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“It was,” Harte admitted. It was all that he would admit to. Slipping through time was Esta’s to speak of, not his.

His brother’s eyes narrowed a little, clearly trying to figure out another way to interrogate Harte, but finally Sammie seemed to relent. “If you know about the quakes, you must know that the Vigilance Committee determined that the first earthquake wasn’t natural. They said it was some kind of attack by the Devil’s Thief.” He leaned against the desk again as he sipped the second glass of whiskey, this time more slowly than he had the first. “For the two years that followed, life in the city was nothing but raids and roundups. It was for our protection, the Committee said. They reasoned if the Devil’s Thief had been hiding in the city, then there must be others with the illegal magic as well. They weren’t wrong,” he admitted with a shrug. “Back then, a lot of people had the old magic.”

“Like your mother,” Harte prodded. He wanted to see how much Sammie knew, or at least how much he was willing to admit.

Sammie nodded. “Yeah, like my mother. The period after the first quake was bad, but we survived it. The Committee took the opportunity the quake provided to focus their blame on the Chinese people for hiding the Devil’s Thief—kind of a two-for-one. Chinatown dealt with the worst of it, so Mother was able to rebuild the shop without much trouble. We mostly managed to avoid the Committee’s notice. But when the second quake came two years later, things got worse. That one was bigger, and it burned most of the city to the ground. Everyone was desperate to blame someone. The Committee took advantage of the devastation and blamed the Devil’s Thief again.”

“Did they have proof??”

“Who needs proof, when you run the city?” Sammie finished the last of the whiskey in his glass. “Anyway, after the second quake in ’06, that’s when the Committee built their tower.”

Harte felt suddenly apprehensive. There was another tower once, another machine and another plan that was meant to attack the old magic. “What tower?”

“The one in Portsmouth Square. The Committee told the public that the tower would only detect magic,” Sammie said. “It was supposed to serve as a warning in case someone like Miss Esta ever attacked again, and it was only supposed to target Chinatown. People were happy to go along with it, but a lot of us knew it was a lie. Stories of the Brink in New York had made their way across the country years before. No one really believed the Committee would be happy with simple detection.

“They built the thing right in the center of Portsmouth Square, and by 1908 it was ready—even before a lot of the other buildings were. I was still a kid then, but I knew things were bad. I should have done more to convince my mother to get out.…” Sammie paused, staring down at his empty glass. “The tower killed more people than either earthquake—people far outside Chinatown,” he said. “It killed people—Mageus—all over the city.”

“I’m sorry,” Harte said. He didn’t need Sammie to explain what had happened. He’d seen Jack’s first machine for himself, and he understood too well what it was like to lose a mother. There was nothing he could say that would come close to making Sammie’s loss any easier, even if it had happened years ago. But then Harte had another unpleasant thought. “This tower, it’s not still operational, is it?”

“No,” Sammie told him, blinking a little, as though clearing the memories from his mind. “Once Roosevelt heard what had happened—especially when news started spreading about exactly how many people died—he had the tower dismantled. But it was too late for too many, my mother included. I left San Francisco not long after that. I couldn’t stomach staying. For a long time, I traveled around, looking for work where I could, busking on street corners for coins and begging when that didn’t work.

“When we got dragged into the First World War, I signed up and served.”

“The first world war?” Harte asked, suddenly struck by how much must have happened in the time he’d skipped over—and how much he didn’t know.

Sammie nodded. “Somehow I didn’t end up dead, so I came back to the States and started working in Chicago. It’s where I met Mina. She was a Chinese woman who grew up here in San Francisco, but she toured all around as a singer on the Chop Suey Circuit. But traveling was starting to lose its shine for her.” He shook his head with a tired-sounding laugh. “Mina was tired of dealing with backwater towns filled with people who’d never seen a Chinese person before, so we got married in Illinois, since it wasn’t legal here in California. Still isn’t. But San Francisco was always home to Mina. She wanted to come back here, where she’d grown up, and I loved her more than I feared my memories, so I agreed.

“I took all my savings and everything I had to start this place, but I did it for her. There were already a couple of Chinese clubs opening up in the city, but we wanted the Pearl to be a place where any performer could feel at home—Chinese or Mageus alike. That was around 1938. Mina died eight years ago, but I couldn’t bear to get rid of the Pearl.” Sammie smiled softly, and Harte didn’t miss the sadness in his eyes. “The club reminds me of the good times we had, every single night.” He set the glass on the desk and met Harte’s eyes. “But you didn’t really come back here to find out about my life, did you?” Sammie asked.

“No, I didn’t,” Harte admitted. “But I’m glad to hear it, nonetheless.”

“I know why you’re here,” Sammie said, his expression never flickering. “My mother told me that someone might come for the crown one day. I’ve been ready for that eventuality for most of my life, but I never once imagined it would be you.”

The surprise of Sammie’s admission blindsided Harte, but somehow he choked out the question he needed to ask. “Do you still have it?”

Sammie shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re a decade or so too late.”

Harte was about to ask what had happened to the crown when Esta burst through the door. “We have a problem,” she told Harte, already digging in her evening bag.

Sam gasped. “Miss Esta?”

She froze at the sound of her name, and then her expression brightened. “Hi, Sammie. It’s good to see you again.” Then the smile fell from her face as she looked to Harte. “I think they’ve found us.”

“Who found you?” Sam asked.

“I’m not sure,” Esta admitted. “But I’d bet money that they’re with one of the Brotherhoods. A half-dozen men in dark suits came in a minute ago. They’re standing at the back of the club, and I don’t think they’re here for the floor show.”

She’d barely gotten the words out when a red light above the door began flashing. Sam looked up at it, and his expression turned flinty.

“That’s trouble all right,” he said, nodding toward the flashing light. “There are watchmen in the club.”

THE RETICULUM

1952—San Francisco

You’re sure they’re watchmen?” Esta asked, frowning.

Sam nodded as he picked up the phone on his desk and lifted the receiver to his ear. “My people know how to pick out the Committee’s men, even when they’re trying to hide.” He turned his attention to the phone. “Yeah… Li, send Gracie back, would you? And Paul and Dottie as well.”