Alias Dragonfly by Jane Singer Page B

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PAN
    If Jake Whitestone could get information, so could I. You might think that was foolish. What could I do, a girl alone in the city? Well, I vowed to find a way. After all, I remembered so many details, heard so many things. I knew what I’d seen in that alleyway, and saw the girl called Betty riding away. And Mr. Webster’s disguise had to mean something. I decided to find him, if he was still at the boardinghouse.
    In all the long, sad, months of Mama’s sickness, I feared the passing of time. Not anymore.

Eleven
     
    Just after breakfast, Mr. Webster came into the parlor. I cornered him as he was heading up the stairs.
    “Sir, Mr. Webster, I must speak with you in private.”
    “You’re looking in the pink, Miss, and glad we all are of it,” he said. “Or should I say, in the red. Are you fevered?”
    I spoke softly. “Are you a Pinkerton man?”
    He paused; his expression hardened, and then replied calmly. “I am as I appear to be.”
    “A Rebel and a slaver?” I asked. I studied his face, waiting for him to say more.
    “Oh, now Miss,” he said, “don’t tell me you worry over the poor cotton pickers whose labors fill the coffers of both sides of this . . . struggle,” he said, patting my hand, a condescending smile on his face. He tried to pass me to go upstairs.
    I blocked his way again. “No, sir. That is not it at all. Hear me, please, sir.” I took a deep breath. “I saw you at Mrs. Greenhow’s house.”
    He blinked twice, but did not speak.
    “You were dressed as a clergyman.”
    His eyes bored into mine.
    “I am not mistaken, sir,” I said slowly.
    “I have no idea what you are talking about, Miss Bradford.” He brushed past me. “A clergyman, indeed.”
    “Mr. Webster. I know I am very young, but I have certain . . . abilities. I know what I saw.”
    He exhaled, all the while studying my face. Finally, Mr. Webster took my hand. “The day promises to be not so stifling, warm and bright,” he said, his tone measured. “I’ll show you a bit of the city. We’ll speak further. Yes?”
    I hesitated. Should I go anywhere with this man? Would you have gone anywhere with this man?
    But the chance to get away from the boardinghouse, and my aunt, was very, very tempting. I felt like a prisoner there, especially since I’d run away to find my father’s camp, and Aunt Salome was watching me like a hawk.
    “Yes, sir, I think I would like to go.”
    “Be ready in two hours.” Mr. Webster turned on his heel, and left the room.
    “Madeline! Where have you gotten to?” Aunt Salome called.
    I was right near her. She didn’t have to yell out. Even when she spoke softly, and she rarely did, it was impossible not to hear her, as her voice was like metal scraping against metal. I could hardly wait for Mr. Webster to summon me. I was excited, and nervous, but mostly excited.
    “I’ll be right there, Aunt.”
    I followed her up the stairs, glancing at the carved ebony grandfather clock that chimed hourly: a deep pealing, like a mourning bell, or an announcement of something important.
    Two hours, Mr. Webster said.
    I felt a bit uneasy going off with a man who surely was not what he seemed. But I sensed I’d called his bluff. If he was on the right side, and Aunt Salome was clearly not, what was I doing here, and how could I help? If he wasn’t, and I’m not being dramatic, he could kill me. But deep inside, I really sensed he was not my enemy. I decided to trust that feeling.
    As I sorted the boarders’ clean laundry that poor Nellie had hauled to their rooms, and as Aunt Salome arranged them in a basket, I sat straight down on a pile of newly washed shirts. On purpose.
    “Madeline! Get up, they’ll wrinkle!”
    I did not move. “When I fainted and broke your brandy decanter,” I asked, “was there some sort of celebration happening?”
    Aunt Salome’s mouth drew up tight. “Stand up right now. Madeline, you are crushing Mr. Webster’s fresh shirts.” She