New York City
May 1862
When it came down to it, the life of Fabienne Beaumont was decided by a simple pocket watch.
She turned it in her hand and started winding it, if only to soothe her nerves. The floral-engraved lid was rubbed smooth from her constant touches, and a little dirt had gathered in the crevices. It would take some time before cleaning the watch would make sense; first, Fabienne and her brother and sister had to get out of trouble.
The dockside tavern offered only basic protection against the early morning drizzle. It was the first place they’d come upon after being rejected from the ship for not having enough money for the tickets. The rotting wooden floor was slick with mud and things whose origins Fabienne dared not contemplate. The few lanterns along the walls provided illumination, but little warmth. At least the furnishings matched the general feel—the bar was worn out with indentations and scratch marks, and rickety chairs, surrounding the few tables, looked like they were ready to fall apart at merely a glance.
Next to Fabienne, Marion shivered in her dirty cloak. The fine velvet material had long since gone shabby—a toll of the journey from New Orleans through a war-torn country.
“Voici.” Fabienne untied her cloak and wrapped it around her younger sister.
But a month ago, Marion would’ve complained she was treating her like a child. Now, her chin shook in a cold-induced nod. “How long is this going to last? I…” Her eyes flicked to the dozing bartender. “I don’t like being here.”
Fabienne surveyed the other side of the tavern, where her brother Antoine sat at a table with three other men, deep into a game of vingt-un. The place was empty, save for those men, and they matched the feel just as well as the furniture. Doubtful they were early risers. Fabienne suspected they’d never gone to bed in the first place. But regardless of how they looked, they had the one thing the Beaumonts needed most—money.
Antoine scratched his ear, and Fabienne smiled with relief. Dieu merci—he has good cards! He’d banked the last of their money on that game. If he lost… Anxiety took over her again, and Fabienne clicked the crown of the watch, up and down, up and down. It was that or stealing something from behind the bar—and the way people in the North had received them so far, fidgeting with the watch was much less risky.
“Card,” Antoine said.
Across the table, the gang leader repeated the command. The others called him Slick; with his wiry frame, long fingers, and greasy hair, it felt rather appropriate. But the first thing Fabienne had noticed was the dull shine of the few remaining brass buttons on the dark blue jacket underneath his coat. A soldier. Probably jumped in to get his fun—kill some people—and once his year was up, he resigned.
One of Slick’s compatriots dealt the cards; the other leaned back in his chair, observing the game with a lazy vigilance that sent shivers down Fabienne’s spine.
“Any moment now,” she said to Marion. Antoine would lay down the cards, get the money, and they’d be out of this rancid place. And out of America. She rubbed Marion’s shoulders, and her sister managed a tiny smile.
A ruckus at the table made Fabienne twist and her heart thump. Did Slick not take the loss well? She hoped Antoine didn’t do that snicker thing—
Slick swept the coins on the table toward himself, grinning. Antoine turned, shock frozen on his face, and Fabienne’s wildly thumping heart quieted and fell.
No.
Antoine walked up to them. “I… he…”
Fabienne had never seen him so flabbergasted. Yes, Antoine lost card games—occasionally, when he wasn’t trying too hard. But not today. Not right now. He’d scratched his ear. How could he have lost?
“Stroke of luck,” Antoine said. “Must’ve been, no? It’s bound to happen one day. Logically, an opponent can get the perfect cards—”
“Antoine—”
“We’ll have to think of something else. The place we’d passed earlier on…” His voice faltered, and he scratched his head.
“We don’t have the time,” Fabienne said. “The ship leaves in less than an hour.” And they would be on it. They hadn’t come this far, bled and starved and lost almost everything, just to be stopped one step short of home. She took Antoine’s hand, unclenched his fingers, and put her watch in his palm.
“No,” Antoine said. “It’s your lucky charm.”
“Then it’ll bring you luck.” She gave him a brief smile of encouragement, which faded as she looked at Slick, grinning with his compatriots. She closed Antoine’s fingers with determination. “You go and win us the money for the passages, and bring me back my watch. Yes?”
“You know I’m the older brother, don’t you?” Antoine said with an amused lift of the eyebrow, then pecked her forehead. “I’ll get us what we need.”
She relaxed. Slick may have had a lucky round, but he wouldn’t have it twice. Antoine would succeed.
“Ohé.” She grabbed his hand before he walked away. “Don’t scratch your ear.”
“What?”
“When something is going well for you, you always scratch your ear. He’ll figure you out.”
“No, I don’t!”
“Yes, you do.” The bit of banter brought a smile to her lips.
“I would know—” At her challenging look, Antoine receded. “Fine. No ear-scratching.” He squared his shoulders and turned around. “Hey, Slick! Up for one more?”
“See, it’ll all be fine,” Fabienne comforted Marion as the men arranged another game.
“…but it doesn’t even work!” Slick’s voice drifted to them. He’d opened the watch and poked at the unprotected dial. Fabienne’s pressure rose. How does that crétin dare to—
Antoine snatched the watch from him, closed the lid, and put it on the table. “You can still sell it for the material, can’t you? Look at the casing—solid gold.”
Slick murmured something to his compatriots and nodded. The game commenced. Too nervous to watch closely, Fabienne bid Marion to sit and headed for the bar. The bartender flinched as she approached—he hadn’t been dozing off, after all. For a moment, he reminded Fabienne of Slick’s cronies—seemingly inattentive, but vigilant. She brushed the thought away. “Might I have something warm to drink?”
“You got money?”
“Well, I—”
“No money, no drink.”
“Card,” Antoine announced. She caught him lifting his hand toward his ear before he stopped midway through and placed it back on the table. Good cards. Yes.
“Please,” she said to the bartender. “Even if it’s just warm water. It’s for my sister. She’s not feeling well.”
“D’you not hear what I said? Now get lost.” He waved at her as if swatting at a fly. As she turned, he murmured, “Southern trash.”
Heat rushed into her head. She couldn’t help if she’d picked up a slight southern lilt during their two-year stay with their aunt. If anything, she was to blame for thinking bad manners only applied to Yankee soldiers.
The pressure made her need grow. She had to steal something, right away. Not from the bar, though—the bartender was too attentive. She strolled over to the table, flexing her fingers. The thrill rushed to her fingertips, making her feel as if she’d captured electricity itself.
Slick squinted at her and guarded his cards.
“Just checking on my watch.” She moved past him to the dealer. A piece of paper peeked out of his jacket pocket. Perfect. Fabienne waited until Antoine got the dealer’s attention by calling for another card, swiped the paper, and hid it in her sleeve. It didn’t matter how worthless it was—all that mattered was the rush of relief and the excitement of knowing she’d done it without anyone noticing.
Calmed down, she sat next to Marion, who blew her nose into a torn handkerchief. “It’ll be better on the ship,” Fabienne said. “Think about it. Antoine may even win enough money to get us a pretty cabin.”
“I’d rather think about home,” Marion said.
Fabienne was pleased with the glimmer of hope in her voice. It helped her believe, too. Three ship passages—all that separated them from France. From the warm, dry sun—so different from the humidity of New Orleans—and the slightly floral, sweet smell of grapes, mixed with the mustiness of recently drenched earth. Home.
Marion sneezed again.
“Hold on, I’ll see if I have something better…” Fabienne rummaged her pockets for a handkerchief. The stolen piece of paper slipped out of her sleeve and flew to the ground. It landed face-up, showing the intricately drawn, mirrored faces of a king.
Fabienne looked at it momentarily as realization formed, then stood up, nearly overturning her chair. “Cheater!”
All eyes turned on her. She picked up the card, strode to the table, and snatched her watch. “Slick’s cheating,” she told Antoine. “The dealer is hiding extra cards. He gives him whichever one he needs.” She slammed the king down in front of the dealer.
In the long, quiet moment, as he processed the information, Antoine glanced from the dealer to Slick. Then, as if time itself had to catch up with the delay, everything happened in a second. Antoine rose and thumped his fists on the table. Startled, Fabienne backed away toward the counter. Slick pulled out a pistol and peered it at Antoine’s chest. Marion screamed and ran to him. Another click notified Fabienne the bartender had a pistol pointed at her.
“Take it easy,” Slick said. “Give us that watch and we’ll let you all go.”
Fabienne clutched the watch to her chest, but it did nothing to steady her heart, which threatened to burst right out. We’re going to die. It didn’t matter if she gave them the watch or not—they’d shown just how fair they play. They’re going to kill us either way…
“Fabi.” Antoine’s steady voice drew her out of her thoughts. No, she wouldn’t go down like this. They’d been so close.
“Come on, sweetie. Hand it over.” Slick signaled with his free hand.
They had their tricks. But so did Fabienne. Keeping her eyes on Antoine, she winked her left, then her right one. It’s been a long time since they’d used their distraction tactic, and this time, it wouldn’t be for something as innocent as getting away from their parents’ scolding. But Antoine remembered—surely, he did?
Antoine mirrored her response—right wink, left wink. Fear transformed into adrenaline. Fabienne waited until he stretched his hand to a cowering Marion and squeezed it reassuringly. He gave no other sign, but she knew what to do.
“Hey,” she barked.
Slick couldn’t help it—he instinctively swung his head toward her. Antoine punched his arm, sending the pistol flying. Fabienne ducked. Antoine grabbed Marion, and they disappeared through the front door. Fabienne sped for a door at the back, taking advantage of the confused scuffle ensuing from the gang.
“No, her! Go after her!” Slick yelled.
Behind the first door was a small room, a combination of storage and kitchen, as dirty as the front. Tant pis—better not to have a drink from this place anyway. She rushed through the door at the end, out into the cold, dreary gray morning. Far to her left, the running silhouettes of Antoine and Marion disappeared into the mist. He was leading them down the docks, toward the ship. Good. But she couldn’t get to them from here—the river blocked this side of the backyard.
Yelling grew closer. No time. She took off toward the only other escape route—a narrow alley that led into the slums. She could lose the pursuers in the labyrinth and, even better, lead them away from her siblings.
“There she is!” The steps thundered behind her.
Bang—something whizzed by her ear. In the rush, she barely acknowledged the stinging in her shoulder. Fine—only a graze. Another bang; a bullet lodged itself into the wall ahead of her, sending motes of brick flying. She ducked. They gained ground; she rounded a corner to lose line of sight; they followed. Her raspy breath, echoing in her ears, blended with the heavy boots. She slipped in the mud. Bang. Her leg buckled, pierced by liquid fire.
Fabienne let out an agonizing, angry scream. Can’t give up. Antoine and Marion would be waiting… she had to…
Gritting her teeth, she pushed onward, but her running had turned into hopping. There was no outpacing them.
She rounded another corner and halted at a solid wooden fence. Not so solid—it had a loose plank. She pushed it aside and squeezed through into a small backyard. Her skirt caught on a splintered piece and she furiously pulled it, scratching her palm. The sickeningly sweet smell of decaying food wafted past as she collapsed behind a crate.
Her heart pounded loudly—too loudly—as her pursuers passed… more and more feet, splattering the mud, all running past her hiding place. Her accelerated pulse counted the seconds as they went by, until finally, quiet.
She made it. She’d wait a bit longer, gather strength, and continue her escape. Her leg burned, but at least it wasn’t bleeding too badly. The bullet must have only passed through tissue, she reasoned, ignoring a warning at the back of her mind telling her she wasn’t feeling well at all.
No, no, no. Think positively. The lightheadedness was from running and shock; she simply needed a momentary respite. She flipped open her watch. Her fingers, somewhat clumsier than usual, accidentally brushed and moved the hands of the dial. To calm herself down, she performed her old ritual. Pull the crown up and down; wind the watch…
“You always were my porte-bonheur.” A few more minutes and she’d get up.
Her eyes fluttered, and in the last moments before her hand fell to the ground, she thought she saw something—a blue rash, originating at the watch, spreading underneath her skin, darkening her veins—and then, nothing.
