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Episode 2

The Great Boston Pyre, Pt. I

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The first wave of death rolled across America. The chain reaction of supercharged air and fire aether agitated any other aether it passed close to. Steampower stopped working when the containment chambers blew out. Factories exploded. Munitions depots with the new fire aether tanks were wiped from the face of the earth, along with any nearby buildings. All the lights went out*. Water ceased to flow from spigots, or in some cases, erupted out with force enough to demolish anything in its path. Such commotion and turmoil! I wish I could have seen it.

Bone aether did not remain unaffected. Whether vital force was thrust into bone, or drawn out from it, pity the mortal flesh caught between. Death was not stingy with her favors.

Seawater absorbed the roil of aether, weakening it and slowing its spread. Those bathing at the seaside were unaffected, though their holidays turned grim when they saw the devastation that awaited them on shore. America's neighbors across the sea survived the first wave better.

Except England and France. They both had their own secret aether enrichment projects. When the wave of charged aether--reduced in strength, but still much more powerful than in its natural state--activated the enriched aether, the chain reaction regained its original vigor.

Death poured out.

Countries without enrichment projects were less affected. Perhaps only two out of every five people died in the first wave, compared to the four in five who died in North America.

The circus survived because we were surrounded by salt water. We got off practically scot-free, although our aetheric devices were affected. The steam engine that powered the ship surged, rocketing us forward through the waves. The engineers talked knowledgeably about "natural aether fluctuations" in an attempt to hide their bafflement*. The Indian elephant of bone and brass acted odd afterward, as if the vast wave of aetheric power had reminded it of being a living creature. We kept it, for it was a lovely showpiece. But we began to treat it cautiously, as if it truly were a vast creature of uncertain temperament. I say we, though I didn't interact with it until much later. At this time, I was still silenced and smothered in layers of cloth, my arm bound to my side.

#

On the ship, "Aether's Bounty," the Atlantic Ocean.

The skeleton man hungered.

Breakfast seemed so long ago, though he'd gobbled biscuits and tea until his stomach hurt. His precious stash of tasties was buried in his wagon for their grand entrance into Boston, along with everything else he had to his name. He had so little--he thought self-pityingly--that his kit was packed and loaded while others still dallied in their quarters, packing away the wondrous sprawl of their belongings. And so Jonathan Matzke, The Man So Thin He Wears a Wedding Ring as a Belt!, went without. His stomach clenched tight in rebellion.

Though the hardtack and cheese and dried apples he'd packed didn't appeal to him, anyway. Jonathan ravened, but not for that. For something else. He didn't know what yet.

He'd know it when he saw it, by the salivating of his mouth. Maybe one of the others might have something that would fill the aching pit in his stomach. Maybe they'd give him some if he asked nicely. Or--in the upset of packing, they wouldn't notice or care if a little bit here or there went missing. Mice. Ships always had mice.

Slip and slide around the corners, he could. Nobody noticed the Skeleton Man, because there was a quarter as much man to notice!

He drifted out and down the corridor, pausing at each door like a hungry ghost.

The snake charmer sang to her charges as she coiled them into large woven baskets. The sheets on her bunk writhed of their own accord as serpentine bodies slithered beneath them. One of the closed baskets rattled angrily at her. When the circus made its grand processional, she'd sit in her special glass-sided wagon* and let the snakes weave around her.

Jonathan didn't like snakes. He knew how many unexpected places he could fit because of his size, and most of her snakes were even smaller. He hadn't known she let them loose in her cabin, or he'd have slept worse of a night. He shuddered and passed on.

Little whirlwinds of gaudy fabrics and spangles swirled between the aerialists.

"The green and silver one is mine!"

"No, it's mine, for the act with the sea green banners!"

"You always steal my clothes! Where is my silver bracelet?"

"I didn't take that. You were wearing it last. You lost it yourself!"

Grace and strength intrinsic in their tightly muscled bodies even when they were fighting over their costumes, the aerialists gave a good show, on- or off-stage. But no food. Jonathan pocketed an ivory ribbon that had blown out into the corridor and kept going.

The Indian mahout*'s cabin smelled of incense and curry. Jonathan's nose twitched. During their time in India, he'd eaten curry and found it good. And if it didn't sit well afterward, it tasted much the same on the way up as it had on the way down, which could only be an advantage, what with his delicate stomach. My Johnny can't eat like normal boys, his mother had always said.

The Indian sat on his steam trunk and twirled an oddly curved knife with a fancy enamel-and-brass hilt. A pink-petaled plant with spiky green leaves * sat beside him. Teak traveling boxes, a tiffin * carrier, and a rolled-up carpet lay at his feet. Jonathan looked longingly at the tiffin the curry scent was wafting from, took a longer look at the blade in the Indian's hand, and shuffled away.

The contortionist's room was empty except for a number of closed boxes and trunks. Jonathan eyed them suspiciously and kept going.

Ginger * the whitefaced clown * juggled his belongings above barrels and boxes spilling over with wigs and costumes and hoops and mallets. Jonathan crept closer, his eye on a sausage that might be a prop--or might just be real. A board creaked ever so slightly under his foot. Other ship noises should have drowned it out, but the clown whipped around fast, his hand on a mallet that Jonathan suddenly wasn't certain was a cotton-stuffed prop *. The clown's hand relaxed when he saw Jonathan, but his eyes narrowed. Jonathan laughed awkwardly and backed away down the corridor. Out of sight, he stopped and wiped cold sweat from the back of his neck.

The equestrienne's* door was closed. Didn't want the world to see her packing her underthings. Always trying to be a lady of Quality no matter the circumstances, Jonathan thought, half-jeeringly, half-respectfully. He looked longingly at her closed door. She was just the type to keep a tin of cookies out for tea, too. He bent to peer in the keyhole.

The soldierlike stride of the approaching Indian mahout sent Jonathan skittering further on down the corridor, where he leaned against the wall and attempted to look like he hadn't just been spying.

The mahout knocked. A murmured inquiry came from inside, the Indian answered, and then she opened the door. She wouldn't have opened the door to him, Jonathan thought enviously. Though she did leave the door ajar to maintain propriety. He crept to the door jamb and peeked through the crack.

"When I am packing, I am seeing this," the mahout said clumsily in his heavily accented English. "I am not needing it for the elephant, but I am thinking that you might use." He extended the knife he'd been fiddling with earlier.

"A hoof pick!" the equestrienne said, surprise shaking her usual composure. "Ah . . . what an unusual gift. Thank you."

The mahout gave an odd, short little bow with his hands pressed together.

An unusual gift indeed, Jonathan thought. Orientals had weird ideas about women, if they thought that sort of thing to be a grand idea. Chocolates were much more the thing.

Chocolates! Remembering where he'd seen chocolate recently, Jonathan hurried off. An admirer had brought the fat lady chocolates before they embarked.

He never had admirers who brought him chocolate, Jonathan thought morosely. The fat lady might complain that some of them looked at her "like they'd eat me right up, toes to nose!" but he thought he wouldn't mind if they brought him chocolate.*

The fat lady's wide back was to the door of her cabin when Jonathan walked past all casual-like. She moved slowly, with the ponderous grace of a hippopotamus in the water. The cabin shrank by comparison. She hummed to herself as she folded tent-sized dresses.

Near the door, the open chocolate tin balanced atop a higgledy-piggledy * stack of shawls and fans and silk flowers and other tokens of affection. She'd only consumed a third of the chocolate pieces. She wouldn't notice one missing, surely? Jonathan sidled into her quarters, keeping a wary eye on her back, and snatched a chocolate. He backed out the door rapidly, clutching his treasure.

The excitement of a close escape jolted through him as he retreated to the ringmaster's uninhabited quarters to enjoy the chocolate in privacy.

He lifted up the chocolate and stared at it for a long while, treasuring the moment. The ship's whistle blew, signaling that they were making their approach to Boston Harbor*. Jonathan popped the chocolate into his mouth. Age and India's heat had turned the chocolate chalky and fragile, but he rolled it around on his tongue in ecstasy.

The last trace of sugary deliciousness dissolved too soon. He still hungered. The fat lady might count her chocolates, he thought morosely. He couldn't risk taking another one. They were all such misers, hoarding everything away as if they could take it with them to heaven.

But if one of them had already gone to heaven (or hell--Jonathan wasn't partial), they couldn't object to him making sure nothing would go to waste, now could they? Nobody had thought to pack up the ringmaster's things. Jonathan stood among shadow-shrouded mounds of clothes and books and the odds and ends that sum up a life. A grin spread across his face as he closed the cabin door and kindled the ship lamp. Parcels and pockets and bags and boxes and chests and oh! the wonderful things he might find.

The motherlode was inside a burlap bag slumped beside the bunk. Real sausage, and hard cheese finer than what he'd packed away, toffees, pickled vegetables in jars, a half-full bottle of port, pickled eggs, and a dozen clove-studded oranges. He sighed happily, and set to with a will.

His mouth stuffed full of pickled egg and sausage, a wedge of cheese in one hand and the bottle of port in the other, Jonathan poked and pried. He didn't have long before everyone would go up on deck. It was possible that they'd miss him and somebody might come looking--and they might not understand the importance of making sure nothing was wasted.

A flamboyant but rarely worn scarf and a pair of cufflinks found their way into Jonathan's pockets. His stomach bulged, but his mouth still watered. He felt compelled to keep eating. He stopped in front of a chest with a padlock. Locked chests hid the loveliest things.

He darted back and pressed his ear to the cabin door. Silence. Most of the others must be on deck. He picked up a paperweight and slammed it down on the padlock*. Once. Twice. Third time was the charm. He struck the padlock off. His stomach churned with excitement as he pushed the lid up.

No food, he thought first, but he didn't regret that at the moment. His stomach sloshed in rhythm with the waves hitting the ship. A King James bible sat on top, which surprised Jonathan. He'd never thought the ringmaster was the religious type. Underneath it, papers. He scowled and riffled through them quickly. Numbers and names, but most made no sense. One sheet of paper had a list of names and places that he recognized as towns along the circus route, but the rest were a mystery. He began to smile as he pulled the papers out and tucked them under his shirt. A secret was almost as filling as food.

The whistle blew again.

Jonathan went to the cabin door and listened to the silence to make sure he could leave unseen. On the other side of the door, silence listened to Jonathan.

He eased out of the cabin and trotted off down the corridor. The motion agitated his overstuffed stomach something terrible. By the time he burst out onto the deck, it was swishing and see-sawing so much that he couldn't think of anything but lurching to the rail. He bent over and heaved his guts out in a long acidic stream that splashed into the waves below. (Such a delicate boy, my Johnny.) A waste of the sausage and cheese and toffee, he thought mournfully. Fin and scale churned the water. He hoped the fish enjoyed their feast.

He straightened, wiping his mouth sheepishly. He hated it when people saw him being sick. But--nobody was looking in his direction! They stood still, gazing toward Boston Harbor like silent ranks of brightly painted dolls. The breeze off the ocean ruffled their grand entrance finery.

Ahead of them, a thick pillar of dark smoke billowed up from Boston. Rivulets of smoke straggled into the sky from smaller fires, but the monstrous column was the star of the show.

"That fire's the North End," Jonathan whispered. "All the North End."

The mahout climbed up onto the deck, returning from one last visit to the engine room. He stopped and stared. "What happened to Boston?" he said, the words clear despite his shock.

"What should we do now?" the equestrienne asked, her usually excellent diction broken and soft. "Where do we go?"

Jonathan watched the circus members look at each other, each hoping another held the answer. None of them looked at him, of course. Why would--.

His head went up.

Jonathan hated giving up his treasures, but it wasn't like he was obsessed with them. He could give them up if he needed to. If the circus really needed them. He could. He told himself that, but his hand stayed pressed flat against the wad of papers he'd jammed under his shirt.

He closed his eyes and pulled out the sheet with the names and towns. With a wrench that was almost physically painful, he waved the sheet in the air. "Here!" he shouted. "Mr. Loyale had this page with names on it! It says, 'Mr. Roderick White' beside Boston."

The fortune teller narrowed her eyes at Jonathan, but she didn't scold him for having the paper--yet. "Mr. White is the assistant to the mayor of Boston," she said. Nobody wanted to ask her how she knew.

"But--why would Mr. Loyale have his name?" the equestrienne asked.

"Let's ask him," the fortune teller said cannily.

"Yes," the equestrienne agreed. "Maybe he'll be able to tell us what happened here."

They stared out across the city and watched it burn.

#

Boston, Massachusetts, the previous day

"Hello, can somebody help?" William called. "Please, my mother is trapped! Is anybody there?"

He held his breath. Soft whimpers and moans came from the wounded in the factory behind him. As if in answer, he heard a man shouting, "Help! Help me!" He sounded nearby.

A man grown might be strong enough to move the table pinning William's mother. He was strong enough to shout; maybe he wasn't hurt too bad. If William helped him, he could help William's mother.

William let go of the door frame and stood on his own. He swayed a bit, but didn't fall. He took a step. So far, so good. If he had to, he would crawl to get help for his mother--but he'd rather walk.

By taking it slow and stopping often to lean against a light post or a doorway, William made it two blocks. "Oh, bless you! May the sun shine upon you!" he heard.

William peered around the corner. One man lay trapped beneath the wreckage of a cart and the mound of coal it had carried. The dead carthorse lay beside him. A group of about ten rough-looking men worked together to free him, under the direction of a large man with a jaunty hat that sat oddly with his stained workman's clothes. They were hard men, William's da would have said, but then, his da looked a hard man himself, when he came back from building canals. He only softened up when he'd spent some time around William's mam.

Two of the men pulled out the splintered planks that used to be a cart. The rest shifted the mound of coal. Some carried it away in their hands or their hats. Others used pieces of wreckage to clear a large swathe away. They were helping.

William lurked near the corner, watching, as he tried to figure out the best way to introduce himself. When the rough-looking men pulled a particularly large piece of wreckage out, the fallen man gasped and winced. The man with the hat squatted beside him.

"Are you alright there?" asked the man with the hat."It'll be over soon. Tell me, stranger, what's your name?"

"Conrad Zero," the trapped man gasped.

"Zero? What kind of name is that for a man?"

"At immigration, they asked my name. When I hesitated too long--not sure if I wanted to give my full name, you see, in case trouble tried to follow me here--the official shrugged and wrote, 'Zero'. Suits me well enough. A new life, a new start, a new name." He looked down at the debris covering him. "If I get out of here."

"I'm Chad Valentine," the man with the hat said, "and we'll be getting you out."*

"Call him Valentine," chorused the other men.

"It's 'cause he's such a sweetheart of a slavedriver," one of the men added.

"It's not like we'll be going back to canal-building, Tommy-boy," Valentine said. "Not after this."

"No," Tommy-boy agreed, looking around. "It'll be building the factories back up for us."

"Maybe. Then again, maybe not." A smile William didn't understand crossed Valentine's lips. He looked back over his shoulder at where William lurked. "And what's your name, boy? Come on out, don't be shy."

William eased around the corner. Nerves made him want to fiddle with something, so he stuck his hands in his pockets.

"William McCormick, sir. My mam's hurt. Will you help her, please?"

Valentine puffed up his chest. "Sure and we will! Where is she?"

"The crystal factory, sir."

"A factory full of womenfolk needing help, you say? How about it, lads?"

A chorus of approval came from the group.

William smiled, glad they'd help but a little uncomfortable.

"Let's just get Conrad out, and then we'll be along to help your mam." Valentine studied the reduced weight of the coal on top of the man. "Conrad, we'll grab your arms and pull you out. Holler if you feel something shifting in a real bad way."

Valentine and Tommy each took an arm and heaved. Conrad yelped and hissed between his teeth, but he didn't tell them to stop. He popped out like a chimney sweep from a smokestack, his clothing rags, covered in coal dust from neck to toe.

"Much obliged!" he said.

"Now, a prosperous businessman like yourself will be wanting to repay those who helped you, surely?" Valentine asked. His gang stepped closer.

"Oh, aye," Conrad agreed sourly, "and I just happen to have the monies from the coal I've sold so far here in my pocket."

"Would never have occurred to me," Valentine said blandly.

Conrad winced. "Agh, but I feel like I've got ants biting all over me!" He bent and swatted at his trousers, sending a cloud of black dust up into the air. When he straightened, he swayed. He grabbed ahold of Tommy to steady himself.

Tommy tensed and his hand knotted. As quickly, he relaxed, but not before William saw.

William edged back a bit. "Mr. Valentine, sir, can you help my mam?"

"Lead the way, kid!" Valentine said, counting the coins Conrad had handed him and passing a few along to his friends.

The men laughed and patted each other on the back, their spirits raised by the successful rescue. Conrad shrugged and followed along. When William led them along and they passed those lying in the street, dead or struggling to push themselves up, the men grew quieter. When they entered the factory, they were utterly silent as they took in what had happened in the crystal workshop.

William's vision had recovered from the blinding effect of the flash of light. He could see clearly now. He wished he couldn't. Most of the women and children laboring in the workshop looked like they'd died painfully, if quickly. Their bodies had contorted beyond the tolerance of muscle and bone. Blood congealed in their eyes. He'd seen it before, when he'd crawled to his mam, but not--not all at once, like. Some hadn't died from the storm. Flying bricks from the wall had done for two more. Crystal shards pincushioned half-a-dozen others. Children lay in pools of their life's blood, their faces cut beyond recognition by crystal prisms that had exploded at precisely child-height.

"They were just kids," said Patrick, one of the younger men in Valentine's mob.

One of the small bleeding bodies stirred. Patrick jumped forward to help. "Here now, we'll get you to a doctor--"

The child gave a last convulsive shudder and then--stopped. A fly straggled in from outside and landed on the body. It scuttled around, its suckered tongue tasting dried sweat and blood.

Patrick turned to the side, braced himself against the wall, and vomited a chunky spew that splashed when it struck the ground. It looked like he'd eaten stew, William thought. He felt shaky and cold. His mam cooked up a good stew.

Sensing richer reward, the fly buzzed up and flew over to investigate. That made William wonder: why weren't there more flies? It was a terrible thought, but it nagged at him.

"William...."

The whispery voice of his mam fetched him across the room so fast he didn't remember anything between here and there.

"Praise be, one still lives," Valentine said in a subdued voice. Louder: "Come along, lads!"

Even the new rescuee, Conrad, charged forward and helped to lift the heavy worktable away. He winced a couple of times, but he didn't slack and he didn't complain.

William danced impatiently from foot to foot. As soon as the men heaved the worktable to the side, he darted in and clutched his mam's hand.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Better. I can breathe. But--ah!--it still hurts."

"William," Valentine said, "I know a doc who'll fix your mam up. The doc lives not too far from here, near the edge of the rich district." He didn't add, If he's still alive, but he didn't have to. "We can go and bring the doctor back to your mam."

Fear of being left alone with the dead and dying gripped William. What if they didn't come back? Something of the same feeling must have touched his mam, for she said, "I can walk, I think. With help."

Valentine said, "Could be I saw something that might help."

He left and returned with a wooden pole cut down to the right size for a walking staff. A minute's quick work with his knife rounded the top into a knob that wouldn't hurt to rest weight on.

"And why would a man like you happen to have noticed a fine shillelagh* like that?" William's mam asked, a touch of humor in her voice despite everything.

A blush tinged Valentine's ears. For a moment, he looked much less like a hard man.

They levered William's mam to her feet and braced her when she swayed. With the staff under her hand, Valentine holding her elbow, and William hovering nearby, she hobbled unsteadily to the door. Patrick went ahead of them, clearing obstructions away so she wouldn't trip and fall. Some obstructions he moved more gently than others.

Out on the street, William looked around with newly clear eyes. The few folk who had been struggling to push themselves up now swayed on their feet. One man clutched his arm to his side; it hung at an unnatural angle.

William tugged at Valentine's sleeve. "Can he come, too?"

"Very well," Valentine said magnanimously. He paused near the injured man. "We're going along to the doctor. You may have a walk with us, if you like."

Desperate gratitude filled the man's face. "Aye, I will! Blessings on you." He fell into line behind them.

The others swayed in place, their eyes still shocked and dazed. William remembered the horrible clutch of fear he'd felt at the idea of being left alone. He shouted, "You lot can keep company with us."

Valentine looked down on him, a peculiar expression on his face. "Can they, then? Well." He raised his voice and added, "If you help along those with trouble."

Most roused and stumbled along, helping each other when it was needed.

One man remained. "I--I have to find my wife," he said.

William looked down at his feet to avoid seeing the man's desperate, hoping expression.

A dead fly curled on the ground. Two feet away, there was another one. A cluster of sparrows sprawled on their backs near a wall, feathers ruffled in death, twiglike legs bent and twisted.

They walked on.

Corpses salted the streets: men, women, children, horses, dogs, cats, rats, birds, and even insects. No living thing that moved upon the earth had been spared.

Survivors sat on stoops or clung to the doorways of shops and factories. William wondered what awaited inside. He didn't go look. None of Valentine's mob did; they clung close together and stuck to the center of the street. They called out to the other survivors, though, offering help and inviting them along.

The survivors would look up, staring at them with haunted eyes.

Did you see--? those eyes would ask.

Yes, yes, I did, their eyes answered.

Some of them would follow. The mob doubled and then tripled in size. A carthorse that had outlived its master trotted alongside them, and skittish dogs trailed in their shadow.

Valentine looked down at William with a wry twist to his mouth, as if to say, "See what you started?"

William lifted his chin. His mam watched. What else could he have done?

When they reached the doctor's house, on the outskirts of Beacon Hill, Valentine waved the crowd to silence and knocked on the door. After a wait long enough to be worrying, William heard the snick of a lock being turned.

A disheveled lady opened the door, got one look at the small mob following in Valentine's wake, and slammed it shut again. Patrick started forward with an angry look on his face, but Valentine waved him back.

Making his case to the door, he wheedled, "Ach, Elizabeth, it's your old friend Valentine. You wouldna turn away a friend on such a grim day? And the boy beside me with his injured mother?"

The door creaked open. The lady had taken the opportunity to twist her black hair up into a bun, perch spectacles on her nose, and cover her dress with an apron starched stiff enough to repel a sea of blood. She glared at Valentine over her spectacles, her dark brows set in an unyielding line. "I only have room for the wounded inside. The rest of your ducklings can wait. And to you, my name is Dr. Fallon."

Dead silence greeted her. "What--?" Patrick began, but a sharp elbow to the ribs from Valentine silenced him.

Relenting somewhat, Dr. Fallon added, "Your lads can put the kettle on the hob and make tea for the rest of the lot. With sugar, whether they like it or not. Might have to wait their turn for a teacup."

She strode back into the house, not looking back to see if any followed.

In an undertone, Valentine hissed to Patrick, "Keep yer gob* shut! Did you think a high-and-mighty doctor with his choice of patients would tend to Irish rabble? Lizzie's worked harder to prove herself than any man among us. She's a mighty fine doctor, too. Don't call her Lizzie, though, or she'll tear a strip out of your hide. Now go on and make tea!"

Valentine assisted William's mam into the house. She made little noises that might, William worried, be a sign of pain--but sounded more like a suppressed case of the giggles.

Dr. Fallon's parlor had been converted into a patient examination room. Valentine and William got her into the room and settled according to the doctor's instructions.

"Valentine--" Dr. Fallon began.

"Ah, it fair gladdened my heart to see you standing there when we opened the door!" he interrupted. "So many dead, I feared you'd be among them."

Dr. Fallon seemed immune to Valentine's heart-gladdening. "I was down in the cellar, preparing solutions, when the storm hit. My lights went out. I heard the most terrible sound, like hundreds of voices screaming. Then a convulsive fit struck me. I had just recovered when you arrived. Now, Valentine, go on out--I have a patient to see to, and I think she'd like her privacy for the exam."

The tips of Valentine's ears turned red, and he bowed himself out. William stayed.

William helped Dr. Fallon move his mother. The doctor listened to her breathing, had her spit in a cup, asked questions, and gently probed to find where the pain was.

"Your chances are good," Dr. Fallon said, finally. "That worktable broke some ribs, but there's no blood in your spit, and I don't hear any fluid gurgling when you breathe. That means the ribs didn't puncture your lungs. Your abdomen isn't stiff, so you may be lucky enough to not have internal bleeding. I'd give you a shot of bone aether to speed healing, but all my vials shattered when that--that ungodly whatever-it-was struck. Keep breathing normally, stay abed for a week and then go very slow for the next five. Wrap your ribs before you go about your day. Your boy here can help you with that. And don't lift anything!"

William's mam smiled weakly. "I'm not even a bit tempted."

Dr. Fallon barked a laugh. "You're more sensible than most of my male patients!"

William helped his mother to sit in an overstuffed chair in the entranceway and then came back in to watch. His sense of propriety no longer threatened, Valentine did as well. Dr. Fallon was less gentle with her next patient.

"There's nothing wrong with you that a good scrubbing won't take care of," Dr. Fallon told Conrad. "Bathe with soap, until you're clean all over, or those cuts and scrapes will get infected. With all this commotion," she said disapprovingly, "the bath houses are probably closed. Bathe in a barrel of water if you have to, but get the coal dust and filth off. Then apply this liniment and bandages."

"Barrel it is," Conrad said gloomily. "Not like I have a fancy bathtub like those high-faluting rich folk with their indoor running water and all."

Valentine leaned forward, and his eyes gleamed. "Says who? Think on it, man. How many died? Did you think the rich were spared? If we go knocking on doors, we'll find one where nobody answers. And then--" He laughed, leaning back. "Then you'll have your bath!"

Dr. Fallon didn't look shocked, and she didn't tell Valentine that what he was thinking was wrong, William noticed. Maybe she wasn't too fond of her neighbors, either.

"Ten blocks up, there's a fine blue and white mansion with hydrangeas growing in front. The owner rushes to the physician when any member of his family so much as sneezes. I'm only a poor substitute when his regular physician isn't available, of course--" she cut a length of bandage off the roll with a vicious snip, "--but under the circumstances, I doubt he would have been able to reach his regular physician. I haven't heard from him, which makes me think that neither he nor his household is up to repelling visitors."

"Bless you, doctor!"

She snorted. "Get those who need medical care organized before you leave, with able-bodied men to help them."

"I will that!"

"Leave?" William asked, but nobody answered him.

William trailed after Valentine as he left the doctor's parlor. Valentine was as good as his word. He got volunteers to help the injured, checked to see that they'd all had sweet tea, shook hands, and patted backs.

William followed. He saw how heads turned after them, how dull, stunned faces regained a semblance of life when they passed.

William stayed hot on Valentine's heels as he rounded the corner of the house. His work gang loitered there, waiting. "Come on, lads!" he said.

"You can't just leave them!" William burst out.

"I'm not one of the saints, lad, to be watching out for all in need!" William felt his face fall. Valentine hastily added, "But that's not what I'm doing at all! Just--looking about a bit. You should go and tend to your mam."

"She's resting here as well as she can. Where could I take her? Back to the North End? You think she'll get better care there? You think maybe this only hurt the rich folk? I'm coming along with you, I am."

Or you might not come back.

A trace of a scowl lingering on his lips, Valentine led the others off at a pace brisk enough that William had to trot to keep up.

When he saw the house Dr. Fallon had recommended, however, Valentine seemed to forget his irritation. "Now, lads, isn't that there better than living all crowded together in a one-room apartment with your friends who fart in their sleep and never wash their socks?"

A roar of agreement went up from the half-dozen men following him. William couldn't help but shout along. He and his mam shared an apartment with another family, and the youngest boy had a digestion that cabbage disagreed with. William himself, of course, never offended.

He tilted his head back and stared up at the big house. Blue and white, yes, but that was like describing a castle as "greyish." Gingerbread trim curlicued around the house. Turrets jutted from the roof. Perfect for a boy to guard over the house from, he couldn't help thinking. Large bay windows opened up onto the lawn, and he imagined curling up in the sunlight with a schoolbook, as he thought a boy who lived in this house would. That boy would still be in school, not trudging all over town trying to find any job that would take him.

Envy spiked through William.

Valentine jerked the bell pull. A bell rang inside the house, but no footsteps answered it. They waited long enough for a maid to reach the door. They waited long enough for the mistress of the house to rouse herself and answer the door if the maid could not. They waited even a bit longer than that.

Valentine opened the door a crack. No irate butler appeared to chase them out. Valentine pushed the door open wider and strode inside.

William timidly followed. Over the threshold, he stopped and gaped. Only the grumbled curses of the men piling up behind him propelled him into the house. Polished wood gleamed, oak and mahogany carved so artfully that William thought they belonged in a museum. He wouldn't dare sit on one of the fancy chairs in case he messed it up, even though his legs still ached. They looked awful inviting, though, all overstuffed plush and brocade.

A hunting landscape papered the hall *, dogs baying happily after a fox while figures on horseback watched from a distant hill. Birds flew through blue skies near the ceiling. The poppies and daisies painted at the bottom stood out sharp and vivid, as if they sprouted from the baseboards; William felt an impulse to stoop and pick one. A grand open staircase swept up from the entryway to the second floor.

It seemed so fantastic, like something from a dream or a storybook. They could live here now, he and his mam, if they wanted to. William tilted back his head, a huge smile on his face, and saw--a gas-lit chandelier. It hung above their heads like the Sword of Damocles. Sunlight glittered on brass. Broken rainbows danced across their faces.

Fragments of memory. Flesh cut to ribbons. Small bodies. The cries of the dying.

William bolted outside and vomited in the hydrangeas. Valentine followed him out and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "It's all right, boy. Bad things take some men like that. They'll be strong as long as they need to be, and then.... Everything will be fine now."

William looked up at him and didn't believe a word he said. But he went back in, though he avoided looking at the chandelier, afraid of what he might see reflected in its prisms.

Valentine's men spread out to explore their new domain.

Two rampaged upstairs. "I'm sleeping on a feather bed tonight!" Tommy hollered.

Patrick said, "I'm going to eat like a rich man!" The others scoffed and asked him if he'd be cooking up this rich food himself, but that didn't stop him from going in search of the kitchen.

The joyful shouts upstairs stopped abruptly, and the men came back to stand above the staircase, grim-faced. "We found the nursery," Tommy said. "And the master's study," the other added.

Patrick returned from the kitchen looking as if he'd lost his appetite. "The butler, the maid, the footman, and the cook were all in the kitchen when the storm hit. I think the cook would have lived if she hadn't collapsed onto the range."

Valentine winced. "That's not pork for dinner I was smelling, then." He pointed at William. "You stay here. We'll need to haul them out."

"Bury them, you mean?" William asked.

Valentine hesitated. "Of course, of course. In the garden. That'll be nice for them, won't it? Like sleeping under flowers."

"I know they're dead," William told him. "I'm not a baby."

"That you're not," Valentine said dryly. "More like a bird chirping in my ear."

William stayed.

Valentine's gang went up the curving staircase. There was thumping, and some cursing, and then they came down the stairs with carefully sheet-wrapped bundles, some pitifully small. They went out back. The thunk of shovel hitting dirt carried into the entryway, but William stayed where he was. More cursing. When silence fell, William went out into the back garden.

The men stood, hats in hand, around a large, churned-up patch of ground. Seven new mounds lay at the foot of the rose bushes, but what had been planted would not blossom into life next spring. Valentine mumbled the Lord's prayer and they all trouped back inside.

"Rich folk like these will have their own indoor water closet," Patrick said. "Did anyone see it? I'd like to wash the grave dirt from under my fingernails." One of the others pointed him in the right direction. After a few moments, he came back looking disgusted. "I thought I'd like using one of those fancy water closets, but the water wasn't running at all! I used a pitcher and basin to wash my hands, just like usual."

"Was there a bathtub?" Conrad asked.

"Aye and there was, but likely it won't be working!"

"I'll just be seeing about that!" Conrad said. "Even if I still need to haul the water, I'll be having a bath in a proper bathtub! Just like I was a rich man!"

He darted off, and after a moment, the sound of trickling water came to their ears. "I left the tap open, and there came a few drops. Now it's a proper stream, it is!" he shouted down.

Patrick scowled.

Valentine laughed. "Lads, I found something a mite more important than water: the liquor cabinet. It'll be a proper wake!"

That roused the spirits of the men and they happily followed Valentine. William trailed along, though his mam didn't let him drink anything stronger than short beer.

"Here's to the man of the house and his generous stock of liquor!" Valentine said, lifting a glass of whiskey.

William thought of the folk lying under a thin blanket of dirt in the garden, and he couldn't smile.

Valentine looked William's way, and his smile faded a bit. "May God and the angels welcome him and his family, and Mary intercede--"

A horrible gurgling scream interrupted the toast.

(To be continued in Episode 3, The Great Boston Pyre, Part II.)

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I hope you enjoyed this episode of The Circus of Brass and Bone. All donations go to help cover the costs of my mother's cancer treatment. She was recently diagnosed with stage 3c ovarian cancer, which is very serious but treatable--though the odds are not in her favor. She was working at a school in India at the time of diagnosis, so she doesn't have health insurance. My parents came back to the U.S. for treatment, so they've both given up their jobs. And they've spent much of their lives working to help others--working with farmers in Africa and teaching in India--so they don't really have anything in the way of a savings cushion.

If you can't afford to donate, please consider talking about it on your blog or Facebook or Twitter. Every dollar and every signal boost helps.

Thank you!
Abra SW

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Credits

Music is courtesy of Vermillion Lies. Go to their website at vermillionlies.com to hear more.

This episode is brought to you by the generous donations of Tonya Wershow, Chad Elstad, Alice Marks, Adele Murray, Chad Valentine, and Roxanne Murray.

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