. This didn’t stop Ruthie from giving it a go, as directed.

On her way upstairs, Josephine heard the woman offering water, whiskey, rum, or coffee, and she heard only mumbles from Gifford in return.

It took no time at all for her to grab Little Russia from its spot in her desk; a box of bullets that she dumped into a pouch, which she stashed in the cloak’s inner pocket; a small derringer she sometimes carried as backup; and a wad of emergency cash and assorted coins.

Downstairs she went again. Ruthie was champing at the bit to hit the road—as was Gifford, who couldn’t turn any pinker with a pot of paint. “Ladies,” she said to bid them adieu. “Ruthie, Gifford. When was the last patrol?”

“Right after we got here,” Gifford told her.

“Let’s say five or ten minutes … all right. We’ll go out the back. We’ll have more time if we head toward Rue Barrack. ” She tossed her big ring of keys to Marylin and gave Ruthie one last look—on the off chance her resolve was weakening, and maybe she’d change her mind.

No such luck.

“All right, then. Let’s go. ”

Out the back door they stepped, into the wet, dark smell of the river that clung to the walls and wafted off the street—held in place by a layer of fog that was forming before their very eyes.

“Ugh,” Ruthie complained. “Just what we need. ”

Josephine corrected her, “It is just what we need. It’ll give us cover as we get out of town. ”

“Not if it stays like this,” her determined assistant argued. “It is too thin to hide us, and so thick, it could hide … other things. ”

“The zombis are down by the river and the Texians are being useful, just this once. Their patrols will keep the Quarter clear, you can count on that. The dead are too dumb to run and hide. They only want to feed. ”

Gifford gazed uncertainly at the wisping fog. “The dead? I’ve heard stories, but … they’re not true, are they?”

“They’re true, Mr. Crooks,” Josephine informed him. “The dead Walk, and they are usually hungry. But they’re no threat to us here, or where we’re going. ”

“You said they’re down by the river, and we have to cross it!”

“We’ll cross west of here, away from the Quarter. We’ll be fine. ”

Ruthie whispered, “And how do we get to the ferry? It’s too far to walk unless we’ve got all night. ”

“The cabs, out on Rue Canal. ”

“They will be closed for the night,” she noted, even as she fell in line behind Josephine, with Gifford behind her. To the alley’s edge they went, looking both ways before darting out onto the street.

Over her shoulder, Josephine hissed, “Then we’ll have to wake someone up. ”

Night had fully settled now, and the gas lamps made pockets of brightness that lit the corners and crossways. Sticking to the shadows, the three fugitives from the curfew ran on toward Rue Canal at the Quarter’s edge. Upon hitting it, they went left—back toward the Mississippi, down to the river in exactly the way that Josephine had promised they would not. But that’s where the carriages usually waited. They were now folded up for the evening, except for a few stragglers who were allowed to break curfew for the sake of emergency.

These late-night drivers were mostly bored and huddled against the mist, playing cards with one another or drinking surreptitiously from the bottles they kept by their seats. This far edge of the Quarter’s boundary was not so strictly watched, for even the controlling, aggravating Texians understood that this was a commercial border, and strangers to the city might not know the limits. Sometimes, a way must be found inside or out.

Josephine suspected it had more to do with leaving loopholes for Texians to wander off during their leaves, but there was no time to stew about the injustice of it all, not when Rick was hurt and surrounded by pirates.

She dashed up to the first carriage, manifesting under the closest gas lamp like an apparition. The driver gasped. He was an older man, with dark skin as wrinkled as last month’s apples. Pulling himself to his feet, he stepped off the curb and said, “Hey, now, ma’am. It’s after curfew, and here you are sneaking about—”