Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(7)
“That’s it!” Becky calls out.
I swing a leg over Peony’s back to dismount, but as soon as my feet touch the ground, my legs turn to jelly, and I stumble.
Becky jumps down from the wagon, and Jefferson leaps off Sorry, so that within seconds I have someone at each elbow, steadying me.
“You all right?” Jefferson asks.
“Just need get my bearings,” I say, suddenly breathless. There’s no need to explain the problem—they all know my secret.
Gold has been singing a muted song for our entire journey here, sometimes from far away, sometimes buzzing in my throat. But this, when my feet touch ground here . . . this is like hearing a chorus of a thousand voices.
Softly, so only Jefferson and Becky can hear, I say, “I think it’s all the practice I’ve been doing, learning how to control the gold when I call it to me. It’s made things . . . sensitive.”
“How bad?” Jeff asks.
“It’s everywhere—like trying to sip water from a flood.”
“What do you mean, everywhere?” says Becky, looking around in consternation. “I don’t see—”
“Everywhere,” I whisper.
My gold sense is always strongest when I touch the earth. Men are digging a hole in the street outside the warehouse to sift gold flakes from the dirt—there are two ounces to be found if they’ve half an eye. A block farther, a couple of children sit outside a tavern, where they lick the heads of pins and use the wet tips to pick gold dust out of the sweepings, speck by speck. They won’t get much for their labor, but each mote of gold burns like a tiny ember. Buttons and watches and brooches and hairpins flare all around me. Gold is in almost every purse and pocket. My own significant store of gold, in Peony’s saddlebag, brought along for an emergency. The locket dangling at my throat. A half-dozen nuggets in Jefferson’s right trouser pocket—he’s been carrying them for months, ever since we escaped from my uncle’s camp. And, in a little velvet clutch tied to her waist, Becky has more than a dozen gold coins—
A group of laughing, dirty-faced children plows into us, setting the horses to bellyaching. They are no older than Olive or Andy. A few apologize with “Sorry, ma’am!” and “Sorry, sir!” while others shout “Tag!” and “You’re it!” before dashing away.
Becky brushes dirt off her skirt, as if the children’s behavior might be contagious. “So rude. I have to wonder where their mothers are.”
“Becky, where is your—?”
I sense her purse, or rather the particularly shaped pile of gold coins in her purse, moving away. I scan the crowded street ahead.
There—a towheaded little scamp, rapidly disappearing among taller bodies. Without taking my eyes off him, I hand Peony’s reins to Jeff. “Hold this,” I say, and I start running.
The boy is small and quick as a rodent, disappearing behind people and barrels and wagons. I’m not really pursuing him, only what he carries, and all the other gold around me is a distraction, like trying to follow the buzz of a single bee in a hive. But my practice pays off. With focus, I hear the unique melody of Becky’s gold, not quite overwhelmed by a cacophony of overlapping songs.
I have him in my sights. “Hey! Stop!”
He glances over his shoulder, sees me gaining, and pumps his legs even faster, dodging carts and barrels. His head is cranked around, eyes wide with fear, when he careens into a young woman, maybe even younger than me. Her hair is dirty blond, her skin is darkened by the sun, and her secondhand calico dress—too loose on her by half—is dimmed by dust and wear. She clutches a small cloth bag to her waist like it contains all her possessions in the world. The boy bounces away and falls down.
She snatches him by the collar, smacks him on the back of his head, and scolds him. He’s almost in my grasp when he tears free and darts around the corner into a warren of smaller streets and shanties. The young woman continues calmly toward the docks as if nothing has happened, clutching that bag tight.
I tear after the boy. I’m around the corner and halfway down the street when I catch myself.
The melody of Becky’s gold is moving in the other direction now. Away from me.
The bump was a handoff.
It was done so smoothly that I didn’t suspect a thing. Without my witchy powers, I’d have missed it, for sure and certain.
I dust myself off and turn around as if I’ve reluctantly given up pursuit. My performance is wasted. The boy is long gone, and the young woman is headed away, oblivious to me.
She walks at a normal pace, like a woman with nothing to fear, so it’s easy to extend my stride and catch up. Seeing as how she’s leading me right back to Becky and Jefferson and Hampton, I’m in no rush.
I steadily close the distance and listen for the gold. The shape of it tells a story. She has a secret pocket sewn in the waist of her dress, which she hides by clutching the mostly empty bag in front of her. The pocket holds Becky’s purse and two others, plus several large nuggets of varying shapes and a few loose coins, including a half coin with a sheared edge.
That last one’s call feels sad, like a song in minor key. The shape of it is so distinct and specific that it’s easy to single out from the rest. It becomes my beacon.
As I approach her from behind, I focus all on my attention on that broken coin.
When I first learned to call the gold to me, it was all or nothing. Every nugget, every flake, every piece of dust in range came flying and left me standing there like a statue covered in gold leaf. The first time, it happened when a few folks happened to be watching.