“Why?” Jericho asked.
“Because…” Mabel let the rest of the sentence die on the vine.
Outside, the street lamps winked on, trying to do battle against the gentle gray of the late afternoon. A few snowflakes swirled in the blustery air. Mabel shivered as she stood uncertainly on the top step, wondering what she could say to prolong the moment. A Model T shuddered down the street, and Mabel remembered her earlier strange encounter.
“Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you. I noticed something odd on my way in today. There were these two men in a brown car just sitting, watching the museum.”
Jericho craned his neck, looking up and down the street. He shrugged. “I don’t see anybody now.” He crossed his arms, pensive. “I suppose they could be taxmen.”
Mabel shook her head. “Those fellows don’t sit quietly in cars. They come right up to your door and turn out your pockets. These men reminded me more of Pinkertons, or Bureau of Investigation.” Mabel shoved her hands back into her coat pockets. “Well, see you at the Bennington.”
“Yeah. See you at the Bennington,” Jericho said, watching Mabel walking away in her deliberate fashion.
Why was he still pining for a girl he couldn’t have? Evie certainly wasn’t sitting around sighing over him. Apparently, she was out every night with Sam, having the time of her life. It was high time he did the same. If he’d learned one thing reading through Will’s letters today, it was that there was a whole world out there waiting to be explored, and Jericho was tired of caution.
“Mabel!” Jericho bounded down the steps after her. “Would you like to go to dinner or to the pictures sometime?”
Mabel’s face quicksilvered from shock to barely suppressed giddiness. “I’d love to. When?”
“Oh. Um. How’s tomorrow?”
Mabel grinned. “Tomorrow’s perfect.”
“I’ll come for you at eight o’clock, if that’s agreeable.”
“Very, very agreeable.”
Back in the quiet of the library, Jericho congratulated himself. “I have a date,” he said to the empty room. A date. That was good, wasn’t it? It was progress. He gave the Metaphysickometer a gentle thump and set about tidying up the papers nearby.
Under the glass, the needle gave a tiny jump.
Freshly shaved and smelling of soap, Memphis stood in front of the small mirror over the chest of drawers in the room he shared with Isaiah, buttoning his starched collar onto his crisp white shirt while Isaiah sat in his bed, drawing.
“Memphis, what does ‘P-NEU-MA-TIC’ mean?” Isaiah asked.