“Memphis! Memphis, sit up now, son. Come on.” Papa Charles’s hands were on him, helping him off the floor.
In her bed, Mrs. Carrington sat straight up. Her dark eyes were wide and blinking. Her fingers clawed at the air. Her mouth opened and closed as if she had been drowning and was now trying to choke the last of the water from her lungs.
“Emmaline!” Mr. Carrington cried as he rushed to his wife’s side. “Emmaline!”
With a shuddering gasp, she inhaled.
And then she was screaming.
MIRACLE ON 125TH STREET! DEPARTMENT STORE KING’S WIFE WAKES FROM SLEEPING SICKNESS! screamed the front page of the late-edition extra.
Eager New Yorkers swarmed around the newsies, whose fingers could barely keep up as they peeled off the freshly printed newspapers, which told of Mrs. Carrington’s miraculous awakening. From her sickbed, Mrs. Carrington reported that she could remember nothing from her time asleep except for a happy dream about riding a blue bicycle and a music-box song. Mr. Carrington claimed that his wife’s sudden recovery was due to “the great healing power of the Almighty himself.” Sarah Snow came round to take a picture, a fresh orchid pinned to her very fashionable dress as she sat at Mrs. Carrington’s bedside. The Carringtons made no mention of Diviners or of Memphis.
But as Blind Bill Johnson sat in the Lenox Drugstore sipping his coffee and listening to Reggie read the story aloud to an eager group of patrons, he knew who had done the healing.
The time for patience was over.
On the evening of what should have been Mabel’s first date with Jericho, she had come down with a terrible cold. Now that the rescheduled evening had rolled around at last, Jericho was second-guessing every choice he’d made. He’d gotten a reservation at the Kiev, a tearoom in the West Fifties where patrons could drink tea, eat blintzes, and dance to the orchestra between courses if they liked. He didn’t know why he’d chosen that place. He wasn’t a dancer, and taking a girl to a restaurant with dancing announced your intention to do just that. The whole evening had begun to seem like a bad idea, but it was too late to back out now.
“Hey, Freddy!” Sam said as he blew through the front door. “Listen, I gotta step out—holy smokes! Is that a… are you wearing a tie?” Sam leaned against the wall and watched Jericho as he struggled and failed for a third time to make the proper knot.
“I have a date,” Jericho said, unraveling it once more. “Why are you covered in dust? Never mind. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.”
“You’re right. You don’t want to know. And I hope that date is with an antiques dealer, because that thing around your neck is a genuine artifact. Did you find it in the museum or on a dead clown?”
“Go away, Sam.”
“And leave you in a time of crisis? Huh-uh. You need me. More than you know. Wait right here,” Sam called as he raced toward his room. Jericho heard drawers opening, and a moment later Sam returned with a very fashionable gray-striped necktie. “Here. Borrow one of mine.”
Jericho regarded it dubiously. “Who’d you steal this from?”
“Fine,” Sam said, holding it out of reach. “Go out in your grandpa’s tie. See if I care.”
“Wait!” Jericho swiped the gray-striped number from Sam. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. So, ah, who’s the lucky girl?” Sam asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. When Jericho ignored him, Sam grabbed one of Jericho’s Civil War soldier figurines and held it up to his mouth. “Oh, Jericho,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “Take me in your arms, you big he-man, you!”
“Please put General Meade back in Gettysburg. You’re changing the course of the war. And it’s just a date.”
“With girls, it’s never just a date. First lesson, Freddy,” Sam said.
“As always, I’m grateful for your sage advice,” Jericho said, finishing the knot.
Sam nodded approvingly. “You clean up nice, Freddy. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Sam grinned as he dropped into Will’s chair.
“Such as behave like a decent human being?” Jericho said, reaching for his hat and scarf from the hall coatrack.
“Who just gave you a proper tie?”
“Get out of Will’s chair.”
“You’re welcome!” Sam shouted as the door closed.
“I’m sorry about my mother and father and all those questions they asked,” Mabel said as she and Jericho sat in a leather booth inside the Kiev. “For radicals, they’re practically Republicans about my suitors.”
“It’s all right,” Jericho said, watching couples old enough to be their grandparents glide across the worn parquet floors to the tepid strains of a second-rate orchestra. It was a far cry from the sort of nightclubs Evie and Sam attended every night. He hoped Mabel wasn’t too disappointed with this choice.
“Nice place,” Mabel said, just like the good sport she was.