Page 55

Yiska — that was the other way her name might be said, Sophy now remembered — clicked tongue against teeth, warningly. “Enough, White Shell Girl. The salt-widow is our guest.”

Petulant as the child she sometimes still looked like, Songbird complained: “Not my guest, or my hearth. Not my camp.”

“Not if you do not wish it so. But seeing you have nowhere else to go, in safety — it would please me greatly, if you would stay.”

Anyone else might have tried to touch her, then — but Yiska just stood there, allowing the Chinese witch to settle back, almost too slowly to be observed, against the shelter of one long leg. Once again, Sophy was struck by a reminder of Mesach, who had often chosen to deal with dissent the same way: step back and let the Spirit work on them how it might, leaving room for them to approach him again at their own pace. For they came, every one whose heart stirred him up, and every one whom his spirit made willing, and they brought the LORD’s offering to the work of the tabernacle of the congregation, and for all his service. . . .

Exodus, 35:21.

“You can just go on and call me Missus Love, Miss Yiska, if you want,” Sophy surprised herself once more by offering, as she felt Gabe latch on, swaddled snugly beneath the tail of her shawl. “Or . . .

if you wish, even, by my given name, Sophronia.”

At this, the squaw’s already narrow eyes slitted further. “An interesting offer,” she said, finally, “from the once-wife of a blackrobe bilagaana.”

“My Mesach was a preacher, ma’am, not a priest. Our Church has no patience for Papistry.”

From the shadows, “Grandma” spoke once more, and in response, Yiska peered closer at Sophy; Sophy sat still and straight, allowing it.

“So, then,” Yiska said, at last. “I see that the Spinner is right: You are like me, marked for vision from the earth itself, and elsewhere. Bound to the diyí — what is the bilagaana word I want?” she demanded, of Missus Kloves, who shook her head.

“‘Spirits’?” she suggested. Then, seeing Sophy grimace, at the very thought: “‘Angels,’ then; caretakers of creation, powers and principalities. The Holy Ghost.”

“Ohé,” Yiska said, approvingly. “You are bound to this Ghost by choice, sureness of belief, and thus it gives you protection from Hataalii, for good and bad. But it is caution you feel, respect, not fear. And such feeling is not a tool only, to take up or put away, like bow or spear.” Though Yiska’s eyes stayed intent on hers, somehow Sophy could tell that the words seemed meant for all to hear: a reproof for Songbird, a reminder to Yancey. And something else entirely — perhaps even both — for that rumbling thing whose insights she praised. “Guided, we may command, but only by obeying; we speak truth, but only having listened. Do you see?”

Oh, you are like him. He never cared much to lead for its own sake, either — only that people understood him true, saw what he saw.

And hadn’t that been why people followed him in the first place? Wasn’t that why Yiska’s own men shed their blood so gladly, for her? Because only one who swore service to something beyond themselves could be worth serving, in turn?

Her eyes blurred. This time, Yiska did reach out, squeezing her arm softly as she swiped at them, reassuringly. To Missus Kloves, she said: “Tell Sophy Love your dream, dead-speaker.”

Missus Kloves — Yancey — let her eyes drift shut. “Last few nights, I’ve been too wrung out studying on the Underneath to dream much of anything else at all,” she began. “But when I lay down this evening, I finally dreamed of Edward Morrow, who told me things have changed. That his boss, Pinkerton, has found himself a dark new ally — ”

“ — that Enemy of all of ours? I know.” A general look of startlement whipped her way, from everywhere at once. “It came to me in the desert just now wearing Chess Pargeter’s skin, told me it’d saved Bewelcome from Lady Rainbow’s might, supposedly on my account, and was off to challenge her one on one, with Pinkerton for backup. Said this might be the last chance any of us had to see justice done.”

Yancey stared. “But — why come out here to tell us personally, if he knew Ed would tell me — ?” She stopped, then, answering her own question: “Because he knew Ed hadn’t reached me yet, ’course; wanted to make sure we knew in time to act, if we could.”

“What profit to him, though, if we do act?” Songbird asked. “Or cost, if we don’t? Does he look to join with us, or use us? For we are toys to them, these gods — insects to be flicked away, if noticed.” Glancing at Sophy: “Most of all, why tell you?”

Sophy girded herself, not allowing her own eyes to flick back down to Gabe, now thankfully asleep, toothless mouth yet a-work on her breast. “He knew I was in despair,” she told them, unhesitating. “That I had it in mind to cut and run, just leave Gabe here with you, to live or die with those most like him. That I was putting my own words in

the Lord’s mouth, weak and prideful, and trying to tell myself what I dreamt on was His will, just because I wanted it so.”

“And . . . he lied to you further? Tried to trick you, as he did your dead man?”

“No, he told me the truth. I don’t know why; don’t even know how I know he wasn’t lying, when he did. I believed him, is all. I think he wants us there. That he’s counting on it.”

Songbird snorted. Yiska opened her mouth, then closed it, stumped. Above them, Grandma grated out something more, her crushed-rock voice bruising the air. Yancey blinked up at her, then translated for Sophy.

“She says it pleases the Enemy to dangle what you most want before you, so your own desires drive you into folly. Yet hearing this, she finds she believes you as well, much as she wants not to.” Listening again: “Our task here’s only half done, because we’ve been counting on Chess Pargeter’s ghost to pull himself up single-handed . . .

save himself, and us as well. Since the Enemy needs us on that battleground, though, we need to make sure that happens.” Yancey took a deep breath as Grandma finished. “Meet Chess halfway, and bring him out ourselves.”

“How’re you supposed to do that, Missus Kloves? You’ve got but two hexes to draw on, one a ghost — no offence, ma’am,” Sophy offered, to “Grandma,” who nodded again. “ — and the three of us, you, me and Yiska here, whatever we are. Seems unlikely to me it’s God he means for us to call upon, to raise those odds, but I can tell you this: I won’t make heathen sacrifice, no matter if the sky itself begins to fall. So . . .”

“Grandma” leaned forward into this pause, horridly quick for all her decaying bulk, and spoke again, faster, clearer. Yancey listened.

“There’s another hex in the mix, she points out,” the girl told Sophy, at last. “And one more thing we could try, too . . . but only with your help.”