Which didn’t stop him from promising himself, in the back of his head, that next year, on the anniversary of leaving the orphanage, he’d treat himself. On his birthday, he was allowed; that’s what he’d decided. That was the only thing that held his cravings at bay, the prospect that this lull was only temporary and it couldn’t possibly last. He hoped maybe he’d be strong enough, come next birthday, to put off any indulgence until the birthday after that … and then the birthday after that. Each year it might get easier, or it might not.

But for now … for now he needed to think. He needed to figure things out. He’d resolved to survive another year, and he’d need his brain if he wanted to make that work.

So. Yes. Just for now. No more sap. Not until next year.

Next year he’d give it a shot, or he wouldn’t. Next year he’d start seeing ghosts again, or they’d leave him alone. Next year, maybe he’d have a better idea of what he wanted, or where he wanted to be, and what he wanted to do.

But for now …

Epilogue

Mercy Lynch adjusted the electric lantern, propping it atop a stack of weathered, damp-swollen books. The light burned brightly across the desk in her office, in her clinic, in her city; it spilled across her hands, and it cast weird shadows across the woman who stood behind her, overseeing her progress.

Mercy frowned at the paper and tapped her pen’s nib into the inkwell. “Miss Angeline, how do you spell your name? I’ve got the first part, but I don’t know about your daddy’s.”

“You could just spell it ‘Seattle’ if you want to.”

“I’d rather do it right.”

Angeline smiled, and patted the younger woman’s shoulder. “You don’t have the letters for it, not in English. But when I write it down for white folks, I do it like this…” she said, taking a pencil nub and scratching Sealth on the nearest scrap of unused paper. “And that’s close enough.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That’ll work just fine. And thank you for keeping an eye on that redheaded boy.”

“Somebody had to do it.”

“I’m glad it was you. You’re a good reporter, and now that we’ve got all these notes between us, I’m getting a picture of what sap withdrawal looks like. After a fashion.”

“You really didn’t think the boy would make it, did you?”

Mercy shook her head and reached for a large envelope she’d stitched together out of canvas and twine. “No, I didn’t. I’ve never seen anybody that far gone come this far back. Rector’s shown us the outer limits of what can be survived. Of what can be saved. He’s young, and that worked in his favor; but he wasn’t so healthy at the start, and that worked against him. All in all, I think he’s been a real good test case.”

“Poor fellow never had much of a chance. The children they pulled from the city, especially the ones as little as he was … not all of them lived long enough to grow up at all. And them that did didn’t always grow up right.” Angeline stood up straight and stretched her shoulders. She walked to the edge of the sickbed and sat down on it.

Mercy paused, then gathered her stack of papers and began to stuff them inside the makeshift envelope. When the package was full, she turned her seat around to face Angeline. “Are there any figures on that? Any numbers, about the things that went wrong with the little ones?”

“None to my knowledge, unless maybe the orphanage kept track.”

“But Rector’s the last of them, ain’t he? The last one of that generation.”

“If he’s not the last, he might as well be. The rest have either growed up and moved on or died. Just like Rector would’ve died, without you looking after him.”

The nurse shrugged this off. “All I did was let him alone, and make sure he got plenty of water. His own body did the rest. He’s looking brighter now, have you noticed? The yellow under his eyes, I think it’s fading. Might even go away, someday, if he keeps his nose clean.”

“It might or might not. He might, or might not.”

“He seems to get on good with Zeke and Huey. Maybe they’ll be a good influence on him.”

Angeline cocked her head, and nodded to indicate that it was possible. But then she said, “Or maybe he’ll be a bad influence on them. It could go either way.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mercy tied her package up with twine, being careful to leave the address clear. It was going to Sally Louisa Tompkins, care of the Robertson Hospital in Richmond, Virginia. “Huey’s too smart to fool, and Zeke’s such a gentle thing … I think they can handle their new friend all right.”

“As long as he keeps his nose clean.” Angeline borrowed Mercy’s expression.

“Yes, well. There’s that. But you didn’t catch him using, or see any sign that he’d done so?” she asked for the dozenth time.

“No, dear, I didn’t. And no one out at the Station would give him any—on Yaozu’s orders. If that boy can keep his head on straight, and if he can stay away from the rotters, and if he can keep his mask on, and if he can make himself useful down here somehow or other … he might be all right.”

The nurse held the package in her lap and absently ran her fingers over the address. The ink had dried, and nothing streaked. “We sure do say might a lot, don’t we?”

“The world’s an uncertain place.”

“That it is,” she agreed. And then, somewhat quietly, “More uncertain than either of us knows. But someone, somewhere knows. And someone, somewhere is keeping everyone god-awful quiet.”

“You mean, how all those men disappeared? The ones you tried to reach?”

For a moment Mercy was silent. She stared down at the package. “Not the ranger, not the Union captain, not the passengers I shared the car with. Not the Mexican inspector, and not the Confederates who made it out alive. No one, Angeline. It’s too many people to be a coincidence. Too many people lost, or silenced.”

Then, as if to change directions, she said, “You know how slow I write, don’t you? I’m not too good at it, and that’s no secret.”

“You do a real fine job, Mercy.”

“No, I don’t. But it’s kind of you to say that. And you know that every time I send Captain Sally a stack like this, I write it out again so I have a copy. It takes me forever and a day, but sometimes I feel like I’m mailing these things to a hole in the ground, and I can’t stand to see it lost.”

“That Captain Sally sent you a message by the taps once, over in Tacoma.”

“That’s true, she did.” Mercy lifted the package, squeezed it, and listened to the brittle paper rustle within. “But all it said was that my reports arrived, and I should keep sending them. And…” She set the package aside. “And anyone on earth could’ve sent that message.”

“Now you’re just getting yourself all worked up for nothing.”

Mercy’s hands fluttered, as if she wasn’t sure what to do with them. She picked up a pencil stub and chewed pensively upon it. Then she removed it from her mouth and asked, with deadly seriousness, “Am I?”

Angeline shooed her worries away with a flip of her wrist. “Of course you are, baby. Your letters are getting through just fine, only it feels like years ’cause you’re mailing through a war zone. Maybe some of your messages get lost, that’s possible, sure. But no one’s stealing them on the other end. No one’s burying them in a hole.”

“Or burning them,” she murmured. “Or hiding them. Or giving them to the wrong people to read.”

“Now that’s just nonsense. What would anybody want with your notes, except a doctor wanting to treat these men?”

Mercy rose to her feet and pushed her chair back under the desk with the back of her knee. She gave her pencil stub another bite, and then came to sit beside Angeline on the edge of the low-slung bed. The lantern gave both of them a chilly glow. It wasn’t warm light, and it cut the room into peculiar shadows.

Softly, the nurse said, “Sap is a terrible thing, and the world is full of men who trade in terrible things. You said it yourself: There’s a war, Angeline. And wars feed on terrible things. The Union has plans to make this nasty powder into a weapon, and if they take too long at it, I’m sure the Confederates will try it for themselves. The notes I’m sending to help Captain Sally find a cure … they’re notes that could help make terrible things. And that’s exactly the opposite of what I want to do. But it cuts both ways. I can’t say the truth and promise who will hear it, or how they’ll use it.”

They rested in companionable quiet, save the fizzle and pop of the electric light.

Finally Angeline tried, “You know, when the air dock’s finished up at Fort Decatur, things’ll be easier for your notes. First a dock, then some taps. Then you won’t have to rely on people like me, or Captain Cly, or anyone else to send your messages. You could just fire off a telegram and ask if everything arrived all right.”

“I do look forward to that day, Miss Angeline. And I do wish for word from … someone, anyone who was with me on the Dreadnought.”

Angeline’s pocket began to chime. She pulled out a watch and gave it a glare. “That’s my reminder, I need to head out if I want to catch the train to Tacoma.”

“Then you’d best be going.”

The princess winked, then climbed to her feet. “I see how it is.”

Mercy gave her a friendly swat on the leg and said, “You know good and well you’re welcome here, you ol’ madwoman. I swear.”

“I’m just joshing you,” she grinned. She made for the door, then stopped herself. “You know,” she said, “you should keep trying for that Texas Ranger. I bet he’s the one you’re most likely to reach.”

“You think?”