ContentsTitlePageALSOBYGENNIFERCHOLDENKODedication

SanFranciscoJanuary1,1900

PartOneChapter1:The

Cook,theMaid,OurHorse,andPapaChapter2:The

Doctor’sDaughterChapter3:SoMany

DeadRatsChapter4:Our

Cat’sinaDrunken

TizzyChapter5:The

SecretBoyChapter6:Second

HelpingsChapter7:

ChocolateBrusselsSproutsChapter8:Mama’s

Daughter

Chapter9:QuarantineChapter10:Orange

TomChapter11:The

MiracleofDogSpitChapter12:The

MysteryoftheChamberPotChapter13:

BackwardDayChapter14:Astral

DogChapter15:DohjeChapter16:Monkey

intheGardenChapter17:A

HundredandOneRulesChapter18:Noahin

MyRoomChapter19:ChickenChapter20:The

WolfDoctorChapter21:A

HarebrainedPlanChapter22:Button-

HeadLionChapter23:The

EmptyRoom

PartTwoChapter24:The

EggTrickChapter25:Toiland

Toil,OurMaggyDoyleChapter26:Pung

YauChapter27:Gus’s

Idea

Chapter28:TheNightRideChapter29:

HonoluluChapter30:The

ServantsVanishChapter31:Rhymes

With“Persons”Chapter32:

Roumalade’sTriage

Chapter33:Billy’sSecretChapter34:

PolishingtheMotorcarChapter35:Sugar

WaterChapter36:Too

ManySecretsGlossaryAuthor’sNote

NotesChronologyAbouttheAuthor

Copyright

ALSOBYGENNIFERCHOLDENKO

AlCaponeDoesMyShirtsAlCaponeDoesMy

HomeworkAlCaponeShinesMyShoesNoPassengersBeyondThis

PointIfaTreeFallsatLunch

PeriodNotesfromaLiarandHer

Dog

ToKai—whoknewitwouldbesofuntohavea

daughter?

I

SanFranciscoJanuary1,1900nthePalaceHotel,electriclights blaze as ladies in

shimmering gowns andgentlemeninblackwaistcoatswaltz in a ballroom gildedwith gold. On thecobblestones of Market

Street, revelers janglecowbells to ring in the newcenturyforthecity,thePearlofthePacific.In the bay, a steamer fromHonolulu is fumigated,scrubbed, and smoked—fromthe silk-seated parlors to thestinking steerage—and givenentry to the port of SanFrancisco.At the dock, thick with thesmellof fish, rats slipoff the

ship. They scurry onto thewharfandclimbthesewerstoChinatown.One.Two.Three.Four.

PartOne

I

Chapter1

TheCook,theMaid,OurHorse,

andPapa

findaspoton thebench infront of the line of

carriages, buggies, and onestalled motorcar facing thewrong direction, trying mybest to ignore theothergirls’whisperedplansastheyclimbinto each other’s buggiesafterschool.They’regoingtowear split skirts and bicycleinGoldenGatePark,orcarryparasols and wear hats andgloves to shop at theEmporium, or go to eachother’s houses to try on new

cotilliondresses.Icrackopenmybookasmoregirlssweepby. A book is a friend youtake with you wherever yougo.Gemma leans on her

crutches next to the bench,resting her black-stockingedtoe on the ground. Hersprainedankleisbandagedina crisscross pattern—verydifferent from the way myfather does it. Gemma has

blueeyes,reddish-blondhair,and full cheeks that alwayslook feverish. “What are youreadingabout?”“Mucus,” I tell her. “Did

youknowyournoseproducesa flask full of mucus everyday?”Gemma makes a face. “A

flask full … Don’t tell meyoudrinkit?”“Actually, I do. Everyone

does.”IknowIshouldn’tsay

things like this. AuntHortensesaysItryhardtobepeculiar. But she’s wrong; Icomebyitquitenaturally.“DidSpenceraskyouyet?”

Hattie with the pouty lipscallstoGemma.Gemma turns to answer. I

don’t hear what she says. Itisn’t intended for me.Nothingtheysayeveris.It’s been a long time since

I’ve had a friend my age. I

shouldbeusedtoitbynow.Iwas eleven when AuntHortense insisted I enroll inMiss Barstow’s School forYoungWomen, where everygirl learns the virtues ofpatience, the proper use ofcalling cards, and how tomarryamanofstature,whichmeans he has money. Lastyear, Clara, my friend fromchurch,movedaway,andmybig brother, Billy, turned

mean and stopped lettingmetagalongwithhim.Now I’m thirteen, and my

friends are the cook, themaid, our horse, and myfather. Luckily, tomorrow Iget to go on callswith Papa,so Iwon’t have to faceMissBarstow’s for three wholedays. I’ve been assisting myfatherforonlyafewmonths,butI’vetakentoitlikebuttertobiscuits.

What Papa does is a lotmore interesting than whatwe learn in school. There’snoscienceatMissBarstow’s.Nomathafterthirdgrade.Wetake subjects deemednecessary for cultured youngwomen destined to run ahousehold of servants—French, elocution, dancing,music, geography, etiquette,andentertaining.I like geography the best,

then French and elocution.Etiquetteandentertainingputme to sleep, and dancing ispureagony.When I look up again, Jing

is here in our black buggywith our filly, Juliet, who’ssnortingandprancinglikeshehasn’tbeenoutinawhile.Jing waggles his eyebrows

atme, and I climb up besidehim.Heflapsthereins,andJuliet

trots forward into the street.Bits of foam fly where thelines rub against her shinybrownneck.Jing doesn’t have a long

braidorwearbaggypantsandwhite socks the way mostChinamendo.Hedresseslikemy father and speaksformally, never in pidginEnglish. We say he’s ourcook,buthealsotakescareofour garden, our two horses,

our nine chickens, and ourcat,OrangeTom.Butnottheparrot, Mr. P. Our maid,MaggyDoyle,looksafterMr.P. Maggy does the work ofthree maids, but she haspeculiar ways. “Addled,”Billycallsher.We take the route by the

sign that says PAINLESSPIANO-PLAYING DENTIST.Painless, my foot. Papa saysheplays thepiano sonoone

canhearhispatientsscream.Jing smiles slyly. “See

anythinginmyear?”Ileanin.“No.”He turns his head. “How

abouttheotherone?”Ipeerinthatear.“Nope.”“Ahhh…what’s this?” He

pretends to pull a tiny frogoutofhisrightearandhandsittome.Igrinathim,inspectingthe

live frog in my hand. It’sbright green with a blackmask.Jing always has something

forme.Asmoothblackstone,a white feather or cookiesbaked in the shape of myinitials.Ikeephisgiftsonmywindowsill, except for theonesIeat.He asks me how Miss

Barstow’s was today, and Itrytothinkofastorythatwill

makehimlaugh.“Miss Barstow bought a

newduncecap.Shetrieditonto demonstrate what willhappen if you flunk yourFrench vocabulary test, butherhairpingotcaughtandshecouldn’t get it off. MissAnnabellehadtohelpher.”“Stuckdumb,”Jingsays.“Dumbstuck,” I say, and

laugh. “It serves her right. Ihate that thing.Not that I’ve

everhadtowearit,butstill.”We pass a workhorse

pulling a big dray. On thecorner, white-ribbonedtemperance ladies pass outflyers, and newsboys hawkpapers.“Orange Tom has

disappeared again. I have ahunch he has a lady friend,”Jingsays.The frog hops in my lap. I

cup my hand over him to

prevent escape. “I hope hisladyfriendlikesrats.”Orange Tom loves to hunt,

buthekillsmorethanhecaneat.He’sfondofleavingdeadrodents in Aunt Hortense’sfountain, in the backseat ofUncleKarl’sbrand-newauto-machine, on our front step,andontopofPapa’smedicaljournals.The farther we get from

MissBarstow’s,themoremy

mood improves. I settle backand enjoy the short ride upthehilltohome.Aunt Hortense and Uncle

Karl’s house on Nob Hill isenormous—five times thesize of ours—and built tolook like a palace in Paris.Crystalchandeliers,paintingsof angels, marble busts offamous old men, goldcandelabras held up by goldcupids with gold twigs in

theirgoldhands.Everynightit’slitwithallelectriclight.Aunt Hortense and Uncle

Karlownourhouse,whichistiny compared to theirs butplentylargeenoughforPapa,Billy,andme.AuntHortensemarried sugar money. Hersister, Lucy, my mother,married a doctor who willcareforpatientswhethertheycanpayornot.My mother died five years

ago. It started with astomach-ache; Papa thoughtshe had parasites, but it wascancer. No cure for that.MaybeIwilldiscoverone.Whenmyfather isawayon

calls, AuntHortense steps intooverseeMaggy,Jing,Billy,andme.I’vetriedtoconvincePapa that now that Billy issixteen, he should be incharge.Billyisbad-tempered,but I still prefer him toAunt

Hortense.Ihaven’tbeenabletopersuadePapayet.AuntHortenseneverletsup

—I’m not to come or gowithout her permission. Iguess it’s because she can’thavechildrenofherownthatshethinkssheownsus.I watch her walk down the

stepsfromherhouse,wearinga yellow dress that soundslike a bristle brushwhen shewalks.Shehasonwhitelace-

up boots and carries a pearl-handled parasol.Most of herclothes come from Paris. Afew weeks a year, Frenchdresses are brought to theFairmont Hotel for ladies topurchase.Jing reins in Juliet so I can

climb out. I like it betterwhen I get tohelpunharnessher, but I can’t do that withAuntHortensestandinghere.I still have the frog in my

hand, and contemplatehanding it to her.How she’djump! Aunt Hortense isterrified of amphibians andreptiles.She’sallergictocatsanddoesn’tlikedogs.She peers at me. “Oh, for

goodness’ sake, Elizabeth.What did you do to yourhair?”“Trimmedit,ma’am.”“Withameatcleaver?They

have better hairstyles at the

almshouse.”“Really? Well, I’ll sign

myself up,” I say under mybreath.“I heard that,” Aunt

Hortense snaps. “Don’t youknowwhataprivilegeitistogo toMiss Barstow’s?Whatdidshesayaboutyourhair?”“That I ought to keep it

pinnedup.”My father comes out the

kitchen door with his brown

medicalbaginhisrighthandand his black bag in his left.Papaistall,likeme,withhairthe color of piecrust, andbrowneyeslikemine.“Hurryandchange,Lizzie.I

just got word Mrs. Jessen ishavingherbaby,”Papasays.Aunt Hortense frowns.

“Mustyoutakeherwithyou,Jules? It was bad enoughwhenyoutookWilliam.”“Shelikesgoing.”

“Where do the Jessenslive?”AuntHortenseasks.“Larkspur.”“Larkspur? She’ll miss

schooltomorrow.”“She’ll make up what she

missed, won’t you, Lizzie?”Papaasks.“Yes, sir.” I lean down to

hide my smile, release thefrog,andthenrunupthepathtoourhouse.Aunt Hortense shakes her

headatPapa.“Evenso,Jules…”“It’s okay, Aunt Hortense.

Childbirthisnotcontagious,”Icallback.“I’mjusttryingtokeepyou

safe, Elizabeth. Don’t youknowthat?”

J

Chapter2

TheDoctor’sDaughter

ingdrivesus to the ferry.In the sky, plumes of

yellow smoke shoot up fromChinatown.Theair isyellow

andsmellsofrotteneggsandburning trash. I’m glad wearen’tgoingthatway.We’ve just pulledup to the

dockwhenIspotBilly.Billylooks like Mama in Papa’sextra large size. He has herdark hair, and eyes so blue,they’re almost violet. Hedoesn’t have huge feet theway I do, but he has bighands—eachthesizeofaloafof bread. Aunt Hortense has

to send to New York to getgloves that fit. ApparentlyNew York is full of peoplewithbighands.Billy has his jacket off and

his shirtsleeves rolled up.He’s headed toward a crowdof young men watching astreetfight.Iraisemyarmtowave, thenyank itback.Ourfatherwon’tbehappyBillyisdown here. If I say hello,Billywillaccusemeoftelling

Papaonhim.I watch Papa out of the

corner of my eye; he hasn’tspotted Billy. But the wayJing’s eyebrows move, I’mprettysurehehas.After the ferry ride across

thechoppygreenwater,Papaand I rent ahorseandbuggyfrom the livery. Just as weclimb up, the rain begins tocome down. By the time wedig our slickers out, we’re

soaked. The wind howls;water and mud splash upfrom the road. Steam risesfrom the warm horses. Evenwith a hat on, my hair isdripping wet by the time wetie the horse outside theJessens’ little house andtrampinside.Luckily, Papa knows Mrs.

Jessen. Some ladies wouldratherdiethanhaveastrangedoctorexaminethem.

In the small cabin, Mrs.Jessen’s five-year-olddaughter, Caroline, standsholding her swollenmisshapenarm.Hermotherisscreaming like her hair iscaught in the hooves of agallopinghorse.Papa has an established

order of who to help first—triage, he calls it. Children,then women, then old men,then young men. But who

comes first in this case?Thebaby inside Mrs. Jessen, orCaroline? There are nograndmothers hovering, nohired men in the yard, noneighbors offering a helpinghand. Nobody but CarolineJessen,hermother,myfather,andme.Papa carefully inspects

Caroline’s arm. “It’s afracture. How’d you hurt it,littleone?”

“Fell,”Carolinewhispers.“My daughter, Lizzie, will

take good care of you,” hetellshergently,thenturnshisattentiontoMrs.Jessenashetalks me through settingCaroline’sarm.“Get some chloroform and

the gauzemask. Come showme when you have it,” hecalls.Thisismorethanhe’sasked

of me before. Did he forget

I’monlythirteen?“Move,Lizzie!”heshouts.Mrs. Jessen’s screams are

gainingonuslikethewhistleofanoncomingtrain.Papa has two doctor bags:

the black satchel full ofmedicine, the brown onepacked with instrumentswrapped in soft cloth. Thechloroform is in the blackone, along with mustardpoultices,camphor,ammonia,

liniment,andrubbingalcohol.I dig through the brownbag,looking for the gauze maskunder the bandages—oldsheetscutandrolledbyJing.WhenIdon’tfindthemask,

Iplowthroughagain,makinga mess of things. Papa isn’tgoing to like this.But then Ifeel the cool smooth edge ofmetal…themask.PapaseesIhaveit.“Isthere

a piece of wood around?

Threeinchesbyseven?”“Seven inches.Dowehave

aruler?”Iask.“Justguess.You’lluseitas

a brace.” His voice is calmand encouraging, but I knowhewon’tbehappyifImakeamistake.Iheadoutside.Therainhas

let up. It’s misting now, thewater hanging in the air.Myboots stick in the mud,making a sucking sound as I

pullthemout.I run to the boathouse and

thencutaroundtheback.Theboat’s paddles are on oneside, firmly attached to theboat hut. They’re too large.Besides,Ican’tgetthemoff.TheterrorinCaroline’seyes

makes my mind spin like abicycle wheel with no chainattached.Inthereedsstandsanegret,

slenderandelegant.Iwatchit

and try to calm myself.Where am I going to findsomethingtouseasabrace?Notrees;it’sallmarshhere.

Monterey pines grow in theback, behind the house, butthey are full of gnarlybranches.Weneedsomethingflat.The egret lifts its

pterodactyl wings and takesoff, its thin legs danglingbehind. And there—just

beyond the bird—I see abroken oar in the reeds. Itrudge through themuck, tugthe paddle pieces from themud. There is one about theright size! I wash it in thebay, the water sloping intomy boots. Then I run up tothehouse toboilwater.Papamakesmeboileverything.On the porch, I notice a

spittoon, along with smallcages of animals. Mice,

squirrels,araccoon.In the back room,Papa has

clean sheets and towelsaround Mrs. Jessen. He’stalking to her in thatcomfortingwayhehas.Caroline is huddled in the

corner of the front room, herbrownhairmattedwithsnarlsand snot, her eyes wide. Apulse beats in her smallforehead. My father says apatient must have faith in

you. But how do you earntrust? If Caroline is anythinglikethegirlsatschool,I’minbigtrouble.“You’regoingtobefine,”I

say.“Getaway,”shespits.Papahashishandsfullwith

Mrs. Jessen. If Caroline runsfromme,there’snowayIcanget the metal form with thegauzemaskoverhernose sothatIcanpourthechloroform

one drop at a time. Papainstructed me precisely howto use it—chloroform can bedeadly.I move closer. Her arm

hangs like a Z. How can anarmlooklikethat?“You ain’t a doctor.” Her

wholebodycavesaroundherarm,protectingitfromme.“I can do this. I’ve done it

before,”Ilie.“Leave me alone. My

father’s a policeman,”Carolinekicksoutatme,herfootcatchingair.“Calm her down,” Papa

calls from the back room.“Then give her thechloroform,carefully!”Caroline cowers behind an

oldloom.“Stayaway.”My eyes search the house

for clues about her. Then Iremember theanimalson theporch. “What is your

raccoon’sname?”Shewon’tanswer.“Isyourpapaapolicemanin

Larkspur?”Iask.“San Francisco.” I can

barely hear her over hermother’s moans. Tears floodCaroline’seyes.ThenIunderstand.Caroline

ismoreafraidforhermotherthansheisforherself.Iknowhow that feels. For a splitsecondIfeelasting,because

Caroline’s mother is herewith her and mine is dead.Then I whisper, “He won’thurther.”Caroline quivers. “He’s

hurtin’hernow!”“She’s having a baby. It

hurtsalot.Buthe’llhelpher.He knows how.” I work atmakingmyvoicecomforting.The tears spill down

Caroline’s cheeks, makingpink lines in her dirty face.

“No,” she hiccups, hershouldersconvulsing,buthereyesarewatchingme.“Yes,” I say. “It’s always

this way. It’s painful whenthe baby comes.” I try tosound calm. I’ve neverattended a childbirth before,butIknowthismuch.Caroline eyes me. “God’s

doingthistoher?”“No. God’s taking care of

her. Some things in life just

hurt. But your mama’s ingoodhandsnow.”Isenseheragreeingwithme

morethanIseeit.“Mypapa is agooddoctor.

He’llbringherthroughthis.”Hereyesabsorbthis.“He will. He’s delivered

hundredsofbabies.Heknowswhat he’s doing,” I say as Iprayforanormalbirth.She nods. The hand of her

good arm creeps forward,

fingerbyfingertotouchme.I take the last step to her,

wiping the hair gently fromherface.

W

Chapter3

SoManyDeadRats

e’reuphalfthenight,pullingasmallperson

out of Mrs. Jessen, which islikegettingaboulderoutofa

pickle jar. Impossible… butsomehowithappens.After my father finishes

cleaning the afterbirth, thecreature looks more like ababy and less like a gnome.Papa says they don’t crymuch the first day, but thisbaby’s cries pierce holes inmyeardrums.Myfatherisn’trightabouteverything.Mr.Jessenishomenow,out

back chopping wood in the

morning light. Mrs. Jessenand the new baby, Thomas,are sound asleep. I wasasleep, too, curled up in achair, when Papa woke me.“We have to get going, orwe’ll owe another day’schargeforthebuggy.”Mr.Jessenisabigmanwith

a hearty handshake. “Muchobliged, Lizzie,” he tells mewhen he comes through thedoor,bringinginthesmellof

choppedwood.“Lookslikeyougotyourself

some help there,” Papa says,and nods toward the backbedroom.Mr.Jessengrins.“Gonnabe

awhilebeforeIcangetmuchworkoutofhim.”“Trueenough,buthe’sgota

finesetoflungs.Icanvouchforthat.”“That he does. Thanks,

Jules. I know it’s a slog for

you to come all the way outhere. But given what’s beengoing on in the city, thefartherawaythebetter.”“Something I should know

about?”“Restaurant downonSutter

stinks to high heaven. Gotincense burning to mask thesmell. Finally opened up thewall. Eighty-seven dead ratsinthere.”Papa rocks back on his

heels.“Anyexplanation?”“Rats dying in a wall …

happens.It’sthequantitythatbothersme.”Papa sighs. “Could be

anything.”“I know it.Keep your eyes

open.That’sallI’msaying.”“Isleepwiththemopen.”“I’llbetyoudo.”

BeforeIleave,Icheckonmypatient, Caroline. She’s

sleeping peacefully, her hairfanning out over the pillow,her arm set on the brokenpaddlepiece.Jing’sbandagesare rolled neatly around herarm, anchored by her thumb.Not bad for my first brokenarm. I only wish Carolinewent to Miss Barstow’s. Iimagine her telling the othergirls. This would impressthem,wouldn’tit?I climb into the buggy,

badgering Papa withquestions. “How was Isupposed toknowhowtoseta broken arm and calm aterrifiedlittlegirl?”Papa’slonglegssearchfora

comfortable spot in thecramped buggy. He has toduck when going throughdoorways and punch extraholesinthestirrupleatherstomake them long enough forhis legs. I hope I don’t get

thattall.“Youfigureditout,though,

didn’tyou?”I can’t help smiling. I like

beinggoodat this. “Whyareyou teaching me? Billy wassupposedtobethedoctor.”“Whyareyoulearning?”“There are no girls in

medicalschool.”“There are a few.” He

smilestenderly, takingalockof my hair and putting it on

the right side of my part.“Youdidwell.”Isoakthisup.“Just don’t forget that

everybody reacts tochloroform differently.Alwayspaycloseattentiontothesmallthings.”“Are there charts that tell

youexactlyhowmuchbyageandbyweight?”“Yes,butdon’tbeaslaveto

charts.You don’twant to be

one of those physicians whooperate with an open atlasbeforethem.”“I’mtooperatenow?”He flashes a boyish smile.

“Notthisweek.”I know what he’s saying,

butwhatifImakeamistake?Toomuchchloroformcankillaperson.“Does Dr. Roumalade have

charts?”Dr.Roumaladeisthedoctor

for people who live on NobHill. He makes house calls,like Papa does, but he alsohas an office, with a roomjust for people to wait. Youhave to be a high-muck-a-muck to see Dr. Roumalade.If you’re a railroad king andget sick, he’ll move in withyouuntilyougetwell.“Yes, but I’m certain he

uses his eyes and ears morethanhischarts.”

I bet he doesn’t get paid inblackberry jam and hand-wovenblankets,thewayPapadoes. It’s easier to get yourfee if the outcome is good.Forhishealthybabyboy,Mr.Jessen probably gave Papa afew dollars besides the jamand the blanket, but I don’tknow for sure. Grown-upsdon’t give straight answersaboutmoney.“Why is Dr. Roumalade

Aunt Hortense’s doctor, notyou?”“It would be awkward,”

Papasays.“And what was Mr. Jessen

talking about, anyway?Eighty-sevenratsdying.”“Hygiene is not what it

could be in some of oureatingestablishments.”“Butsomany!”“I’ve got my hands full

worrying about human

diseases.Ican’tkeeptrackofratailments,too,Lizzie.”

After the boat ride throughthickwetfog,JingappearsinfrontoftheFerryBuilding.I scurry ahead of Papa and

climb up into the buggybehind Jing. “How’d youknow what ferry we’d beon?”“Magic,” Jing says, and

smiles. His eyebrows move

an awful lot. They tell youmorethanhislips.The buggy rocks as Papa

climbs in.He slides his bagsundertheseat.“DoesDr.Roumaladetravel

asmuchasyoudo?”Iask.“Nope.” Papa gives me a

dry smile. “He sendsinconvenientpatientstome.”Jing slaps the lines, and

Julietleapsforward.“Everythingokayathome?”

Papa asks aswepass amuleand wagon. Hee-haw, themulewarns;we’ve come tooclose.“At home, yes, sir. But

Chinatown is underquarantine.”“Chinatown.” Papa shakes

hishead.I watch up ahead, where a

policeman on horsebackmanagestheoverflowinglineof people waiting for the

cable car. “What’s thequarantinefor?”“Theplague,”Papasays.“The plague? Right, Papa.”

Ilaugh.“It’s true. The fact that

nobody’s seen hide nor hairof it is apparently beside thepoint. A lot of Sturm undDrangfornothing.”Jingnods,butIdon’t.What

isSturmundDrang?“Why is the quarantine

happening,then?”Iask.“Just the word shakes

everybodyup.Plaguevictimsdieaharddeath.”“Dotheyalldie?”“Death rate is fifty percent.

Nearly wiped out EuropeduringtheMiddleAges.”“Isitbecauseoftherats?”“Don’tjumptoconclusions,

Lizzie.Youknowbetter thanthat.”

“Theremustbesomereasonthey think we have theplague.”“There was an outbreak in

Hawaii.Buttherehasn’tbeenasingleconfirmedcasehere.”“Why did they quarantine

Chinatown?”“Well… they’re not going

to quarantineNobHill, now,arethey?”PapawinksatJing.Jingsmiles.

AuntHortensehurriesoutthesecondsheseesus,likeshe’sbeen watching through thewindow. Sometimes shelooks somuch likeMama, itfeels like a twist of theforceps on my heart. Butwhen she opens her mouth,she’s Aunt Hortense again.“Thank goodness you’resafe,”shesays.“Do you think I’d let

anything happen to my

Lizzie?”Papaasks.“Promisemeyouwon’ttake

her with you for a while,”AuntHortensepleads.“What are you concerned

about, Hortense?” Myfather’s voice is patient, asalways.“When was the last time

theyquarantinedapartofthecity?”“Ican’trecall.”Papaclimbs

down from the buggy after

me.AuntHortensefansherface.

“Mypointexactly.”“IsKarlworried?”“Notabit.Look,humorme,

Jules. I don’t want to takechanceswithourElizabeth.”Papa nods. “Of course.

She’ll stay home until thisdiesdown.”“Thanks.” Aunt Hortense

kisses Papa lightly on thecheek.

“Wait … Papa!” I whisperwhenweareoutofearshotofAuntHortense.“Wedidn’tgonearthequarantinetoday,andwe’re not going tomorrow,either,arewe?”“Nope.”“Then there’s no reason for

her to be worried. Come on,Papa.WhatamIgoing todoathome?”Papaslipshisspectaclesoff

and cleans themwith a cloth

hekeepsinhisbreastpocket.“Yourauntdoesa lot forus.If a small thing like this canmakeherhappy…”“But you’re thedoctor, and

you’re not worried. Why dowehavetolistentoher?”“Because she’s your aunt

andshelovesyou.”One word from Aunt

Hortense and my wholeweekend is ruined. Ikick thecobblestones so hard it hurts

mytoe.

S

Chapter4

OurCat’sinaDrunkenTizzy

aturday morning I hearthe snap of Papa’s bags

closing without me. I watchthrough my window as he

hurries across to the barn,hunchedforwardinthefoggymorning,abag ineachhand.A few minutes later, thebuggy wheels squeak andJuliet’shoovesclick,clackonthecobblestone.Great.I’mstuckhereallday

withnothingtodoandnoonetodoitwith.ForasecondIwonderwhat

thegirlsfromMissBarstow’saredoing.ThenIcometomy

senses and take out myjournal.Iliketowritepoems,just as my mama did. ShewroteapoemaboutmewhenIwaslittle.It’soneofthefewthingsIhavefromher.

IhavealittlegirlnamedLizzie,Sobusyshemakesmedizzy.ShethinksourpetsareillAndprescribesadoctor’s

pill.Nowourcat’sinadrunkentizzy,AllbecauseofourlittleLizzie.

I’mgladMamahadasenseofhumor, but Iwonderwhatelse she thought about me.Too tall?Tooawkward?Toomanyfreckles?Wouldshebehappy that I can saddle myown horse and put together

the loose bones in Papa’sbonebag tocreateaskeletonbymyself?Papa saysMama letme do

as I pleased more than AuntHortense thought she should.FunnyhowwhenMamawasalive, I never thought abouther.Shewaslikethebackofmy head—my parietal bone.Always a part ofme. Now Iwish I’d paid more attentiontoher.

After she died, Billy and Idid everything together. Weputonmagic showsof tricksJing taught us. I was hisassistant.He tried to sawmeinhalffortheneighborkids.Ihad to stay rolled up in anapple crate while he sawedaway. Other days, I sawedhim. We won twosarsaparillas and a bag ofbutterscotch candy for thatonce. He taught me how to

ride bareback, how to climb,andhowtokeepfromhurtingmyself when I jump downfrom the loft.NowBilly is agrouch who won’t even eatsupperwithus.He’s trying to earn money

for a horseless carriage, andthat’s all he thinks about. Idon’t know why he wants astinky oldmotorcar when hecanhaveahorse.Iwatchhimtestabikehe’s

repaired. He rides it acrossthe cobblestones, then comestoaskiddinghalttocheckthebrakes.Hechargesanickeltochangeabicycletire.Hewillhave to change an awful lotof tires to buy anautomachine.ItakeJohnHenryoutofhis

stallandbeginbrushinghim.Billy hops off the bike and

leansitagainstthebarndoor.“Don’t make Aunt Hortense

crazy,” he says. LastThanksgiving,AuntHortensecaughtmeridingJulietinmyoveralls. She was so mad,you’d think I’d robbed abank. Papa started takingmeon his calls after that to getme out of Aunt Hortense’shair.“I’m just grooming, not

riding.”He snorts. “I’m taking him

anyway.Whyareyouhere?I

thoughtyou’dtakenmyplaceasPapa’slittlehelper.”“Aunt Hortense pitched a

fit,soPapasaidIhadtostayhome. She thinks I’m goingtocatchsomething.”Orange Tom skulks by. He

has dirty pumpkin-coloredfur,eyesthecolorofoverripepears, and a paw with anextrafinger.Billy goes into the tack

roomfortheharness.

“Quit following me,” hebarks.“I’mnotfollowingyou.I’m

walking in the samedirection.”Billy lifts the collar over

John Henry’s head. He canharness John Henry to thewagoninhissleep.It’sharderthanitlooks.I’vetried.Iwatchhimloadthebicycle

he fixed into the back of thewagon,climbup,andpickup

thelines.“Where are you going?” I

ask.“Nowhere,”hesnaps.“Gosh, Billy, can’t you at

leasttellmethat?”“Nope.”

In the house, I unlace myboots,slipthemoff,andslideinmystockingfeet toPapa’slibrary. I kneel on the rug tolook at the bottom shelf of

journals, searching forarticles about interestingdiseases. I dream of the daywhen the girls at MissBarstow’s come down withcholera and I’m theonewhosavesthem.I look up the plague. The

antidotesarewild.Eatsnake,wear camphor or dried toadsinalocket,fillanamuletwitharsenic, keep your farts in ajar, and take an ice water

enema. I look up “enema.”“The injection of fluid intothe rectum.” I can’t wait totellAuntHortense.Jing has gone to market;

tall, curly-haired Maggywhisks thecobwebsfromtheceiling of Papa’s library.“Miss Lizzie wishes shecould go with Mr. Doctor,”Maggymutters.“Isuredo,”Itellher.“What

about you,Maggy?What do

youwish?”She doesn’t answer. What

doesMaggywishfor?Ihavenoidea.There’sgottobesomething

better to do than watchMaggy dust. I take thejournals up to my room andkeep reading. Maybe if Iknow all about the plague, Ican convince Aunt Hortensethere’s nothing to worryabout.

Symptoms, I write. Fever,swelling in lymph nodes,black-and-blue marks, chills,headaches.

When the clock strikes four,Papa, Jing,andBillyare stillgone. Papa is often out oncalls for days at a time. Idon’tworry about him.Billycomes home late a lot ofnightstoo.ButJingshouldbebackbynow.

I’mreadingTheAdventuresofHuckleberryFinnyetagainwhenIhearanoiseuponthethirdfloor,wheretheservantslive.MaggyDoylehasawayof being everywhere at once,like a dust storm. Still, Ithoughtshewasdownstairs.“Maggy!”Iyell.Notasoundfromupabove.Could Papa be back? I

would have heard him in thebarn.MustbeJing.Ijumpoff

the bed and head for thestairs.Maggy appears in the hall.

“MissLizzie?”“IsJinghome?”“No.”Sometimes houses just

creak. Maggy’s curly headdisappearsdownthestairway,and I go back to reading inmyroom.Butthereitisagain—more like shuffling thancreaking.

Rats?Mice?Orange Tom usually takes

careofthem.Itiptoedownthehalltothe

stairway that leads to theservants’ floor.Thestairsarenarrow, dark, and steep, andthestairwellisstuffy.The door at the top is

closed. I turn the crystalhandle, and the door swingsopen.The third-floor hall looks

likethesecond-floorhall,butthere’s no furniture, nopictures, and the rug iswornthin. Heat rises, so this floorshould be warm, but thewindows are wide open. Infront of Maggy Doyle’scloseddoorisamat,asifthisistheoutside.Jing’sdoorhasapaper lanternhanging fromtheknob.What if there’s a burglar?

What if he climbed in the

window?WithBillyandPapagone,it’smyresponsibilitytofind out. Aunt Hortensewouldn’t agree, but sincewhendoIdowhatshesays?And then a girl whispers:

“Lizzie.”Thehairon thebackofmy

neck standsup straight.Whois this? I don’t know thevoice,butthisgirlknowsmyname.I don’t believe in ghosts. I

watchedPapaexamineadeadperson before. The dead aregone.Theycan’treturn.“Lizzie.” It’s coming from

Jing’sroom.“How do you know me?”

Myvoicetrembles.The bevels in the crystal

doorknob flicker in thesunlight as the knob turns,making a kaleidoscopepatternonthefloor.Thedoorswings open, and a boy

standsbeforeme.

M

Chapter5

TheSecretBoy

y knees shake. I openmymouthtoscream.

Butwait…he’sjustakid.He’sChinese,withasquare

face anda sturdybuild.He’s

a little shorter thanme, withstraight black hair. Hewearsa white shirt and a tie.Threads of color hang fromhissleeve.“Who are you?” I try to

soundcalm.“I’mJing’sson.”He’s lying. “Jing doesn’t

haveason.”“Yes,hedoes.”“IwouldknowifJinghada

son.Hewouldhavetoldme.”

Theboy squints atmeas ifmyanswerpainshim.“What?Hewouldhave.”He sighs. “Youdon’t know

anything,”hewhispers.“You can’t talk to me that

way.”“I’m sorry,” he mumbles,

thoughitdoesn’tseemlikehemeansit.The way he moves his lips

and his eyebrows isshockingly like Jing. Could

he be telling the truth? Is heJing’sson?“What’syourname?”“Noah.”“Howoldareyou?”“Twelve.”“Whatareyoudoing inmy

house?”“Ilivehere.”“Livehere?”“Idonow.Inhere.”I survey the room,which is

clean and smells of almondsandcookedrice.Acotwitharedsilkquiltrestsagainstonewall; a large dragon tapestryhangs fromanother.Anunlitcandle and blue-and-whiteceramic bowls sit on abookshelffullofbooks.“Wheredoyousleep?”Noah lifts up the quilt and

pullsawhitepad fromunderthebed.Igoinsidetosee.“I thoughtyouwereagirl,”

Isay.“Well, I’m not,” he shoots

back.“Does anyone know you

livehere?”Heshakeshishead.Maggy’sroomisnextdoor.

“NotevenMaggy?”“No.”“Whyareyoulivingherein

secret?”He sucks his lips in. “I’m

notaservant,”hewhispers.I try to think if I have

known any Chinese who arenot servants. The vegetablepeddler? Themenwhoworkatthecleaners?“Doyougotoschool?”Henods.“The Chinese school?” I

sawtheChineseschoolonce.The kids wore silk skullcapsand silk trousers. He’s notdressedthatway.

“Yes.”I kneel down and run my

fingeralongthespinesofoneshelf of books. The BrothersKaramazov, Around theWorld in Eighty Days, TheOrigin of Species. Is Noahreadingthese?“I also do piecework. Five

centsadozen.”Hepicksupastack of buttonhole strips,which explains the coloredthreads hanging from his

sleeve.Theyareneedleswiththread. “Baba doesn’t wantme to get used towaitingonpeople.”“WhoisBaba?”“Jing. ‘Baba’ is ‘Papa’ in

Chinese.”HegetstocallJing“Baba”?

“Whydoesn’thewantyoutowait on people?He waits onpeople.”“Yes, but he says it makes

youinvisible.”

“Jing, invisible? Never!” Istare at him. “Are youcrazy?”His eyes go cross-eyed and

he sticks his fingers into hismouth to stretch it out like aweird jack-o’-lantern. “Do Ilookcrazy?”I shake my head; I can’t

helpsmiling.He bites at his lip. “Baba

shouldbebackbynow.”He’s right.Going tomarket

takesafewhours,notallday.“Do you know where he

is?”Iask.“I’m afraid they caught

him.”“Caught him? Who? What

areyoutalkingabout?”“Thepolice.”I sit back on my heels.

“Whywould the policewantJing?”“Thequarantine.”Hewalks

to the window and pulls theblind back just enough topeekout.“TheywantusallinChinatown.”“Jinglivesherewithus.Not

in Chinatown. He alwayshas.”“Thatdoesn’tmatter.”“Ofcourseitmatters.”“You know so little,” he

whispers.“Iknowalot!”

“MissLizzie?”Maggycallsfromthedistantdownstairs.Noah takes a step closer.

“Wait. Will you find outwhereheis?”“Me?HowamIgoingto—”“Miss Lizzie!” Maggy

opensandclosesthedoorsonthe second floor as if shethinks Imight behiding in acloset.“Andpromiseyouwon’ttell

anyoneI’mhere,”hepleads.

Firstheinsultsme.Now…Whoisthiskidanyway?“They’llfirehimifyoudo.”Jinghasworkedforussince

I was three. He has madeevery one of my birthdaycakes for as long as I canremember. He bakes asurprise in each one—chocolate filling,strawberries, licorice,peppermint candies. Eachyear I look forward to what

he’s baked inside. Hemakesmelemonadeonhotdaysandhot cocoa on cold ones. Hecuts me big slabs of breadwarm from the oven andslathered with honey. Once,whenIsprainedmyankle,hereadmeallofSaraCrewe,orWhat Happened at MissMinchin’swhileIsatwithmylegproppeduponpillows.When I come home from

MissBarstow’s,whereIhave

sat by myself, worked bymyself, read by myself, it’sJing who makes me laughwithhisimitationofamarketmerchant trying to sell apigeon as a goose, or theiceman’s horse who has acrushonJuliet.“NoonewillfireJing.”“They will.” Noah’s

whisperisstrained.“Never!”Isay,but…Aunt

HortenseandUncleKarlown

our house. They won’t behappy about a boy whodoesn’t work for us livinghereinsecret.I nod. “I’ll keep quiet …

untilPapacomeshome.”

T

Chapter6

SecondHelpings

heupstairsissosilent,itseems impossible that a

boyisupthere.DidIimaginehim? How long has he beenhere? Where is his mother?

Howdoeshesneakinandoutforschool?Isitonmybed,lookingout

atthesky,whichisdarkgray,litorangeat thehorizon.Theyardisahazypink.I turnonthe electric light, which isunreliable. Uncle Karl sayssoonwewilluseonlyelectriclights.Ihopenot,becausethegaslightsworkmuchbetter.Why would Noah say he’s

not going to be a servant?

Doesn’t he understand thewaythingsare?AndwhereisJing,anyway?“Miss Lizzie!” Maggy

breezes through, the brightgreenparrot onher shoulder,my mended bloomers in herhand. She smiles at me.“Supper’sready.”“Supper’s ready! Supper’s

ready!”Mr.P.squawks.My stomach grumbles.

Supper without Jing will be

dullindeed.Wait.WhataboutNoah? How will he getsupper?In the kitchen, Maggy has

warmedJing’sbeef stewandladledit intoabowl.Shehascut Jing’s bread and spreadbutteronitforme.“Where’sJing?”Iask.“Atthemarket.”Maggysets

thebowlatmyplace.“It’stoolateforthat.”Maggydoesn’t answer.She

knowsthatifJingisnothere,shemustwarm supper.Doesshethinkbeyondthat?Sunday afternoon is Jing’s

time off. Sometimes hedoesn’treturnuntillateinthenight, but today is Saturday.HenevertakesSaturdayoff.WhenMaggy heads for the

drawing room to get theskeinsofribbonsshefashionsinto bows for my hair, Ireturnwhat’s leftofmystew

to the pot. Then I slip backinto my seat and ask forseconds.She ladles more hot stew

into the bowl and spreadsanother slice of bread withbutter.“I’m going to eat this

upstairs,”Itellher.She looks up from where

she stands at the counter,blackgrosgrainribbonwoundaround her fingers. “Miss

Lizziesick?”“I just want to eat in my

room.”Shegetsa trayfor thesoup

and bread, pours a full glassof milk, and then carries thetray up the stairs and sets iton the bedwithout spilling adrop. Maggy would doanythingintheworldIasked.Once,shestayedupforthreenights to finish the smockingonapinaforeforme.

“Thankyou.”Ibeamather.I listen for her footsteps

down the stairs, the swingofthe door, and the squeak ofher stool. Then I pick up thetray and head for theservants’stairs,awareofeachstep and how it rocks themilk.Outside Jing’s door, my

heartbeats loudly.“Noah?”Iwhisper.Noah cracksopen thedoor.

Hiseyesshiftbackandforth.He looks down at the tray.“Youbroughtsupper?”Inod.He moves out of the way,

andIslipinside.Where do I set the tray? I

almost laugh, thinking aboutasking Miss Barstow thisquestion, given all the rulesI’m breaking. Entering aboy’s room, not announcingyourself with a calling card,

servingaservant.Noah sees me hesitate. He

takes the tray and sets it onthe silk blanket. I’m not assteady with the tray asMaggy. A little of the milkhasspilled.Noah’seyesarehungry,but

hetakesastepback,offeringthestewtome.“I’ve eaten.” I spot a chair

piled high with books. Noahclears the chair, and I sit

down.Heclimbsbackintothenest

ofbooksandbuttonstripsonhis bed and tucks into hisstew,nibblingathisbreadasifhewantsittolast.Hehasahabit of pushing his hairbehind his ears after everyfewbites.“One thing I don’t

understand…Why did JinggotoChinatown?”“He’satranslator.”

“Whatdoeshetranslate?”Noah looks at me like I’m

an idiot. “Chinese toEnglish.”“Of course.” I turn red.

“Papa isn’t home. I don’tknowifhe’llbebacktonight.I’m going to talk to UncleKarl.IfJinggotcaughtinthequarantine, Uncle Karl willgethimout.”“How?”“Uncle Karl is in the

newspaperbusiness.Heownsthe evening Call and S&SSugar. People like to be onhisgoodside.”Noah stops chewing. His

eyes watch me warily. “Areyou going to tell him aboutme?”Ishakemyhead.“No.”He lets out an uneasy

breath. “Baba will be mad Itoldyou.”“Jingnevergetsmad.”

Noahlaughs.“What?Hedoesn’t.”“Not with you,” he

whispers. “He works foryou.”Isthistrue?Isthereanother

Jing I don’t know about?“What does Jing say aboutme?”Noahthinksaboutthis.“He

trusts you. He says you’rekindtoMaggyDoyle,but…you’re your own worst

enemy.”What? I’m my own worst

enemy? “Why does he saythat?”Noah shrugs. “But he loves

you. I thought you’d be thepersonIcouldtrust.”“NotBilly?”“Baba thinks Billy has lost

hisway.”“Hehasnot,” I say. Idon’t

want this strange boy talkingaboutmybrother.Istarehard

atNoah.Howcanheknowsomuchaboutus?

Downstairs, I’m putting onmyboots togo talk toUncleKarl when I remember thatit’s Jing’s job to feed theanimals. The horses are bothgone—JulietwithPapa, JohnHenry with Billy. OrangeTom feeds himself. Maggyfeeds the parrot, but thechickens…

“The chickens need to befed,”ItellMaggy.Maggy scrambles for her

coat.Shepicksupalantern—no electricity in the barn—andthebasketofstalebread.I follow her outside, wherethemoonisalopsidedcircle,abirdhoots likeanowl, andthedarkshapesofthehedgescreatespookymoonshadows.Maggy shines the lantern onthepath.

Thepathisasfamiliartomeasmyown feet, but it seemsdifferent tonight. I glance upat Noah’s window. Is hewatchingme?I leaveMaggy tossing stale

breadinthecoopandwalkupthe path to the Sweetinghouse, all four floors litbrightly.When I go in, maids in

black uniforms are justremoving the supper dishes

from the long dining roomtable.Thewaythey’retalkingand laughing, I know AuntHortense isn’t nearby. Whenthe maids spy me, thegiggling comes to an abrupthalt.Uncle Karl is in the

smoking room, a brandysnifterinhishand.He’sdeepin conversation with a manwhohasahalf-moonofblackcurly hair circling his shiny

baldinghead.I’mnotallowedintheleather-walledsmokingroom—no girls are, not evenAunt Hortense. I wait for abreakintheconversation.“Hearst put it on the front

page,”themansays.Uncle Karl groans. “Only

Hearst would sanction thisridiculousescapade.”“The plague sells papers.

They’re flying off thestands,” the balding man

says.“It’sbadforthecity.We’ve

allagreed.Can’tsomeonegetHearstonboard?”UncleKarlasks.“Good luckwith that.”The

baldingmansteadieshisglassas Uncle Karl fills it from acrystal carafe. “You don’tsupposeanyofthisistrue,doyou?”“There isn’t a doctor in the

statewhobelievesitis.”

“Still. If it were, theprospectis…”“Unthinkable. But I don’t

build my business onspeculation, any more thanyou do. You got somethingyou’renottellingme?”“Nope.”Themanclinkshis

glasswithUncleKarl’s.“Then we’ll leave the

scaremongering to Hearst. Itwill backfire soon enough. Italwaysdoes.”

They’resilent.“Uncle Karl?” I call from

thedoorway.“Excuse me, will you?”

UncleKarlappearsoutofthesmoke. “Why, Lizzie.” Hetakesapuffofhiscigar.“TowhatdoIowethispleasure?”Uncle Karl’s jackets fit

better than Papa’s or Billy’s.Aunt Hortense says there isonlyonetailorinthecitywhoisskilledenough tosuithim.

No matter the time of day,UncleKarlisfreshlypressed,as if he just stepped into hisclothes.Hehasgrayhair,anda kind face with sharp blueeyes. Aunt Hortense is tallerthanheis.“Jing is gone. He went to

themarket thismorning, andhe hasn’t come back. I’mworried he got caught in thequarantine.”“The quarantine? Darlin’,

you shouldn’t worry yourpretty little head about suchthings.”I can’t help smiling at this.

NoonesaysI’mprettyexceptUncleKarl. “Butwhat aboutJing?”Uncle Karl clicks his

tongue. “He’s a grown man.There’s no telling where heis.”“Hewouldn’tgooffwithout

telling us. It’s not like him.

He must be in thequarantine.” I wish I couldtellUncleKarlthatJing’ssoniscertainJingisthere.Uncle Karl holds his cigar

and his glass with his lefthand.Withhisright,heslideshis gold pocketwatch out ofhisvestpocketandglancesatit. “It’s possible,” heconcedes. “I’ll make somecallstomorrowandseewhatIcanfindout,butonlyforyou,

Peanut.”Hewinksatme.“Whatabouttonight?”He swirls the brandy in his

glass.“WhatcanIdoatnineo’clockatnight?I’lllookintoitfirstthinginthemorning.”“Yes, sir,” I say. “Thank

you.”“IsBillyhome?”“I’mnotsure,”Imumble.His sharp eyes cut through

me.“You’renot sure,oryou

don’twanttosay?”Iwagglemyheadbackand

forth.“Alittleofboth,sir.”“I wish your father would

letme buy Billy amotorcar.Then your brother wouldn’tbeout trying tomakemoneyevery hour of the day andnight.”“Papa wants him to earn it

himself.”“I know he does. Your

fatherisanobleman,butthe

world is not nearly as nobleas he is, Peanut, and don’tyouforgetit.”“Papa wouldn’t agree with

youaboutthat,sir.”“No,Iexpectnot.”What would my father say

about all of this? I stop tothink.“He’dsayit’suptousto shape the world. And nottheotherwayaround.”“And what do you think,

Peanut?”

“I think Papa’s way isnicer.”“Hah,yes.”Hechuckles.“It

most certainly is, darlin’. Itmostcertainlyis.”

I

Chapter7

ChocolateBrusselsSprouts

walkbacktomyhouse,thewind blowing the fog like

ghosts chasing through thestreets. No light in Noah’s

window.Isthereenoughlightcoming under the door forhim to read, or does he haveto go to bed when the sungoesdown?Maggy’s light is on. Too

bad.IwanttorunupandtellNoah that Uncle Karl saidhe’d help. I miss havinganother kid in the house. Iwish for the thousandth timethat Billy would be like heusedtobe.

AssoonasIwakeup,IruntoPapa’s room, but his coat isnot hanging from the knob,his pocket watch and loosechangearenotonthedresser.Hisbedisuntouched.Billy’sdoorisclosed.When

Iwaslittle,weusedtosneakout to ride before AuntHortensegotup.NowIdon’tdareknockonhisdoor.He’lltear my head off if I wakehim.

Downstairs, I hear thefamiliar sound of coal beingshoveled. Jing! I run out thedoorandaround to thecellarstairs. The door is open, butMaggyisshoveling,hercurlyhair pinned to her head, astreak of soot on her cheekand perspirationmarks underher arms. She smiles up atme.“Jingisstillgone?”She nods. I run out to the

barn to see if John Henry isback. If he’s here, Billy is,too.JohnHenry stands with his

lower lipso loose,youcouldcollect pennies in it. I slipintohisstallandputmyarmsaround his fuzzy brown-and-white neck. I open a bale ofhayand tosshima flake.Heplodsover tohismangerandroots around.When his headpopsup,hisforelockislaced

withalfalfa.Usually on Sundays, Billy,

Papa,AuntHortense,andIgotochurch.UncleKarldoesn’tlike church. He says, Goingto church doesn’t make aperson aChristian anymorethan taking a mule into abarnmakesthemuleahorse.He ridesout toOceanBeachor down to the racetrack toget stories for his newspapercolumn.

Lastnighthesaidhe’dfindoutaboutJingfirstthing.ButUncleKarl’sfirstthingcouldbe a week from tomorrow.Still,thisisanemergency.Heknowsthat,doesn’the?In the kitchen, Maggy has

madeoatmeal,buteverythingshe cooks tastes like boiledpotatoes.It’smessytocarryabowlof

hot cereal up two flights ofstairsandthenbringthedirty

bowl back down. I fill apitcher of water, then maketwo apple butter sandwiches,grabajarofpeachesandtwoforks,androlleverythingintoa kitchen towel. Noah won’tlike Maggy’s boiled-potatooatmealanybetterthanIdo.While Maggy is in the

chicken coop gathering eggs,Irunuptothethirdfloor.“Noah,” I whisper,

knockingsoftly.

Nooneanswers.Iknockagain.Stillnothing.Isheasleep?If I knock too loudly,Billy

might hear. But I can’t justleave Noah’s breakfastoutsidehis door.HowwouldIexplainthattoMaggy?WhatamIsupposedtodoin

a situation like this? Again Ithink of Miss Barstow’setiquetterules.“Noah,” Iwhisper, opening

thedoor.Inside,theroomisstill.The

dragon wall tapestry. Theblack lacquer table. Thepitcher and washbasin. Thered silken bedcover. Thebooks.“Noah,” I whisper, a little

moreloudlythistime.Tick-tick. The closet door

opens. Noah ducks out fromundertheshirts,hoppingoverakerosenelantern.

A flicker of joy flashes inhiseyes,and thenhescowls.“This ismyroom!Youcan’tjust barge in anytime youwant.”It’s not his room. Uncle

Karl andAuntHortense ownourhouse.“Well…Iwasbringingyou

breakfast.”“Youscaredme.”Hechews

onhislip.“Iheardfootsteps.”“We need a way for me to

know it’s okay to come in. Ican’tbeknocking.”“No,”heagrees.“Wecould

hangsomethingonthedoor.”“Maggymightnotice.What

would she think about thingsappearing on Jing’s doorwhenJingisn’there?”“Howaboutthewindow?If

we drape something smallover the blind? Would shenoticethat?”“Probablynot.”

He opens the closet, standson his tiptoes, and runs hishand along the high shelf.Dustmotes fill theair; aballof red yarn falls down. Hepullsout agoldbraidedcordwithatasseloneachend.“That’s good,” I say, “but

what if it’s not safe to comeup? Is there a way to get amessagetoyou?”Noah’seyes rove the room.

“OrangeTomcomesuphere.

We can attach messages tohiscollar.”“What if someone finds the

message? What if they readit?”“We’ll have to be careful

whatwewrite,” he says as Iunroll the kitchen towel andtake out the apple buttersandwiches and the jar ofpeaches. He spreads a clothon his bed, as if we arehavingapicnic,andIset the

sandwiches on it, open thepeaches,andhandhimafork.His eyes widen. “You’re

goingtoeatwithme?”“Sure,” I say. I don’t want

himtoknowI’venevereatenwithJingorMaggybefore.I take a bite of my

sandwich.Noahtriestostabapeachwithhisfork.“I talked toUncleKarl.He

saidhe’dhelp.”Some of the stiffness in

Noah’sshouldersmeltsaway.HestaresatthedoorasifJingwill come through at anyminute.Isitmeantotellhimthatit

may be a while? Papa saysnever give a patient moreinformation than he canhandle.“InChinatown, do you live

withyourmother?”“Mama’s in China. I live

withmyuncleHan.”

At the wharf, I’ve seenpeople coming off thesteamships from the Orient.Women in bright Chineseclothes,men inblackderbiesand baggy pants carryinglacquer chests, spices,bamboo,boltsoffabric,largejade figurines, teak furniture.Everyone comes here. Doesanyonereturn?“ShewentbacktoChina?”“She never came over. It’s

hardforwomentoleave.”“I’msorry,” Isay.“Doyou

writeher?”“No.”“Whynot?”IfIcouldwrite

mymother,Icertainlywould.Heshrugs, then takesabite

ofsandwich.Iwaitforhimtosaymore.FinallyIoffer,“Mymamaisgone,too.”He nods. “Baba talks about

hersometimes.”

“He does? What does hesay?”Noah’s mouth bunches to

oneside.“Shewaskind.Shehired him even though he’dneverbeenacookbefore.”My mother was kind. It

feels good to hear this. Papadoesn’t talkaboutMama.Hemisseshertoomuch.“She liked to play practical

jokes, and she lovedchocolate.Chocolatecookies,

chocolate ice cream … Sheeven had chocolate sauce onbroccolionce.”“Chocolatebroccoli,” I say,

laughing. “And chocolate-covered brussels sprouts,too.”“It was your mama’s idea

forhimtobakethingsinyourbirthdaycake.”“Really?”Henods.Mama celebrates my

birthday with me. Am I justlike the Lizzie I waswhen Iwaslittle?Wouldshelovemenow,thewayshedidthen?“Baba said she adored you,

and when she realized shewas going to die, she madehimpromisetostayuntilyougrewup.”My mouth drops open.

“What?” Itneveroccurred tome that Jing would everleave. Familymembers can’t

decide they won’t be familyanymore.But of course, Jingis not family. He’s stayingbecausehepromisedMama.Noahnods.I look around Jing’s room.

Thewallsarethesameasthewalls inmy room.The floor.The doorframe. The closet.But the room is filled withforeignthings.“Why are you here?” I ask

Noah. “You came before the

quarantine,didn’tyou?”“We heard that it might

happen. Baba wanted meout.”“He was worried about the

plague?”“HewasworriedI’dstarve.”“Starve!”“Everything is closed off.

Nothing is allowed in. A lotof people think it’s away togetridofus.”

“Who wants to get rid ofyou?”“Peoplelikeyou.”“Me?Idon’twanttogetrid

of you. I just brought youfood.”“Notyou.”Who would want Jing to

starve?Jinghasmadealmostevery meal I’ve ever eaten.There was always enough. Icouldn’t stand it if Jingwerehungry.

Noah stops chewing.“What’sthematter?”Papa says you shouldn’t lie

to a patient, but you needn’taddtotheirworriesbypilingon your own. “I’m worriedaboutJing,too.”He sinks his teeth into his

sandwich. “My name inChinese is Choy, whichmeans ‘wealthy.’ When Igrowup, I’mgoing toownabankwith lots ofmoney and

freefood.”“ShallIcallyouChoy?”“Youshouldcallmebymy

Americanname.”I nod. “How are you going

to get the money for yourbank?”“I’m thinking on that.

MaybeI’lllearnincollege.”He’s going to college? I

can’tevengotocollege.“DoChinese people go tocollege?”

“Some,”hesays.“Some women go to

college,too.”He snorts. “Don’t tell me

youwantto.”“Ido.”I’veneversaiditout

loudbefore.His brow furrows. “It’ll be

hard.”“YouthinkI’mstupid?”“You’re not as smart as I

am.”

“What? That’s not a nicethingtosay.Howwouldyouknow,anyway?”“You’re a girl. You’ll get

married,likeallgirlsdo.”“I’m not getting married.”

Theflushrisesinmycheeks.“Wives have to do whatthey’retold.”“Maybe you could marry a

stupidhusband,and thenyoucouldmakeallthedecisions.”I frown. “What would I do

withastupidhusband?”“Ifyougottiredofhim,you

couldtakehimtoanauction.”“A stupid-husband

auction?” I ask. “Would theamountofmoneyyougotforhim be based on how stupidhewas?”“Yes, so you’d have to

prove his stupidity,” Noahsays.“Myhusbandissostupid…

hefillsthesaltshakerthrough

thelittleholesinthetop.”Noahgrins.“Maybeyouare

smartenoughforcollege. I’llhelpyouifit’stoohard.”“I’ll help you if it’s too

hard.”He laughs, then screws the

top onto the jar of peachesandhandsitback.“Keep it. In case you get

hungrylater.”He frowns at me. “Okay,

but … I just want you to

know, I don’t have girls forfriends.”“Whynot?”“Girlslie.”“Theydonot!Well,maybe

some,butnotme.Whywouldyousaythat?”“InChinatownthere’sagirl

wholies.”“That’s just one.Not every

girllies.”“I suppose not.” His eyes

search my face. “Are youtelling me everything youknowaboutBaba?”I meet his gaze squarely. I

want this boy to like me. Ihope he can’t see just howmuch.Butdoesn’thehavetolike me, because I’m whiteand he’s Chinese? “I don’tknowanything.”He wraps a thread around

histhumbsotightly,thefleshbunches out in little puckers.

“Your uncle Karl said he’dfindout.”“Iknow.Hewill!”“But you’re not sure,” he

finishesforme.“He said he would,” I

whisper. “I just don’t knowwhenexactly.”Noah weaves the thread

aroundtherestofhisfingers,and then pulls tight. “Youcould be my friend”—hiseyes are on his fingers—“if

you tell me a secret aboutyou.”“Andyou’lltellmeasecret

aboutyou?”“You already know one

aboutme.”I lean forward. “I want

another.”“Youfirst.”I take a big gulping breath.

“I don’t have any friends,” Iwhisper.

“Whynot?”“I don’t know. I’m just …

different. I don’t like whatthey like, and the second Iopen my mouth, I stick myfootintoit.”Itfeelsgoodtoletthisout.He sighs as if he knows

what this is like.“Is thatall?Because that’s nothing. Wecanfigurethatout.”“How?”He smiles his crazy smile.

“Is there one girl you likebetterthantherest?”“Notreally.”“Thereis.Therealwaysis.”“Well,maybe,”Iadmit.“Next time you go to

school, look around. You’llsee which one she is. Startwithher.”Inod.“Okay.Nowyou.”“InChinatown thereare six

companies that run theplace.

And there are six of us boyswholeadthekids.Ifyoueverneed anything from a kid inChinatown, say you’re afriendofSixofSix.”“Fine, but not that kind of

secret.Somethingpersonal.”“Oh,youmeanagirlsecret.

Idon’thavegirlsecrets.”“Itoldyouagirlsecret.”“Of courseyoudid.You’re

agirl.Minewasbetter.Minewasuseful.”

I laugh. “Come on. Youhaveone.Iknowyoudo.”“Okay.” He leans in and

whispers, “Idon’tknowhowtothrowup.”“What? Everyone knows

howtothrowup.”He shakes he head. “Nope.

Never done it. Don’t knowhow.”“You want me to give you

lessons?”Iask.We laugh. Pretty soon I’m

demonstrating and we’regiggling so hard, we’ve gotour hands over each other’smouthstokeepquiet.Istandup.I’vebeenonthe

thirdflooralongtime.Idon’twant anyone coming to lookforme.“Tell me the second you

hearfromUncleKarl,okay?”NoahwhispersasItiptoeintothe hall. “And, Lizzie …come back as soon as you

can.”

A

Chapter8

Mama’sDaughter

fter church, I hoveroutside Billy’s door.

Why is he still asleep?He’llbecrabbyifIwakehim,butIneedhishelp.

When I knock, he barks,“What?”“CanIcomein?”“I’msleeping.”I crack open the door. He

grabs his extra pillow andpullsitoverhishead.“Billy,Ineedyou.”“For what?” His voice is

muffled.“To takeme to Chinatown.

WehavetofindJing.”

“Why?”“He’s caught in the

quarantine. If we tell themhe’sourcookandhedoesn’tlive in Chinatown, maybethey’lllethimcomehome.”“You’remakingthisup.”I pluck the pillow off his

head. A purplish-red half-moon rings his left eye. Hislower lid is red and swollen.Thewhiteofhiseyeispink.“What happened to your

eye?”His hand covers his face.

“Ran into a doorframe,” hemumbles.I pull his hand away and

gentlyinspecthisface.“Where?”“Wherewhat?”“Wasthedoor?”“Don’t ask so many

questions.”“It’s onlyone.This doesn’t

looklikeitneedssutures.Putsomeiceonit,”Iadvise.“I’mnotgoingtotakeyou.”“ButwhataboutJing?”He pulls the pillow back

over his face. “What abouthim?Look,I’vegotthingstodo.Nowgetoutofhere.”Outside his room, I cross

my arms and stare down thedoor.JingtaughtBillyhowtojuggle, rideabike,andmakecoins appear out of thin air.

Jing played hide-and-seekwith us in the barn everynight before bed. Jing savedus the butter-frosting bowlevenwhenPapasaiditwasn’tgood for our teeth. Doesn’tBillycareaboutJingatall?I’m going to find Jing.

Mama would want me to. Iknowshewould.Thewagon is hard to hook

up.ShouldIride?I’magoodrider, but I don’t like

sidesaddles, and there’s notelling what Aunt Hortensewill do if she catches meridingbarebackagain.Ittakesmethebetterpartof

anhour toget theharnessonJohn Henry and the wagonattached the rightway. It’s afoggy, gray day, butmyhairis pasted down with sweatandmyjacket isgluedtomybackwhenI’mfinished.Still,I’m proud of myself. No

other girl at Miss Barstow’swouldbeabletoliftthecollarorattachthetraces,muchlessdrive a wagon or go toChinatown.This feeling lastsfor a minute and a half,before I realize that JohnHenry has to pull the wagonright by Aunt Hortense’shouse.Whatifshehearsme?What if I run into someonewho will tell her?What if apoliceman sees me? It’s not

against the law for a girl todriveawagonbyherself,butitisunusual.AndhowwillIgetJingout?

I should wait for Papa tocomehomeorforUncleKarltohelp.ButwhoknowswhenPapa will be back, and howmuch does Jing matter toUncleKarl?Itakeadeepbreath.IfIcan

give a little girl chloroformand set her broken arm,

surelyIcandriveawagoninbroad daylight on a Sunday.I’ll stay on the back streets.Noonewillseeme.Then, too, I’ve never

actually driven before, butI’ve sat next to Billy andPapaamillion times. I knowhowit’sdone.I climb up onto the wagon

andgive thewhipa tentativesnap. I don’t want to hurtJohn Henry. He doesn’t

move. I pop it harder …Nothing. I brandish it in theair and snap it back downwith a fierce crack, and thebig pinto plods forward,pulling the wagon onto thecobblestones.Ikeepthewhipcracking as we approach theSweetings’mansion,glancingbackatourhouse.CanNoahseeme?Ihopeso.It’s unusually quiet at the

Sweetings’. I’m pretty sure

Nettie,AuntHortense’s headmaid, has a staff meeting inthesecondkitchenrightnow.Thatmustbewhereeveryoneis.Whatperfecttiming!Ihaveabiggrinonmyface

when the huge front dooropens and Aunt Hortensehurries down the marblesteps.“Elizabeth!Whatinthenameof…”Ohno!Gallop,JohnHenry!

I lean forward, ready to takeoff. But Aunt Hortense willsend a servant after me.They’llcatchus,andI’llbeinevenmoretrouble.Ipullupatthegate.“What in the world do you

think you’re doing?” AuntHortense is standing on thegardenpathinherstockingedfeet,nohatonherhead.The butler appears behind

her carrying her jeweled

handbag,boots,andgloves.Thereisn’ta liebigenough

tocoverthis.“You harnessed John

Henry?”I can’t keep the smile off

myface.“Pleased with yourself, are

you?”Itryhardnottonod.“Lizzie!” Billy hurries

acrossthedriveway,oneboot

on, one boot off. “You weresupposedtowaitinthebarn.”Mymouthpopsopen.“William!” Aunt Hortense

stares him down. “She’sgoingwithyou?”Billy nods, then cocks his

head as if he and AuntHortense are in cahoots. “Ofcourse. You know howimpatientsheis.”AuntHortensefansherface

with her hand. “I most

certainlydo.”“ItoldherI’dtakehertothe

Emporium,” Billy rattles on.“Can’t you ever followdirections?”hesaystome.“William.” Aunt Hortense

walks closer. “Whathappenedtoyoureye?”“Ranintoadoorframe.”“Taller than you thought

you were, are you?” AuntHortenseasks.“I guess so.” Billy smiles

his charming smile, but itdoesn’tdothetrick.Notwiththe one red-rimmedmisshapeneye.“Uncle Karl knows about

youreye?”sheaskshim.“Yes,ma’am,” he says as I

scootoversohecanhopin.“Elizabeth, I won’t put up

with these kinds ofshenanigans. You aren’t alittle girl anymore.You’re tobehave like a youngwoman.

WhenWilliamsaystowaitinthe barn, you are to do asyou’re told. Should thishappenagain,Iwillinsistthatyou board atMiss Barstow’sor somewhere else that youwill like even less. Is thatclear?”Sheglowersatme.What’sworsethanboarding

at Miss Barstow’s? Prison?Billy nudges me with hiselbow,andIholdmytongue.“She’s sorry, Aunt

Hortense,”Billysays.“Yes, I’m sorry,” I say, as

stiffaspartypetticoats.“You’d better be.” Aunt

Hortense heads back to herhouse on tender feet, thebutler trailing behind her.Billy slaps John Henry withthe lines, and the big horseleaps forward. Billy doesn’tneedthewhip.“Changed your mind?” I

whisper.

Billy sighs. “I miss Jing’sbananapancakes.”“Thatall?”“Ofcoursenot.Howdoyou

know Jing’s in Chinatown,anyway?”A bareback rider gallops

past us. Stones and dust risein his wake. “Where elsewouldhebe?”

“

Chapter9

Quarantine

We would have heard ifsomething happened to

him,” Billy says. “And thepolice aren’t going to letanyone out of the quarantine

lines.”“Thepolice?”“Who do you think is

enforcingthequarantine?”I say nothing as we clip-clop by the weird pharmacywhere a coiled rattler sleepsin the window. They sellglass eyes and hook hands,besides all the medicines,whichclaimtoremedyeveryproblem you’ve ever had.Papa says most of them are

nothing more than sugarwater.“So, what exactly is your

plan?”Billysteersthewagonaround a horseless carriagestuckintheroad.“I’m going to tell them he

doesn’tliveinChinatown,helives with us. He doesn’tbelong in the quarantinedarea. Papa’s a doctor. HeneedsJing’shelp.”“We should mention Uncle

Karl,”Billysays.“I wish Papa were here.

He’dknowwhattodo.”Billysnorts.“Idon’t.”Papa wants Billy to go to

medicalschool,andhewon’ttakeno for an answer.EverytimeBillysayshemightwantto do something else, Papalooks like he’s gettingsurgerywithoutanesthesia.Papa doesn’t expect much

of me, so he’s often

pleasantly surprised. That’sonegoodthingaboutbeingagirl.“Why are you so mad at

Papaallthetime?”Iask.“I’m not mad at him; he’s

mad at me. Everything I dodisappointshim.”“Youusedtobenicer.”“Youdidn’tusedtobesuch

aGoodyTwo-shoes.”“I’mnot!”

“Oh, Papa, can you showmehowtocleanabedsore?”He makes his voice gooeyandhigh-pitched.“Idon’tsoundlikethat.”“Yes,youdo.”“Well, I’d rather go with

himthangotoschool.”“Still having trouble with

thosegirls?”Idon’tanswer.Wepasstwo

men in matching outfitsridingabicyclebuiltfortwo.

“You try too hard. That’syourproblem.Theycansmellitonyou.”Howdo you try not to try?

Ortryinawaysothatpeopledon’t think you’re trying?Why can’t people just saywhat they want and be whotheyare?“Hey,Billy!”Aboy,maybe

seventeen, with a plaid capand redcheekswaves tohimfrom the back of a wagon.

“Yousuregotathumpinglastnight.”Billy shrugs as a distant

boattootsitshorn.“Goingtomake my two bits backtonight, Oofty. You watch,”Billytellshim.“You’re fighting? Does

Papaknow?”Iask.“Not unless you tell him,

youlittlesquealer.”“I’m not a squealer. You

know I’m not,” I say as a

wagon loaded with woodturns down a side street. Afew blocks laterwe passDr.Jenkins’sMuseum,wherethehead of the world’s greatestbanditcanbeseeninabottle.Soontheairbeginstosmell

like burning rubbish. Blackpots placed every few yardsspew stinking smoke.Woodensawhorsesandropescirclethehaphazardcrowded-together buildings of

Chinatown. Chinese signs,Chinese characters, Chineselanterns, and foreignscrollwork—Chinatown is itsowncityinthemiddleofourcity.The police in their navy

coats and hard bell-shapedhelmets are out. I count fiveonhorseback,sevenonfoot.Inside the ropes of

Chinatown, crowds ofChinese wait for … what?

Most men have long braidsand wear baggy silk clothes.Someareinblackwithblackderbies, some have on brightcolors.The fewwomenwearfine embroidered robes andtrousers. Some men smoke.Some pace the ropes thatcordonoffChinatown.Iscanthecrowd.Onlyafew

men are in regular clothes,andnoneareJing.Inoticethedonkey-pulled hearse. When

rich men die in SanFrancisco, theygetacarriagedrawn by six white horses.Whenpoormendie, theygeta wheelbarrow ride or thedonkey-pulled hearse. Whenit passes us, I see that it’sempty.Afewminuteslaterawagon

full of barrels roll by.Strangely, the police let thatone out of the quarantinearea.

“Howdidtheydecidewheretoropeoff?”“Everything that’s Chinese,

theyquarantined.”“They think white people

can’tgetsick?”Billyshrugs.“Papa would be mad if he

sawhowthey’relockedin,”Isay.“Papa doesn’t knowhalf of

whathappensinthiscity.”

“Let’s get closer. Then wecan ask about Jing. What’shislastname,anyway?”Billy shakes his head.

“Maybe Jing is his lastname.”“We don’t even know,” I

whisper. Noah’s words flashinmymind.You don’t knowanything.Billy maneuvers the wagon

closer to the quarantine line,away from the cluster of

police.“Hey!”Icalltoalittleboy in a red silk jacket. “DoyouknowifJingisinthere?”The little boy hops on one

foot, then the other. “Jing?”heasks.“He’sourcook.”Theboyhopscloser.Aman

in a black derby scolds him,and the little boy scurriesaway. The other men insidethe rope stay away from theboundary. They ignore our

calls.A policeman on foot half-

runs toward me. “Move iton!”“Mr. Policeman, sir.” My

heart pounds in my chest.“Our cook lives with us. Hegot caught in the quarantineby accident. Could we gethimout?”“No one’s to go in. No

one’stogoout.”“Yes, but this was a

mistake, sir. Our uncle KarlSweeting is going to betalkingtoyouaboutit.”The policeman stops. “Mr.

Sweeting?He’s your uncle?”Hepeersatus.“Idon’tknownothingaboutthat.Myordersistokeepfolksoutofhere.”“Yes, sir.” Billy turns John

Henryaround.We walk around the

quarantine—farenoughawaythat the police don’t bother

us. Down a side street wepass officers drinking coffee.Ilisteninaswerollby.“You know anything?” a

policeman with a red beardasks.“When it’s going to end,

you mean?” the officer withhishelmetoffreplies.“Waiting on the monkey,”

thethirdofficerreplies.The second officer laughs.

“The monkey, is it? City of

fools,ifyouaskme.”“What monkey? What are

they talking about?” IwhispertoBilly.“Whoknows? It couldbea

code,oranickname.There’sa man named MonkeyWarren.”“But why would this

monkey man have anythingtodowithChinatown?”“It’s just talk.” Billy peers

down the block to the

barricade. “We’re not goingtogetanycloserthanthis.”In the distance I see a

painted dragon and largeblue-and-white porcelainvases outside a shop on adesertedstreet.Amanwithapole over his shoulderscarries loaded baskets oneachend.Billy circles John Henry

back.“Wetried,Lizzie.”“We can’t leave. Jing’s in

there.”“Maybe Jing has a lady

friend. Maybe he’s inBerkeley visiting his cousin.Maybe he told Papa he’d begone and didn’t tell us.Whyare you so sure he’s in thequarantine?”John Henry is moving

faster. He knows we’reheaded home. I guess that’sone good thing about amotorcar.Theydon’tgetbarn

sour.“Itjustmakessense,”Isay.“If you’re going to be a

scientist,you’regoingtoneedtoprovewhatyouthink.”“Iknow!”“Look.” Billy’s eyes are

kind now. “Stop worryingabout Jing, okay? He’ll beback.”I’ve lost the battle. Billy’s

going home. If only I knewthese policemen the way

Uncle Karl does.Wait. Do Iknow any policemen? Thatgirl Caroline, whose arm Iset. Wasn’t her father apoliceman?“Billy,wait here forme.” I

divefromthewagonseat.“Lizzie!No!LIZZIE!”Billy

shouts.I’mholdingmyskirtsup, running fast, jigging andjagging around a spittoon, atethered horse, a wateringtrough,andamountingblock.

Butwhen I turn the corner,where the policemen weredrinkingcoffee,they’regone.I keep running towardChinatown.The first policeman I see is

on horseback, walking theroped-offline.“Excuse me, sir. Sir!” I

wavetohim.“What are you doing out

here,younglady?”“Do you know where

OfficerJessenmightbe?”The policeman’s horse is

fidgety. He roots his head.“Jessen? He family ofyours?”“No,sir.He’safriendofmy

papa’s. But it’s important. Ineedtoseehim.”The policeman nods. “Stay

put.I’llgethim.”Hisskitteryhorse leaps forward. I glanceback,wondering ifBillywillwait, go home, or come find

me.Inside thebarricade, I seea

policeman start a bonfire inthe street; trash and beddingexplodeinflames.Thick orange clouds of

stinking chemicals rise.People cough, cover theirfaceswiththeirshirts.Scatterin all directions. A ring ofpolicemen surrounds the fire.Buckets of water appear.Sparks die downwith a hiss,

thenturntosmoke.Outside thebarricade, abig

policeman lumbers towardme.Caroline’sfather.“OfficerJessen!”Isay.He looksme up and down.

“You’re Dr. Kennedy’sdaughter.Aren’t you the onewhohelpedmylittlegirlwithherarm?”“Yes,sir.I’mLizzie.”Outofthecornerofmyeye,

I see Billy driving John

Henrydownthestreettowardus. He’s driving standing upand motioning for me tocome.“What’s the problem,

Lizzie?” Officer Jessen asks.“WhatcanIdotohelp?”“Our cook, Jing, is in the

quarantine. We need to gethimout.”Officer Jessen shakes his

big head. “If he’s in there, Ican’tgethimout.”

“But he doesn’t belong inChinatown.Heliveswithus.”“Thatisn’tthepoint.Ifhe’s

in the quarantine area, he’sbeen exposed. If we bringhim out here, he could getyou sick. Do youunderstand?”“Papa says the plague isn’t

here. He says this is all just—”“That’snotforustodecide,

Lizzie.YouandIdon’tmake

the rules, butwe surelymustlive by them. Now, how’dyougethere?Doyouneedaridehome?”I point to the wagon. “My

brother.”He nods. “You climb up

onto that wagon with yourbrotherandyougoonhome.Ifthisweren’tmyjob,I’dbenowhere near this place,believeme.”“But—”

“I can’t help youwith this.Now I need you to go onhome,youhear?”Ilookbackatthebarricade.

On the Chinatown side, amanisrunningbackandforthalong the ropes like a cagedanimal. One policemanshoutsathimtostop.Anotherwalks thebarrierwithabillyclub.A quarantine is to keep

infectious diseases from

spreading. But there are nodoctors or nurses here. Noone wears masks or gloves.There is no soap or water.Whatever this is, it’s notquarantinefordiseaseatall.

W

Chapter10

OrangeTom

henwegethome, theSweetings’uniformed

houseboys are carrying AuntHortense’s white antiquewriting desk, her chair, her

steamer trunk, her footbath,herquilts,herjeweledboxes,and silk pillows in throughourfrontdoor.Billy groans. “Aunt

Hortense is moving into thespareroom.”“What!”“Yep. To keep an eye on

you.”“Me?WhatdidIdo?”He rolls his eyes. “At least

she’snotmakingusmove to

her house. Remember whensheusedtodothat?”“WhataboutPapa?”“Apparently he’s not going

tobehomeforawhile.”IlookupatNoah’swindow.

HowwillIgethimhismealswith Aunt Hortensewatching?Billyunhooksthetracesand

takesJohnHenry’scollaroff.I sponge down his sweatmarks,pickupeachofhisbig

flat hooves to check forstones, and let him loose inhisstall.In our parlor, Papa’s chair

has been moved to makeroom for Aunt Hortense’sFrench horn, her letter-writing pens, her magazines,her Bible, and a bell to callMaggy.AuntHortensestandswaiting,dressed togoout, ina white dress with ruffles atthehem,thecuffs,andupand

down her bodice. She hasribbons in her hair and aparasolinherhand.“Why, Elizabeth”—she

grinds the tip of the parasolinto our rug—“where areyourpurchases?”I look at her, try to smile.

Whatisshetalkingabout?“Theonesyouboughtatthe

Emporium.”“Oh, those. I didn’t find

anything,”Isay.

“Is that so?” She stares atme,waiting.“There wasn’t anything I

liked.” I can feel my nosegrowing longer with everyword.“We got a call from the

police.YouandWilliamweretrying to get into theChinatownquarantine.”“No—”“Elizabeth!”shebarks.“We weren’t trying to get

in,” I whisper. “We weretryingtogetJingout.”“They said you were using

Mr.Sweeting’sgoodnametocurryfavor.”Billylooksatme.AuntHortensetapsmewith

her parasol. “I won’t be liedto.”“But Jing shouldn’t be in

there. It’s wrong. If Papawere here, he’d get him out.Wehadtodosomething.”

“In the first place,we havenoideaifJingisthereornot.And in thesecondplace,Mr.Sweeting has already agreedto help. Everything doesn’thappentheinstantyouwantitto, missy. But even moreimportant than all of that…what if they do have theplaguethere?”“WehavetogetJing.”“You listen to me, young

lady. Even without the

quarantine, Chinatown isdangerous. You have nobusiness going there, Jing ornoJing.Doyouhear?”HersterneyefallsonBilly.

“And as for you, MasterWilliam.” She taps herparasol on the rug, then thewoodenfloor,whereitmakesa more satisfying clack. “Iexpected more from you.Evidently neither of you canbe trusted. While your

father’s gone, I’ll be stayinghere so I can keep a closerwatchonyou.”“When’s he coming back?”

Billyasks.“Next week,” Aunt

Hortensesays.“Nextweek?”Iask.“He sentwordby telegraph

to theCall offices.There’s asmallpox outbreak. A familywith six children in SanRafael. He’s got his hands

full.”Papa has been immunized

againstsmallpox,andsohaveBilly and I, butnot everyonebelieves in immunization. Ifonly they did, then hewouldn’t have tobe away solong. Why couldn’t he justhave an office here, the wayDr.Roumaladedoes?I watch Aunt Hortense pin

her hat.Her calendar is jam-packed with entertaining,

committee meetings forcharity events, doing thebooks forUncleKarl and alltheresponsibilitiesofrunninga huge house with a staff ofthirty-five.Shewon’tbehereallthetime…willshe?“Mrs.Sweeting,whereshall

I stay?” red-haired, freckle-facedNettieasks.“In your own bed, Nettie.

Maggy can handle me, can’tyou,Maggy?”

AsmileflashesonMaggy’sface.“But, Mrs. Sweeting,

ma’am, Maggy is not aladies’maid.Shehasn’tbeenproperly trained,” Nettiegrumbles.“Well, then she’ll learn,

won’tshe?”“I’mtoteachher,then?”“That would be lovely,

Nettie.”

On my windowsill is mycollectionofgiftsfromJing.Irun my hand over a smoothblack stone carved withMama’s initials. There’s thewhitefeatherfromwhenIfelloff Juliet and the rhymingdictionary with my mother’sneat handwriting on theinside—Jing found that forme. On the end is the shell,with the word I misspelledfrom the spelling bee tucked

inside. Jing said yourmistakesteachyoumorethanyourvictories.WhereisJingnow?Maybe my note to Noah

should warn him to be extracareful because AuntHortenseisstayingherenow.Butwith theracketofallherstuff being moved in, not tomention her voice ringingthrough the house, he mustknow.InsteadIwrite:

We’veseenthequarantine.Monkeymakesthemwait…Willinvestigate.

There’sablockofcheeseinthecoldbox.Icutaslabanddrop it in my pocket. InMaggy’ssewingbasket,therewere spools of thread,whichI slipped intomy top dresserdrawer.OrangeTomisinmyroom, and I have his collar

off. I fold upmymessage toNoahuntilit’sthesamewidthasOrangeTom’scollar, thenwrapgreenthreadaroundthenote and the collar until thepaper is secure.OrangeTomscratches at the door of myroom, trying to get out, histail moving like a double-jointed finger. He smells oftunafish.I put his collar back and

carrythesprawlingcat to the

servants’ stairs, his back feethanging down. I break offbits of cheese and toss themup the stairs while stillholding the cat. The firstpiece falls short. It takes mefive triesbefore Imake it allthe way up to the landing.With five pieces of cheesescattered along the servants’stairs, I’m confident the catwillgowhere Iwanthim to.But when I release him, he

leaps across the hall anddownthemainstairs.Ittakesmethebetterpartof

an hour to catch him again.NowIclose the second-floorhalldoorsohecan’tescape.He runs straight up the

servants’ stairs to get awayfromme.I’m listening for Noah’s

door to open, when Billyappears. He squints at me.“What are you doing with

thatcat?”“Nothing.”“Why do you look so

guilty?”“Idon’tlookguilty.”“You’re hiding something.

Whatisit?”“Nothing.”Itrytogotomy

room, but he’s blocking thedoor.“Youmightaswell tellme.

You don’t want me to find

outonmyown,doyou?”“Billy, there’s nothing.” I

shovehimoutofmywayandslamthedoor.

I

Chapter11

TheMiracleofDogSpit

nthemorning,Irundownandfeedthehorsesandfill

their water buckets. Then Iconsider pretending to be

sick. But who wants to stayhome with Aunt Hortense?EvenMissBarstow’sisbetterthan a day spent writingthank-you notes with AuntHortense.How to get breakfast to

Noah?Jingmusthavefoodinhis room, but how much?Jingwasexpectingtobegonefor two hours, but it’s beentwo days. With Billywatchingmyeverymoveand

Aunt Hortense in commandof the drawing room, Icouldn’tgetNoahsupperlastnight.Luckily, Billy leaves for

school before I do. I onlyhaveAuntHortense toworryabout now. Down in thekitchen, the Sweetings’ chef,Yang Sun, has brought overcroissants and brioche, jamsand jellies, honey-butter,clotted cream, and long

baguettes baked with hamand cheese—more food thanwe could ever eat. I grab apitcherofwaterandwraptwocroissants and a brioche in atea towel, but when I gooutside,thecordisnotdown.In the dining room, Aunt

Hortense is drinking her teaand reading the morningpaper, with Maggy standingbeside her. “Ready?” AuntHortenseasks.

“No,” I say, and rushupstairs tomy room,where Ileave my bundle of pastriesand compose my message.After a few tries, I come upwith:There’s ameal.On thestair.Ifyoudare.ThenIgrabblue thread from the drawerand begin searching for theorange cat. I find him in thestableloft,curledupinabedof straw, next to a deadmouse.Heeyesmewarilyas

Iunbucklehiscollar,whichInow see has white threadaroundit.Noahsentamessageback!His message is written in

black ink on bumpy ricepaper. He has made a littledrawingofamonkey.

Themonkeyhasasecret.

What does that mean? Andwhat if Aunt Hortenseinterceptsthisnote?Howwill

Iexplainit?ThenIsmile.AuntHortense

is allergic, of course! Shewon’ttouchOrangeTom.It’sonly Billy I have to worryabout.I attach the new message

withbluethread.Thecat letshis muscles go limp. I carryhimdown the loft ladder,hislegsbumpingagainstmineasI make my way down therungs.Ilugthebigfatcatall

thewaytothehouse.Ipeek through thewindow.

The kitchen is empty. YangSun does his cooking in theSweetingkitchen.Oursistoosmallforhim.JustasIgetOrangeTomin

the kitchen, Aunt Hortensesashays across the coldstorageroomwithNettieandMaggy right behind her.Maggy is carrying a linenpouchfullofAuntHortense’s

hair. Each time Maggybrushes her hair, the hairsfromthebrushmustbesavedinthebag.She’skeepingittomake a hairpiece, should theneedarise.“Maggy,” Nettie says. “I’ll

takethatnow.”Maggy hands her the bag,

and Nettie scoots out thekitchendoor.Aunt Hortense looks up.

“Elizabeth, don’t you dare

bringthatdreadfulcreatureinhere.I’llbesneezingallday.”“Oh, I forgot,” I say as she

streaks into the dining roomaway from the cat, Maggyflying after her.NowMaggyhasateacupandsaucerandaboxofmenus.AuntHortensewrites twomenus every day,oneforthefamilyandoneforthe servants. She even plansoutteaandsnacks.If Aunt Hortense is doing

menus, she’ll stay put for awhile. I go back out andaround thehouse to the frontdoor, then dash up the stairswiththecat.ButjustasIdo,Nettiecomesback.“Didn’t you hear Mrs.

Sweeting?Nocats.”I pretend to clean the wax

out of my ears. “Oh, um,” Isay,andheadbackout.“BadenoughIgot towatch

that Maggy,” she grumbles.

“She’s been hearing things.She ain’t right in the mind,thatone.”OrangeTom tries towiggle

out of my arms, but I holdhimtight.“Whatthings?”“FromJing’sroomwhenhe

ain’tthere.”Oh,great.Nettie squints at me. “You

knowsomethingaboutthat?”“It’sjustthecat.Helikesto

goupthere.”

“Cat shouldbemade into ahandbag, if you ask me,”Nettiemutters.I wait until Nettie is gone,

thenmakeanotherrunupthestairs with Orange Tom. Inmy room, I get Noah’s teatowel-wrapped pastries. Iplace the bundle on theservants’ stairs, then toss thecheese up and close thesecond-floor hall door, soTomwillbe forcedup to the

third floor. If Aunt Hortenseor Nettie finds the briocheand croissants, I’ll say Iplanned to take them toschooltosharewiththeothergirlsandIforgotthemwhenIwas sitting on the stairsbutton-hookingmyboots.The water pitchers! If they

all disappear, it will besuspicious. I have toremembertobringthembackdown. It’s exhausting

thinking of lies AuntHortensewillbelieve.Butshecan’t find out about Noah.She’ll have him arrested,whether he’s Jing’s son ornot.

TodayatMissBarstow’s, thegirls are in the dining room.The topic seems to be themove to Presidio Heights.Miss Barstow has found afancier place for the school.

And everybody wonders ifthat means we’ll be wearinguniforms, which of courseleads to the topic of bustles.How big should they be?Whichonesrideupwhenyousitdownandwhichdon’t?Isitbymyselfasusual.My

bookandme.Forasecond,Ithink about what Noah said.Is there one girl I like betterthantherest?Nope.The girls giggle, the

metronome pings, a dogbarks, and the same threechords are pounded on thepiano. I try toconcentrateonthe story, but all I can thinkaboutisNoah.Thebarkingcontinues.Miss

Barstowwouldneverallowadog in the house. I walk outofthediningroomandupthethicklycarpetedstairs towardthe sound. If you’re caughthurrying, youmust recite the

classmotto,“Allthingscometohimwhowaits,”andfreezewhile everyone passes youby. At the very leastshouldn’t it be: “All thingscometohewhowaits”?In the geography room, old

maps cover the walls, woodfloors clack undermy boots,and the dunce cap waits forits next victim. Gemma isplunked down on the floor,crutches splayed out beside

her.“Gemma?Didyoufall?”Gemmabarks.“Wait.You’rethedog?”Gemma licks her hand, and

then rotates her arm aroundher ear, like a canine itchingwith its back leg. “Shhh,Gemma! If Miss Barstowhearsyou,she’llpitchafit.”“Adogbitmethismorning.

I have rabies.” Gemma tipsbackherheadandhowls.

“Rabies? You can’t getrabiesthatquickly.”“Howwouldyouknow?”“Myfather’sadoctor.”“Really?” Her arm drops

down.AllIknowaboutGemmais

that she often asks me whatI’m reading and the othergirlslikeheralot.I help her up and hand her

her crutches. She fits themunderherarmpitsjustasMiss

Barstowringsthebell.Gemma smiles. I look

around to see who has comeupbehindme.No one. She’s smiling at

me. I can’t help grinningback.“Time for dance class,” I

say.“Youliketodance?”I hate to dance. It’s worse

thanswallowingcodliveroil.Last week, when Gemma

wasn’t here, Miss AnnabellecalledmeHorseFeet,andthegirls all laughed. Why am Inodding?“MissBarstowsaysI’mnot

allowedto.”“You’re on crutches,” I

pointout.“So?”Iwanttotalktoheraslong

asIcan,beforetheothergirlsarriveandIbecomeinvisible.“Didyou reallyget bittenby

arabiddog?”“Itmayhavebeenmoreofa

hardlick.”“A hard lick?” I try not to

laugh.She leans in. “Can you get

rabiesfromdogspit?”Is this a joke?Every time I

laugh at something a girl atMiss Barstow’s says, I getweird looks. “I wouldn’tthink so … unless the doglicksanopenwound.”

Shelooksdownatherwrist.Hershouldersdroop.“You want rabies,

Gemma?”“No.” She plants her

crutchesandswingsherbodytomeet them.I followher tothe dance studio and standwith her. When the otherscome, I’ll lose this spot. Butnow only the little girls arehere.“Ring around the rosie,

pocket full of posies. Ashes,ashes, they all fall down.”Theycollapseinaheap.“Why do they fall on the

floorlikethat?”Iask.“They’redead.”“Fromwhat?”“Theplague.”“Nice,”Isay.Gemmalaughs.Istareather.She frowns. “What’s the

matter?”“Youlaughed.”“So?”I tip my head at the girls

streaming through the door.“Theyneverlaugh.”Her eyes look deep inside

me. “They’re all right,” shewhispers. “You should givethemachance.”I should give them a

chance?

“They’re not sure what tosay to you, that’s all,”Gemma whispers as MissBarstow swoops into theroomtobeginherlesson.“San Francisco is the Paris

of the Pacific, and everyyoungwomanmustknowthelanguage, thedances,andtheculture. French restaurantshave taken over the city.French clothes are all therage,andanyoneofusmight

marry a Frenchman with atitle—a duke or a baron.”MissBarstowsailsacrossthefloor,herbackasstraightasascalpel, her steel-gray hairtightly pinned. The mole onher lip is theonlypartofherthatseemsunplanned.“Listen, please, ladies,” she

says, but my eyes are onGemma.Evenwith the othergirls here, Gemma hasn’tbackedawayfromme.

“When a gentlemanapproaches you at thecotillion,whatmightyousayto spark a conversation?”MissBarstowasks.The weather, music,

hunting, his schooling. Theusualanswers.“I’d ask, were you a bed

wetter?” I whisper. But assoon as I do, I regret it.Mytongueislikeanenemyinmymouth.

Gemma peeks at me, eyessparkling.Ikeepgoing.“Noshamein

it,” I whisper. “GeorgeWashington was a bedwetter.”Gemmaflapsherhandover

her mouth to keep fromlaughing,justastheelocutionteacherpokesherheadinthedoor and motions to MissBarstow.“Hecouldhavebeen,”Itell

herwhenMissBarstowducksout of the room. “We don’tknow. What biographer isgoing towriteabout that?Oryoucouldaskyourgentlemanfriendwhatrunsinhisfamily—madness?Apoplexy?”“Whataboutthatcrazyaunt

locked in the attic?” Gemmaasks.“Everyfamilyhasone.”Hattiewiththepoutylipsis

watching. She can’t believeGemma is sharing secrets

withme.Miss Barstow is back. “Dr.

Roumalade is here for ourannual health examinations.Gemma, you’re first. Pleasegotomyoffice.”Hattieleapsacrosstheroom

to hold the door open. TwoothergirlswalkwithGemma.Miss Annabelle is running

theclassnow.We’relearninganewdance.Iwritedowntheinstructions in my notebook

to appear to be payingattention—a technique I useoften.When Gemma comes back,

I’ve faded into thewall. Sheheads straight forme. “Yourturn,”shesays.Why would I need an

examination? My father’s adoctor. Still, I’m stupidlyhappyGemmachoseme.

Dr. Roumalade has powdery

hands, a round head, cheeksas red as raw steak, and aslender mustache. He smilespleasantly. “Jules Kennedy’sdaughter,ifI’mnotmistaken.Andhowisyourfather?”“Fine,sir.”He slips his stethoscope

around his neck. “Iunderstand you’ve beenaccompanying him on hiscalls.” The flat metal diskpressesagainstmychestashe

listens to my heart throughtheconnectingtube.“Yes, sir.” How does he

knowthis?“He doesn’t have an

assistant?”“No,sir.”“I couldn’t handle my

practicewithoutone.”Ibristle.He’s inspecting my ears

now.Icanfeelhisfingerand

hear a whoosh sound insidemy ear. He looks into myeyes and peers down mythroat. “Interested innursing,areyou?”“No, sir. I’m going to be a

scientist.”He snorts. “You mean

you’llmarry a scientist. Anypersistent coughing, diarrhea,fever,headaches?”“No,sir.”Hewashes his hands in the

bowl Miss Barstow hasprovided. His examinationisn’t as thorough as Papa’s.“You,mydear,areashealthyasahorse.Iwillletyourauntanduncleknow.”“TheSweetings?Why?”“Goinghither andyonwith

allmannerofclientele.”“Whatdoes thathave todo

with Aunt Hortense andUncleKarl?”“With you accompanying

yourfatherthewayyouhave,heputsyouatrisk.”“No,hedoesn’t!”“Certainly you don’t

understand contagion, mydear.”My fingers curl into a fist.

“Myfatherdoesnotputmeatrisk.”“You think you know

everything, do you?” Dr.Roumaladepressesthetipsofhisfingerstogether.“Butyou

don’t.Thedangersarereal.”“Papa takes good care of

me.”Dr. Roumalade presses his

lips together. “Well… thankyou for calming GemmaTrotter down. She has quitetheimagination.”“She’sdoingfine.”“Yes.Now,yousayhelloto

your father for me. He’s agood doctor. It’s a shame hedoesn’t have a busier

practice.”Mycheeksburn.“Myfather

isdoingverywell.”“I always try to refer

patientstohim.”Right. Ifapatient isn’table

topay.Alotofhelpthatis.I count backward from ten

to keep from saying what Ishouldn’t.“All right, then, Lizzie.

We’redonehere.”

Miss Barstow must belisteningat thedoor,becauseshe comes right in. “Go tellKathryn she’s next. Quickly,please.”I’m just turning the corner

when I hear Dr. RoumaladetellMissBarstow:“You’ve got your work cut

out for you with that one,Sarah.”“It’stheage.”“Isuppose.”

When I get back to class,Gemma is in a huddle withHattieandtheothergirls.DoIdarestandwithher?It’s better to choose to be

alonethantotrytobefriendswith someone who doesn’twanttobeyourfriend.Igotomy usual spot, six feet fromeveryone else, though a tinypart of me knows that I’mtakingthechicken’swayout.“Lizzie!”Gemmawavesme

over. “Why are you overthere? C’mon with us,” shesays.

W

Chapter12

TheMysteryoftheChamberPot

hen Igethome, I runto the front yard,

where I have a clear viewofNoah’swindow.Theblind is

down, thewindowauniformgray. No gold cord hangsoverthetop.If only I could wish that

stupidcorddown.“Peanut.”I jump, Uncle Karl is

leaning against a tree, cigarsmoke swirling around him.Ishewatchingme?“What’s so interesting up

there?”“Nothing.”

“Nothing, huh?” He leanshischinonhishand.“What are you doing out

here?”Itrytoturnthetables.“WaitingforBilly,”hesays.

“Andyou?”“Lookingforthecat.”“The cat?” Uncle Karl’s

eyescutthroughme.My hands are shaking as I

search for Orange Tom.Uncle Karl is never in ouryard. Does he know

something?On the way back from the

barn, I spot a dead rat underthe hedge, so Orange Tommustbearound.Igouptomyroom.Idon’twanttorunintoUncleKarlagain.Upstairs, I begin thinking

about Gemma Trotter. Whywasshenice tome today? Isshe the person Noah said Ishouldlookfor,theoneIlikebetter than the rest? I can’t

wait to tell Noah whathappened. I won’t sayanything about Uncle Karl,though. I don’twant to scarehim.Ifocusonfindingwordsthatrhymewith“Gemma.”

TodayagirlnamedGemmaHadquiteabigdilemma.Shebarkedlikeadogwithbabies,Onaccountofshethought

shehadrabies.Atnineo’clocktheytalkedtothedoc.“It’sallinherhead”iswhathesaid.

Irundowntoseeifthecordisvisible.Stillno.In the pantry, I collect as

much food as possible, incaseIcan’tgetbackuptherefor a while. I fill a basketwith mason jars of pears,

peaches, applesauce, andolives, a hunk of cheese, arollofsalami,andhalfaloafofFrenchbread.And water. I fill a pitcher,

butitwon’tfitinthebasket.Imaketwotripstomyroomtogetitallupthere.JustasI’mcarrying the pitcher filled tothe brim, Aunt Hortenseappears.Inherhandisawadofdollarbills.“Maggy, dear!” she calls

down the stairs. “Can youiron these for me? I can’tstand to carry those filthythings all bunched up likethat.Elizabeth?Whatareyoudoing?Maggy filled that thismorning.”“I wanted more… in case

offire,”Iaddlamely.“Fire? Goodness gracious,

child,whatmakesyouworryaboutthat?”“Wetalkedabout itatMiss

Barstow’s.”She nods. “Speaking of

worrying, I talked to Mr.Sweeting. He’s working onfindingJing.”“Thankyou,”Isay.Sheshimmiesherhandsinto

hergloves.“You’regoingout?”“Trynottosoundsohappy.

Mrs. Luther Cumberbatch istaking me out driving in herveryownmotorcar.Awoman

with a driver’s license—canyou imagine? Yang Sunwillbringyoursupperover.”“Yes,ma’am.”“And, Lizzie… no trouble

whileI’mgone.”“Yes,ma’am.”She takes my chin in her

gloved hand. “Don’t justmoveyourlips.”Ilookherstraightintheeye.

“Notrouble,”Isay.

I carry the pitcher into myroomandclosethedoor,thenwatchoutthewindow.IhearthemotorcarbeforeIseeit.Itroars into the driveway, thenspits and gasps to a stop.Aunt Hortense climbs in,decked out in a pale greendrivingdressedgedinvelvet,herdarkhairglisteningunderher green wide-brimmed hattightly secured with a whiteveil. Mrs. Cumberbatch is

wearing a plaid driving coatand matching hat. AuntHortensewavestoherbutler,who cranks the motor again.The car sputters forward,lurchingthroughthegate.When they’re gone, I run

outside and check for thecord. It’s finallydown!Noahmusthaveseenherleave,too.Maggy ison the sideporch

in a cloud of dust, beating arug and grunting. The parrot

is on her shoulder. “Dirtywork. Dirty work,” Mr. P.chirps. Billy has gone offwithUncleKarl.Nobody notices me as I

make my stealthy trips,bringingsuppliestoNoah.When we get everything

inside and the door closed,wesmileateachother.“Howlongdoyou thinkwehave?”heasks.“Hardtosay.”

Isitonthechair.Hesitsonthebed.I fill him in on what

happenedatChinatown.“WetriedtogetJingout.”“YouandBilly?”I nod. “I talked to a

policeman. He was no help.ButUncleKarlisworkingonit.AuntHortensesaid.”Noah sighs, his brow

furrowed. “I know he’sthere.”

“Does he do magic showsfor people in Chinatown?” Iask.Hefrownsatme.“No.”Jing does magic shows for

Billy andme.Whywouldn’the do them for the people inChinatown?“Leaders don’t do magic

tricks,”Noahexplains.I try to imagine Jing as a

leader of people inChinatown. This is not the

JingIknow.“Ithoughtyousaidhewasa

translator.”He nods. “It’s a powerful

position. Hardly anyoneunder-stands the languageand customs of both sides.Chinese don’t understandAmericans. Americans don’tunderstand Chinese. Nobodytrusts anyone. It’s a bigmess.”“What did you mean, ‘The

monkeyhasasecret’?”“Baba must have told you

hisstories.”“Aboutanimals?”Henods.“Wheneverthere’s

a monkey, he’s a tricksterwith secrets up his sleeve.Youneverknowifhissecretswillhelpthegoodguysorthebadones.”“Arethereanyrealmonkeys

inChinatown?”He shakes his head.

“There’s a year of themonkey,butthatwasawhileago. This year is the year oftherat.”“The year of the rat. Who

pickstheseanimals?”He shrugs. “Somebody

made a calendar a thousandyearsago.”“Hey,” I say. “I wrote a

poem.Wanttosee?”IhandhimGemma’spoem.

He reads it carefully. “She

thought she had rabies?That’scrazy.”“Yes.”“Butyoulikeherbetterthan

theothers?”Isuckmylip,considering.“You do.” He nods, then

leans forward. “Have youwrittenapoemaboutme?”“Not yet.” He wants me to

writehimapoem!WhatwillI say? I get up and beginpoking around his room.

“What do you do in here allday?”“Read, mostly. Watch out

the window. Sew thebuttonhole strips. WhenOrange Tom comes up, weplay a game with a ball ofthread.”“Youplaywiththecat?”“Sure.Don’tyou?”“No. I don’t like the cat.

Hey,” I whisper. “How doyou…youknow?We’renot

allowed to use the second-floor toilet. It’s only forguestsandAuntHortense.”His face turns just slightly

red.“Iknowthat.”“Do you sneak out at night

toemptyyourchamberpot?”“No.”“Pouritoutthewindow?”I

stand up and slide across tothewindowtopeekundertheblind.What will the pee fallon?

“Disgusting.”“Store it up?” I turn back

aroundtosnifftheair.“Are you always this

nosey?”Igrinathim.“Prettymuch.”Hesighs.“It’snoneofyour

business.”“Well,thenI’llhavetofind

out,won’tI?”“How are you going to do

that? Follow me

everywhere?”I walk around the room

inspecting tea cups, bowls, avase.Hegrins.“Youdon’tthinkI

gointhere,doyou?”“You’ll have to go

eventually,”Isay.“Nope.I’mspecial.”“You know I’m going to

findout.”Hecrosseshisarmsandjuts

outhischin.“Youarenot.”Webothburstoutlaughing.“For a girl, you sure are

pushy.”“But you like me. We’re

friendsnow.”Igrinathim.He nods, his brown eyes

serious.“Youknowwe’renotallowedtobefriends.Notoutthere.” He points to thewindow.“We decide if we’re going

to be friends. Not them,” I

insist, though inside I’m notso sure. The world seemsmorecomplicatedthaniteverhasbefore.

N

Chapter13

BackwardDay

o lights are on at theSweeting house. Not

eventheroosterisoutofbedyet. I creep down to thekitchentoputtogetheraplate

of fried potatoes from lastnight, two oranges, what’sleftof thebread,anda jarofwater. With a full basket, Isneak halfway up theservants’ stairs, far enoughdown that Maggy or Noahwillnotseeme.Everybodyinthe world has to pee firstthing in the morning. Noahwillstealdowntothesecond-floorbathroom,andI’llcatchhim. If Maggy comes down

or Aunt Hortense comes up,I’ll tell them…itsbackwardday and I’mbringingMaggyher breakfast instead of theotherwayaround.IwaitsolongthatIdozeoff

on the stairs, waking with astart when I hear Julietwhinny.Up above I hear theclick-flap, click-flap ofMaggy’sloose-soledboots.Adoor closes, then opens. Isneakupthelastfewstairsto

seewhat’shappening.Out the hall window, the

sun is rising, a bright orangeball between fluffy grayclouds. Inside, it’s just thesameasitalwaysis,exceptawhite chamber pot is outsideMaggy’s door. Is it Noah’s?Is Maggy emptying it? ButMaggy doesn’t know aboutNoah.Maggy must put hers

outside her door while she

gets dressed, and then I’mbetting Noah pours his intohers.I try to imagine what it’s

like to have to be so carefulthat you can’t smack yourlips,talkinyoursleep,orhopout of bed. No coughing,laughing, or stepping on acreaky board. You can’tbreathe too loudly, open thewindow,orpeetoomuch.I decide not to leave the

foodnow.IshouldwaituntilMaggycomesdownfirst.I’mcarrying the basket down thestairs when I trip on the laststepandfallflatonmyface.Before I can get up, Billy

appears, his hair uncombed,hischinunshaved.He surveys the spilled

potatoes, watches as I chaseafter the orange that rollsacross the floor. “What areyoudoing?”

“It’s backward day. I wasbringingMaggybreakfast.”“Didn’tshewantit?”“Oh.Um.Sheatesomeofit

already,” I say, cleaning upthe mess, throwing it allhaphazardly back in thebasket.Billy’s left shoulder is

wrappedinatowel,heldtightwithhisrighthand.“Whathappened?”Iask.He unwraps the towel. His

shoulderisbadlybruised,andthere’s crusty brown bloodmaking it hard to see thewound.I reach out, but he steps

back.“How’dyoudoit?”“Justwokeupthisway.”He

winkswithhisgoodeye.I survey his clothes. He

hasn’tbeentobedyet.“Let’sgetitcleanedup.”Billy follows me into my

roomandsitsonmybed.Iset

the basket down on mydresser doily, pour waterfromthepitcherontoatowel,andgentlypatthedriedbloodaway. After the cleaning, itdoesn’t looksobad.Justonesnagglywoundlineandsomebruisingandswelling.“Needs stitches,” I observe.

I’ve never done sutures bymyself.IbetIcould,though.“I’lldoit,”Billysays.“Onyourself?”

“Sure. Could you get thesuturekit?”I run down to get the kit,

along with ice, a clean rag,towels, and a bandage roll.Jingstacksthecleanrollsinatin box. I never realized justhow much Jing does for us,untilnow.Doesheknowhowmuchwemisshim?“Thanks,”BillysayswhenI

bringthesuppliesbacktomyroom.Helaysa towelonthe

bed. I watch him clean thewound area with a rag. Heices the skin around the cutand then threads the sutureneedle. He takes a deepbreath, his needle handwavering, then sticks it intotheskinandpullsthrough.Ican’twatchthisanymore.I

sit down next to him on mybedand take theneedle fromhim.“Canyoucough?”Henods.He’sseenPapado

this trick asmany times as Ihave. A cough distracts apatientfromthepain.“Onthecountofthree.One,

two,three.”Hecoughs,andIsticktheneedlein.Ipullthethreadthroughand

tieitoff.“Howwasthat?”“Notbad.”He breathes in, I count, he

coughs,andIsticktheneedlein. I’m glad he needs onlyfivestitches.WhenI’mdone,

he takes the thread fromme,cuts it, splits it in half, andtiesitoff—allwithonehand.He could be a doctor if he

wantedto.“Do you want me to

bandageit?”Iask.He nods, and I begin to

wind Jing’s bandage aroundthestitches.“Notsotight,”hewhispers.Iloosenthewrap.

When I’m done, he shootsmeoneofhisglitteringBillysmiles, and I hope, hope,hopetheoldBillyisback.Gently, I inspect his black

eye. It’s healing nicely.“Billy? Why are you soangry?”“Why are you sneaking

aroundthethirdfloor?”Iswallowhard.“I’mnot.”I

try to keep my expressionneutral.

“Okay, then,” he whispers.“I’m not angry, and you’renot hiding something on thethirdfloor.”“I’mnothidinganything.”“UncleKarlthinksyouare.”My stomach drops. “He

does?”Billy nods. “There’s a cat

with kittens up there, right?”Hestandsup,readytoleave.“Right.”

Billy laughs. “Orange Tomhasbeenbusy.”Inodtooenthusiastically.“Everybody has secrets …

evenOrangeTom.”“Papa doesn’t believe in

secrets,”Isay.“Papaisagoodman.”“Whyareyousomadathim

allthetime,then?”Billy shrugs. “He expects

toomuch.I’mnotlikehim.”

“I’mnotlikehim,either.”“You’remorelikehimthan

I am. I’m like Mama. Sheliked to have fun.WithPapayouhavetodotherightthingevery minute of every day.Heneverletsup.”After Billy leaves, I wait

until Maggy comes down.ThenIputthefoodout.NoahwillgetitbeforeMaggygoesback up to her room. Buteven if he doesn’t, I’ve

already explained that this isbackward day. I’ll say I leftthe food for her. It’s worththerisk.Noahhastoeat.

The Sweetings’ stable boy,Ho, drivesme to school, butdrops me off in the wrongplace and I have to go backaround. Jing always knowsthe right way to doeverything. Strange how youassume everybody does, and

then you realize, no, it’s justJing.By the time I get there,

Gemma is sittingwithHattielike always. If I go back tomyold table, everythingwillbe the way it always hasbeen.I’llneverhavetoworrythatI’vesaidthewrongthingor that Gemma likes Hattiebetter thanme.My feetwalkmebacktomyoldspot.Iamabigchicken.

“Lizzie!” Gemma hopsover, not bothering with hercrutches,andplunksdowninthe chair beside me. Hattiedoes an arabesque and thenslides into the seat on myotherside.“We’re going to Ocean

Beach after school. Can youcome?”Gemmaasks.Iopenmymouthtosayno.

Ihaveotherthingstodo.“Prettyplease.”Sheputsher

hands together like she’spraying.Theothergirlswatchme, not sure why Gemma’sactingthisway.“You’ll ride with me,”

Gemmaannounces,as if I’veagreed.“We’llpickyouupatthree.”HowwillIspendthewhole

afternoon with them? Whatwillwetalkabout?Ican’tdothis, butmy head is noddingyes and my mouth is saying

“Thankyou.”

When I get home, I head forthe Sweeting house to findUncle Karl. It’s been threedays.HemusthavefoundoutsomethingaboutJingbynow.I can’t tell Noah there’s nonewsagain.UncleKarl is out, butAunt

Hortense ishereworkingherarithmometer.She looks up from the

brown box. “You needsomething?”“Has Uncle Karl found

Jing?”“Not that I know of. But,

honey, don’t you think Jingwouldhavegottenwordtousif he were stuck in thequarantine?”“Howcouldhe?Theywon’t

letanyoneout.”“Jing is a resourceful man.

He’d have found a way. I’m

just wondering if he gotanotherjob.”“Anotherjob?NotJing!”“Ithappens,”AuntHortense

says.“You don’t want him to

come back. You think he’sinfectious.”“Of course I want Jing

back.”Iwatch her as she flips the

pageintheledger.

“Is itokay if Igo toOceanBeach this afternoon? ThegirlsfromMissBarstow’sareall going. Gemma Trotter’spapa is driving us in theirhorselesscarriage.”Aunt Hortense looks up in

surprise. A smiles sneaksacross her lips. “That wouldbefine.Havefun,Elizabeth.”

M

Chapter14

AstralDog

r. Trotter beams as Iclimb into his

motorcar.Hewipesdownthedust that accumulated on hisdrivetomyhouse.Motorcars

are stinky, slow, andunreliable. Horses will getyou where you want to go,safely and on time. Theywon’t run you into a brickwallthewayabrainlesshunkofmetalwill.I sit in the back between

Gemmaandhertwinbrother,Gus. Gus has the same red-blond hair as Gemma, buthe’s tall and thin, with aprominent Adam’s apple. I

can’t help grinning. Gemmachose me to drive with!Hattie isn’t even here.Gemma chatters the wholeway there, but I can hardlyhear over the racket of themotorcar.At the Cliff House, the big

restaurant above the beach,Mr. Trotter jumps out tocheck the tires, and we pileout.“Gus?” Mr. Trotter stands

up,oneeyestillonthetire.“Ithought you were comingwithme?”Gus’s eyes are glued to his

bootlaces. He blushes asplotchyred.Mr.Trotter looks fromGus

to me, then to Gus again.“Look after the girls, wouldyou, Son? Meet me at thefront entrance at half pastfour.”Gemma is so excited, she

races on her crutches. “Waituntilyouseethis!Justwait!”When she gets to the stairs,she places her crutchescautiously on each step, thenhopsdown.Gus follows, his hands

shoveddeepintohispockets.Downontheboardwalk,we

walk by match peddlers,bootblacks, singingnewsboys, and the rows ofcages of Johnnie-the-

Birdman. Johnnie-the-Birdman has singing birdsandacanary thatpullsa tinycannonstring,whichmakesapopgun sound. Another birdpretends to fall over dead.Gusand I laugh,butGemmapulls us along. She hassomethingelseinmind.Thewindwhipsmyhat,my

boots sink into the sand, theCliff House band oom-pah-pahsbehindusasapurse-size

dog chases a rat under theboardwalk. Gemma stays onthe wooden walkway, as farfrom the rat as possible. Rator no rat, she can’t managesandwithhercrutches.Up ahead, a small crowd

formsarounda tallmanwithdark hair and a long nose,who is standing on amakeshift stage.Hattie and afew of the other girls fromMissBarstow’sstandnearthe

front.ASTRALDOG,thesignsays,

between pictures of celestialplanetsandshootingstars.“He’s here!” Gemma hops

onheronegoodfoot.The man on the stage is

wearingapurplevelvetsuit,ablue plaid vest, and shinypointy-toed blue shoes. Anill-fitted bowler hat isperched on his head. “Comesee the world’s only

matchmaking canine,” hecalls.Astral Dog is a small

brown-and-white terrierdressed in a blue cape and ablue turban with cutouts forhis small furry folded-overears.“Ifyour true love is among

us,AstralDogwillfindhim.”The little dog dances on hishind legs. “He, and only he,will recognize your future

betrothed.“Butsometimes,sadly,your

true love is not here.”AstralDog’sheadsinkslow,histailgoes down between his legs,hisdogshouldersslump.“If you are not lonely—if

youhaveneverbeenlonely—walkonby,sir.Walkonby.”Astral Dog jumps off thestage to work the crowd,standingonhishindlegs,histurban held in place with a

ribbon strap. The velvetmanfollows behind, collectingnickels.Gemma’seyesareonaboy

with a thick blond thatch ofhair,blueeyes,andbigwhiteteeth.Hattiehurriesovertowhere

we stand on the boardwalk.“Spencer,”Hattiewhisperstome as the boy drops hisnickel into the velvet man’shat.

Gemmagrabsmyarm.“Wehave to get tickets,” shewhispers.“I already have,” Hattie

says,anddoesapirouette.“You go ahead,” I tell

Gemma.Theycangettickets.I’lljustwatch.“But more often than not,

lonely people are broughttogether and two heartsbecomeone.”AstralDogandthe velvet man return to the

stage. He brings his armstogether,formingaheartwithhis hands, and I slink backinto the crowd away fromHattieandGemma.The dog sits up, one ear

cocked to the sky. “If youwish to meet your soul’smatch, your heart’scompanion, it costs but anickel. Think of it … Anickel, little lady, can alterthecourseofyourentirelife.”

AstralDogjumpsdownandbegins to dance in front ofGemmaTrotter.Gemma’scheeks flush.She

unties a corner of her hankieand takes out two nickels.“For us.” She looks around,then points me out to thevelvetman.“Gemma!”Icry.Too late.Thenickelsare in

the hat and the man hasmovedon.“Thelistofhappy

couples, matches divined byAstral Dog.” He unfurls alongscrollofnamesinwildlyintricatehandwriting.Gemma motions for me to

comeback.I’mstandingnexttohernow. “Don’t youwanttodance?”shewhispers.IthinkI’mgoingtobesick.“How are you going to

dance?” I whisper. I’mworried about Gemma, butI’m more worried about me.

Everyonewillsee.Hattiewillmake fun of me. Gemmawon’twanttobefriendsafterthat.“I’llbefine,”Gemmasays.Morepeoplecrowdforward.

Even the balloon man offersup a nickel, balloonsdippingandbobbingashedigsitout.The velvet man’s hat clinkswithcoins.“Yes,thetimehascome, ladies and gentleman.The celestial bodies are in

alignment.”Withadramaticflourish,the

velvet man produces a tinydog-size desk and a minicrystal ball from a largevelvetbag.Hesetstheballonthedeskandplacesthedog’sred throne frontcenterof thestage.Astral Dog hops onto his

throne to peer at the crystalball,andtheaudiencecheers,thrilled the show is

beginning.Having seen the match in

the crystal ball, Astral Dogwinds his way among us,sniffing our boots. He stopsin front of a lady with a hatthesizeofasmallhouse,butwhen she offers the dog herticket, he moves on withouttaking it and heads straightforGemma.“What is your name,

please?”thevelvetmanasks.

“But I don’t want to befirst!”“Theactsofprovidenceare

beyondourcontrol.”“Gemma Trotter,” she

whispers.“Gem-ma!Gem-ma!”Hattie

and the other girls clap andchant. The whole crowd iscalling.Gemma screws up her face

like she’s swallowing badmedicine. She takes a big

bravebreath,openshereyes,andoffershertickettoAstralDog. The little dog takes itdelicately between his teeth,and then follows the velvetman back to the desk,watching the man as hedescribesthedifficultprocessofdiviningcelestialmatches.Then the man and the dogwalkupanddownthelineofboys with tickets in theirhands.

When Astral Dog reachesSpencer, the dog sits, cockshis head, and waits forSpencertotaketheticket.Aha!Gemma’s secret looks

in the direction of Spencerhavenotgoneunnoticed.The velvet man plays his

harmonica, but Spencerdoesn’ttakeGemma’shand.“He don’t know what to

do,”someoneshouts.“Dance around her,” the

balloonmansuggests.“Takeherhand.”“Go on, now. Just dance!”

The calls come from allaround.But Spencer stands, as

stupidasahitchingpost.The crowd begins to

murmur. Nobody likes this.Finallythevelvetmansignalsthe dog, who does a dancearound Gemma. When theharmonica stops, Spencer

can’t get off the stage fastenough.Gemma’s eyes fill up. She

bitesher lipandstaresatherboots.Ileapontothestagetogive

Gemmahercrutches,butjustas I do, Astral Dog turns tome,his tailwaggingsohard,itdragshisbottomwithit.“Astral Dog has found his

next happy couple.” Thevelvet man is eager to move

on.Noonewillpayformoretickets after a match likeGemmaandSpencer’s.“Lizzie.” Gemma blinks

back her tears and grabs myhand.“That’syou.”Myfaceflushes.I’mtootall

for the boys. My feet arelargerthantheirsare.“But,Gemma,”Iwhisper.“I

can’tdance.”Gusglances atme.Gemma

frowns.“Don’tbesilly.”She

snatchesmyticketandoffersit to Astral Dog—whochompsithappily,thenworkshis way through the payingcustomers and stops in frontof Gus. Gus steals a look inmy direction and thenmotionstothevelvetman.Thetwoconferinwhispers,

and then the velvet man’shead pops up. “Sadly,” hesays,“thedancecannotoccurdue to unforeseen

circumstances.” The crowdbegins to boo, but the velvetman cries, “And yet thematch remains strong.” Gusbowstome,salutingwithhishat.ItrytocurtsyasGemmaclaps.Gus’s manner is polite and

kind, and the crowd’s boosturn to whistles and claps.Astral Dog does his dance,andthevelvetmanmovesontothenextmatch.

Gemmapointshercrutchather brother. “What was thatabout?”Gus’s eyes find mine, then

dart away. “I didn’t feel likedancing,andneitherdidshe,”he mutters, pink all the waydownhislongneck.We walk back to the Cliff

House, where men in strawboater hats are drinking andlaughing. While we’rewaitingforMr.Trotter,alady

dressedinpinkburstsoutthedoor of the restaurant,followed by a small sourman.Herfaceisflushed.Shefans herself wildly. “Air. Alittle fresh air and I’ll befine.”Shetriestosmile.Thensuddenlysherushesovertoapottedpalmandthrowsup.Stomach flu? Food

poisoning? An allergicreaction? If only Papa werehere.He’d knowwhat to do.

I’m trying to think how tohelp,whenMr.Trottercomesout. He takes in the scenewith his quick eyes. “Let’sgetoutofhere,”hebarks.

W

Chapter15

DohJe

hen Igethome,AuntHortense is in our

drawingroommakinglistsofwho tocall for thechildren’sbazaar. “How was Ocean

Beach?”“Fine.”“That’s all you’re going to

say?”“I had a nice time with

Gemma.DoyouknowwhereUncleKarlis?”“In his study, but approach

him at your own risk. He’snotinthebestofmoods.”“Shall I wait until

tomorrow?”

“Youcould,buthe’sgothisbig newspaper luncheontomorrow. Day aftertomorrow is myrecommendation.”“That’stoolate.”She shrugs. “Don’t say I

didn’twarnyou.”Iwalkovertothebighouse

and upstairs to Uncle Karl’slarge high-ceilinged office.On one wall he has dowelswith newspapers hanging on

them. The Chronicle, theCall, the Examiner, andChung Sai Yat Po, theChinese newspaper. Onanother wall, he has awardsand photos of him withfamouspeoplesuchasLelandStanford,GovernorGage,andPresident McKinley. UncleKarlknowseveryone.Onthebackwall arephotosofS&SSugar and big blocks ofmovable typewith his name,

Aunt Hortense’s name, myname,andBilly’sname.“Peanut”—helooksupfrom

the paper—“are you comingto visit me, or do you needsomething?”If I say I’m here to visit

him,I’maliar.IfIsayIwantsomething,I’malouse.Uncle Karl seems to know

myanswerbefore I openmymouth. “Because, you knowwhat, I get tired of being a

screwdriver.”“Icanseewhy,sir,”Ioffer.“Can you?” He straightens

theinkblotteronhisdesk.Inod.“And you’ll remember that

in the future, but today youneedsomething.Youwanttoknow if I foundoutanythingaboutJing…AmIright?”Istaredownathisbearskin

rug.

“He’s vanished, so far as Icantell,”UncleKarlsays.“He’s not in Chinatown?”

Myeyelidbeginstotwitch.“I’ve let Mrs. Sweeting

know she is to begininterviewingcooksforyou.”“What?”“YangSuncan’tcontinueto

cookforbothhouseholds.”“But Jing is in the

quarantine.”

“Howexactly doyouknowthis?”I’dlovetotellhimhow.But

ofcourseIdon’t.“Ijustthinkhe is, that’s all.Anyway, thequarantine is supposed to beover soon, so he’ll comehome.”Imakethisup.“It is, is it?” He smiles. A

nice smile? Or a mean one?“You’re an authority on thesubject?”“They were waiting on the

monkey,”Iexplain.He stubs his cigar in the

ashtray. “You don’t knowwhat you’re talking about,Lizzie. And where did youhearaboutthatanyway?”“Idon’tknow.”He snorts. “You don’t

know? Wise to keep yourmouth shut, if you knownothingaboutasubject.”“Tell me about the

monkey.”

“There’snothingtotell.”Icockmyheadand lookat

him. “Why are you sogrumpyaboutit,then?”“Don’t stick your nose

where it doesn’t belong,Lizzie,”hebooms.“Yes,sir.”Hehangsuponenewspaper

and takes down another. Hisbackistome.Boy, was Aunt Hortense

ever right. No talking to

Uncle Karl when he’s in amood. I head downstairs,grindingmyteeth.But why did me asking

about the monkey make himso angry? And besides that,theycan’thireanewcook.AnewcookwouldliveinJing’sroom.ThenwhatwouldNoahdo?Inmyroom,IlookatJing’s

presentsagain.WhatifJingisreally gone? I’ll never get

another gift from him, mybirthday cakes will havenothing inside, and I willnever have another bananapancake.I findmy fountain pen and

paper. Noah will help mefigurethisout.

Egad,ourmonkeymadehimmad.WhatdoesKarlknow?Ishefriendorfoe?

IdecidenottomentionwhatKarl said about interviewingfor anewcook. Idon’twantNoah to think all girls areliars, but hemight panic if Itell him. I need to talk toAunt Hortense. She’ll bedoing the interviewing.She’sthe one I have to get onmyside.First,findthecat.Iheadout

to thebarnandclimbupintotheloft,wherehe’scurledup

in the corner, his usual spot.Thethreadcoloronhiscollaris yellow. A message fromNoah!Iunwrap thericepaperand

slip it out. It has Chinesecharacters this time.And thewords“Dohje.”Doh je? What does that

mean? I pocket his note andattachminewithblue thread.Then Ihaul thecatdown theladder.Hesquirmsoutofmy

arms,leapsintothehaystack,shoots across the barn, andjumps onto the dividerbetween the stalls, which hewalkslikeanacrobat.Ilungeforhim;thetipsofmyfingersgraze his fur. He streaksacross to the chicken coop. Ichaseafterhim;heruns,thenstops and watches me. Hiseyestrackmyeverymove.I stalk himuntil I get close

enough to scoop him up. He

allows himself to be caughtonly when he’s good andready. I run into the kitchenfor cheese, then carry himinto Papa’s library, where Ithink there is a Chinese-English dictionary. With thecheese, the cat, and thephrasebook, I head back tomyroom.The cat stands by the door

while I page through thedictionary. “Doh je” means

“thankyou.”IlookforafewotherwordswhileI’matit.Uncle Karl said he didn’t

like being a screwdriver. Iwouldn’tlikethat,either.Butwhenyouhelpafriend,itjustfeelsgood.

A

Chapter16

MonkeyintheGarden

t breakfast, I cornerAunt Hortense. “Are

you really going to hire acooktoreplaceJing?”

“Oh,Elizabeth…”“Mama hired Jing. He’s a

part of our family. Shewouldn’tlikeit.”Aunt Hortense’s hand

freezesonherteacup.“WhenMr. Sweeting asks me to dosomething, I do it. Yourmama of all people wouldunderstand that. One day,you’ll get married, and thiswillallmakesensetoyou.”“I’mnevergettingmarried.”

AuntHortenselaughs.“Talkto me in five years. Yourmama and I were nevergetting married, either. Youcan see how that workedout.”“How do you know Jing

isn’tcomingback?”“It’s a quarantine. People

insidehavebeenexposed.”“Not if there is no disease.

Besides, what kind of aquarantineisit,ifthereareno

doctors, no gloves, nomasks?”Aunt Hortense dabs at her

mouthwithhernapkin.“Howwould you know what aquarantine is supposed tolooklike?”“Papa wears protective

clothing when he treats aninfectious patient. I’ve seenit.”“PreciselywhyIdon’twant

yougoingoncallswithyour

father.”“ButIlovegoingwithhim.”“I know.” Aunt Hortense

sighs.Herfacesoftens.“Verywell. I’ll put this off untilyourpapagetshome.Butdome a favor and keep thisbetween you and me, allright?AsfarasMr.Sweetingis concerned, I aminterviewing.”“Thank you,” I whisper,

leapingupfromthetable.I’m

abouttohugAuntHortense.“Elizabeth, did you ask to

be excused?” she barks. Icometomysensesinthenickoftime.

When I get home fromMissBarstow’s that afternoon, thecoaches, buggies, carriages,motorcars,andbicyclesbeginto arrive at the mansion,bringing the guests for thenewspaper luncheon. Only

men work in Uncle Karl’snewsroom. If there were awoman reporter, I could askher why Uncle Karl got somad when I brought up themonkey. Was he trying topick a fight, or did themonkeyreallymatter?Ibetithas something todowith thenewspaperwars.WhenUncleKarl’s Call doesn’t sell aswell as Mr. Hearst’sChronicle, itputsUncleKarl

in a foul mood. Could “themonkey”beacodename fora man who gives them tipsabout stories? Maybe one ofhisreporterswilltellme.I need to go to that

luncheon.Buthow?I could borrow one of

Maggy’s uniforms andpretend to be a maid. ButUncle Karl or Nettie wouldrecognize me. Even if theydidn’t, would any man

answer a serious questionposedbyaservinggirl?Icouldhidebehindapotted

plantandhopetohearwhatIneed. But what are thechances that themonkeywillbediscussed?ThereisonlyonewayIcan

thinkof:togoasmyself.Ipeer throughahole in the

shrubberyandseethemeninsmall groups, drinkingglasses in hand. Nettie and

hermaidsareservingcanapéson silver trays.UncleKarl isdeepinconversation,anunlitcigar in one hand and awhiskyglassintheother.I walk boldly up the path.

ThisistheSweetings’garden.I’mnotafraid.“Whatdowehavehere?”A

man with a huge mustachesmiles.“Karl has a daughter he

never told us about?” asks a

jollymanwithabigrednose.I smile, then give my best

curtsy. “I’m Mr. Sweeting’sniece, and I have a questionforyou.”Uncle Karl’s voice rises

abovethedin.“Why,Peanut,say hello to the boys. Boys,this is my niece, ElizabethKennedy.”“Hello.”Iwave,thencurtsy

again.Uncle Karl is headed my

way, his watch chainjangling. “What can I do foryou,mydear?”“I was just wondering”—I

look around at the menwatching me now—“ifanybody knew about amonkey or a man namedMonkey.”Several sets of eyes turn to

UncleKarl,who takes a biteoutoftheendofhiscigar.“MonkeyWarren’sdead,”a

thin man with a square headsays.“She’s saying we’re

monkeys,” a man with a bigbelly, striped trousers, andshoeshalfoffhisfeetshouts.Iknowhim.ImethimwhenIwent to Uncle Karl’s office.HisnameisPeter.All the men laugh. Uncle

Karl’sarmshootsaroundmyshouldersashe tries tousherme into the house. “Lizzie,

now,don’tworryyourprettylittleheadaboutthis.”I duck out from under his

arm and plant my feet. “Idon’t have a pretty littlehead.”Themenroaratthis.“She doesn’t have a pretty

little head.” Peter winks atUncleKarl.“I’d like to know what’s

happening,”Idemand.Uncle Karl laughs. “Help

meouthere,boys.”“The monkeys are in the

jungle,”somebodyoffers.Now a skinny man in a

moleskin waistcoat hopsaround with his hands in hisarmpits. Everyone claps andhoots.Behind me I hear a quiet

voice. “Do they know whathappenedtothatmonkey?”I turn to see a big man—

about three hundred pounds,

with thick spectacles set intohischeeks.He’stalkingtothemanwiththebigmustache.I’mabouttocornerhim,but

Uncle Karl is too fast. Heslips his arm around meagain. “They’re just playingwith you, Peanut. Come onnow. No more foolishness.Yourauntwillhavemyheadifshefindsyouhere.”“It’s just one question,” I

plead.

“Elizabeth.” Uncle Karlleansin.Hisvoiceislowandhard.“That’senough.Donotstick your nose where itdoesn’tbelong.”

D

Chapter17

AHundredandOneRules

o they know whathappened to that

monkey?Iheardthatmansayit. I heard it with my own

ears.Whatdidhemean?I’m so upset, it’s hard to

think straight. My pencilhelpsmeclearmyhead.

Thementriedtohideit.UncleKarldeniedit.ButIheardthebigmanAskaboutamonkeyplan.

I find the orange cat andattachthemessage,thenwait,hoping the cord will come

down.IneedtotalktoNoah,not just send him messages.Besides, he must be tired ofpeachesandsalami.Heneedssomethingwarmtoeat.Aunt Hortense is on the

telephone in the drawingroom, talking about parlormeetings and women gettingthe right to vote.Why is sheon our phone? She spendsmostofthedayatherhouse.Whenshegetsoff,Istareat

her. She sees the question inmyeyesandturnsaway.“I trust you’ll keep my

business to yourself,” shesays.In his column, Uncle Karl

hasbeenpokingfunat ladieswhoaretryingtogetthevote.Could Aunt Hortense behelpingthem?Impossible.Aunt Hortense rings for

Maggy tocarryherpapers to

the Sweeting house. I watchasMaggy follows her acrossthe way. Aunt Hortense hasbeen depending on Maggymore and more. Nettiedoesn’t like this. Yesterday,Nettie tracked dirt ontoMaggy’scleanfloorandthenscoldedMaggyfor it in frontofAuntHortense.With Aunt Hortense gone,

Noah’s cord comes down,and I head straight upstairs

with my basket. In it arepancakes, a roast beefsandwich, jars of water,caramels from Ocean Beach,andthepoemIwroteforhim.I can’twait to show him hispoem.Noah’s eyes light up when

he sees me. “Tell meeverything,” he says as Isettleintomyusualchair.Itellhimaboutthemonkey

andUncleKarl’spartyfirst.I

hope hewon’t ask toomanyquestions, because I don’thave any answers. Do I tellhim Uncle Karl said Jingwasn’t in the quarantine?Should I say I had toconvince Aunt Hortense notto interview for anothercook? I dig in the basket forthecandy.When I hand it to him, he

looks hard at me. How doeshe know I’m not telling him

everything?“Uncle Karl couldn’t find

him,”Iwhisper.His eyebrows rise like

Jing’s. “That doesn’t meanhe’s not there. He’s hidingsomething,Lizzie.”“Whatishehiding?”“He knows more than he’s

saying.”I think about Uncle Karl

watchingme in theyard as Iunwrap a caramel. “What

makesyousaythat?”“Baba said Uncle Karl

meets with the SixCompanies sometimes. Babatranslates.”“What are the meetings

about?”“Idon’tknow.”“The monkey is important.

If we figure out about themonkey, we’ll know a lotmore,”Isay.I tell Noah about the

Trotters’motorcar andAstralDogandhowIthoughtIwasgoing to have to dance infrontofeveryone.He chews his caramel

thoughtfully. “Youdon’t likedancing?”“I’mnotgoodatit.”“Doyoupractice?”“Of course not. What a

horriblethought.”“Do you have instructions

onhow to do these dances?”

Noah asks. He unpacks thebasket and places it on theshelfwiththedishes.“Inmynotebook.”“Bring them. We’ll learn

together.” There comes thatcrazy,mischievoussmile.“Youandme?”Iask.My mind flashes on Aunt

Hortenseandwhatshe’ddoifshe saw me dancing with aChinese boy alone in ourattic.

“Sure.”Hegrins.“I’vedonethe lion dance. And that’s alotharder.”“What’sthat?”“Iweara lioncostume,and

myfriendPu isbehindme—he’sthebackendofthelion,andI’mthefront.”“I wouldn’t want to be the

backend.”“Neither does Pu. He says

he only got that positionbecauseofhisname.”

“Poo!” I laugh. “Hey, Iwrote you a poem.” I unfoldthepageforhim.

IhaveafriendintheatticWho’skindofabookfanatic.Hecan’tmakeasound,Orelsehe’llbefound,Whichismorethanabitproblematic.

Hesmiles.“It’sgood.CanI

haveit?”No one has ever asked to

keep one of my poems.“Sure,”Isay.“Miss Lizzie!” Maggy’s

voice wafts up from thesecondfloor.Noah’sfacefalls.“Youjust

gothere!”Igrabhishandandsqueeze

it.“Lizzie, please stay. It’s

been four days. I’m going

crazy.” He leans in andwhispers,“MaybeIshouldgoback.”“No!Thenyou’llbecaught

in the quarantine and I’ll betryingtogetbothofyouout.”Noah’s shoulders slide

down. He chews his cheek.“Come back as soon as youcan.”I close his door and steal

down the servants’ stairs,with his words still in my

ears.Lizzie,pleasestay.“You have a visitor at the

Sweetings’,”Maggytellsme.Ohno!AuntHortensehasa

hundred and one rules aboutvisiting. I must say the rightthings,weartherightclothes,visitintherightroom,andsetmycallingcardonthecorrecttray.I dive into the one dress

AuntHortenseapprovesof.Itflaps on me without the

properpetticoats.I’mstillbuttoningas I rush

acrosstheway,leapingoveradead rat, its black eyesbulging.Orange Tom is at itagain.The drawing room has

scarlet chairs and longcurtains that puddle on thefloor. Gold angels hold upglass sconces, and paintingsof racehorses hang on everywall.I’mhardlyeverinhere.

Noonevisitsme.“Elizabeth,” Aunt Hortense

purrs in her important-ladyvoice.“Docomein,dear.”Then I see, it’s only the

Trotters. What a relief!There’s Gus, Gemma, and apudgyladyinabluehatwithjeweled hatpins. All threehave freckled skin andstrawberry-blondhair.“Lizzie.” Mrs. Trotter’s

callingcardisonasilvertray

on Aunt Hortense’s polishedzebrawood table. “I’mdelightedtomeetyou.”Ibobawkwardly.“Gus has asked that we

visit.” Mrs. Trotter smiles atGus,whoturnsthecolorofaripetomato.Gemma hides behind her

fan.“I,um,wantedtoaskyouto

the La Jeunesse cotillion,”Gusmumbles.

“Me?”Ilookaround.Gemma’s fan slips down.

She has a huge smile on herface. Did she put him up tothis?“Of course you,Elizabeth,”

AuntHortensechides.“I’mjust…Areyousure?”

Iwhisper,myfaceashotasafirepoker.“Yes,”Gussays.AuntHortenseeyesme.She

picks up a diamond-studded

nutcrackerandsplitsawalnutwitha loudcrack. “Elizabethis delighted. It is lovely ofyoutoask.”“It is lovely,” I say, and

stealaglanceatGus.Healmostsmiles.“He’s a quiet one, but still

waters run deep,” Mrs.Trotter says, holding oneglovedhandwiththeother.“Or gather pond scum,”

Gemmawhispers.

“Shush, Gemma,” Gusmutters.“Are you sure I can’t get

you some tea?” AuntHortense asks. “Biscuits?Scones? Our Yang Sun’spastries melt in your mouth.You know I stole him fromthePoodleDog.”Mrs.Trotter standsup. “Oh

no,we reallymust be going.I’m afraid we’ve overstayedourwelcomealready.”

“Notatall. I’mjustsorryittook us so long to findElizabeth.”“Lizzie, where were you?”

Gemmawhispers.“Iwas…um,indisposed,”I

say.“Elizabeth,” Aunt Hortense

barks. “Ladies do not speakofsuchthings.”“I thought that was the

politewaytosayit.”AuntHortensesmilesstiffly

atMrs. Trotter. “As you cansee,Elizabethisstillworkingonhermemoirs.”We follow them down the

hall and out into theentryway, with its highceiling and the electricchandelier bigger than theone in the Grand OperaHouse.I stand and wave as the

Trotters climb into theircarriage.

When the mansion doorcloses,AuntHortense shootsme a look that would kill asmall dog. “I will not havemy niece acting like amilkmaid at La Jeunesse.MissBarstow says sheheardyou discussing warts andboils the other day. It’scoarse, Elizabeth. There’s atime and place for suchthings,butthecotillionisnot—”

“Do I have to go?” I ask.“Because I’m sure toembarrassyou.It’sbetter ifIstayhome.”Aunt Hortense crosses her

arms. “You’ll go, and you’llloveeveryminute.”

I

Chapter18

NoahinMyRoom

t’s even more difficult toget away from Aunt

Hortense now that she hasmadeithermissiontogetme

fitted for a dress and jacket,petticoats,stockings,acorset,and dancing shoes. Not tomention teaching me how todrink without slurping andtake tiny bites of everything.With her watchingmy everymove,Ican’ttakecareofthehorses.Hohastodoit.Still, I manage to get the

dance instructions onto thecollar of Orange Tom, andafter schoolNoahand Ihave

ourfirstlesson.WhenIsneakmy basket of supplies up toJing’sroom,Noahiswaiting,hisarmscrossed.“Itisn’tthathard,”heannounces.“Everyone’s gone except

Maggy. Maybe we shouldpractice in my room. Thatway I can crank up thegramophoneandwecanhearthemusic.”Noah considers this. Then

henodsslowly,deliberately.

A thrill shoots throughme.Noahinmyroom!“IfIgodowntoyourroom,

youhavetoswearyou’lltry.”“I do try, and everybody

stares, and theymake fun ofmewhenI’mnotthere.”“How do you know what

they do when you’re notthere?”“Ijustdo.”“But isn’t Gemma your

friendnow?”

“Iguess.”“Youdon’tsoundsure.”Ishrug.He considers this. “Fen

pretends tobemyfriendsoIwill help him with hisarithmetic.”“You’re good with

numbers.”“Ofcourse.”“Of course,” I say, and

imitatehisswagger.

He squints at me. “Whywould I say I’m not good atsomething?”“Girls are supposed to

pretend they’re lousy ateverything.”“Maybebecausetheyare.”“No!”Istampmyfoot.He laughs. “If you’re good

at something,youshould sayit.”“It’s easier to do that if

you’reaboy.”

“I’ll take your word for it.Now let’s work on thedancing.Where’sMaggy?”“She’s doing the floors

downstairs.”“Thattakesallafternoon?”“The wayMaggy waxes, it

does. Our kitchen floor isshinier than the Sweetings’,and Aunt Hortense has fivemaidstocleanhers.Ifit’sallclear,I’llwhistle.”“Whistle? You don’t

whistle. You thunder downthestairs.YouhollertoBilly.You drop things in yourroom.”“Idon’tdropthings.”“You’re always banging

somethingagainstthefloor.”“Myboots.Ikickthemoff.”“Kick your boots off; then

I’llknowtocomedown.Thatwillseemlikeyou.”“Okay. I’ll go check on

Maggy.” I grab the empty

waterpitchersandslipoutthedoor and down the stairs.Maggy is on her hands andkneeswithascrubbrush.Thesoap smell stings my noseand makes my eyes water.Aftershescrubsthefloor,shewaxesit.She’llbebusyforagoodtwohours.Backinmyroom,Ipullthe

shades down, unlace myboots, and kick them off.Theyflyagainstthewallwith

a satisfying thunk. Then Iopen the door and wait forNoah.My ears strain to hear his

footsteps. Even when I seehim creep down the hall, Ican’thearhim.Heslipsin.Iclosethedoor

andslidethelock.He’shere!Soreal,it’sasif

I’d just imaginedhimbefore.He looks around my room,his eyes lighting on the

window-sill.“Baba gave these to you.”

Hepicksupa tinychair Jingcarvedoutofwood.“Ihelpedhim make this one. He saidyoudon’tfeel likeyoufit in.He saidhemadeyou a chairso you would know there’salwaysaplace foryouat thetable.”I stare at him. I’ve always

loved that little chair, but Ididn’t know that was why

he’dgivenittome.Noah’s face relaxes into a

smile,andhebows,onehandbehindhisback.He takes my arm, and my

neckgetshot.Hispalmfeelsstrange onmy back, like theskinistooawareofhishand.I’m sweating where I holdhim.Together we muddle

through a simple waltz step.Noahdoesn’tknowhowtodo

thisanybetter than Ido. I’mnot the only one stepping onthewrongfoot.I’m taller than Noah, but

eventhatisn’timportanthere.I’m wearing my ordinary

clothes, but my skirt feelslighter.Myplanwastocrankupthe

gramophone, but it’s toodangerous. What if AuntHortense came home early?HowwouldIexplaintheloud

music?So I hum. The longer we

dance, themoreitseemslikethereismusic.I likethewayhishand feels inmine. I likestandingsoneartohim.A barrel rolls across the

cobblestones. Outside, thelight has shifted. How longhasitbeen?“Lizzie?” Noah whispers.

Helooksatmehard,andthenhiseyesskitteraway.

“What?”“I can’t stay up there alone

much longer. Where is myfather?”We stop dancing. “I don’t

know,but I’ll findhim.”Mywords seem full of hot air. Idon’tknowwhattodonext.Hegazesat theblind.Then

sighs.“Here,letmeshowyouthe lion dance.”He crouchesdown and hops on one footlikeananimalontheprowl.I

mimichim.Hisheadpopsup,his hands like paws. I hopwhen he hops and stay stillwhenhedoes.Ifallover,andwetrynotto

laugh.Hejumpsandleaps,hislegs

likesprings.Then Billy drives Juliet

through the Sweetingentrance.Noahmustgetbackto his room before Billycomesup.

I put one finger over mymouth;with theother Ipointupstairs. Noah nods, thentiptoes to the door. “Lizzie,you’ll tellme ifyou findoutsomething about Baba.” Hiseyesshift.“Of course! But I’ve told

youeverythingIknow.”“No matter what happens,

you’lltellme?”“Yes.”“Swear you won’t tell

anybody about me. Nobody.Ever.Swearit,”hewhispers.“Ihaven’ttoldanyone.”“I know that. Wait!” He

takes a needle out of hissleeve and stabs his thumbwithit.Wewatchthedropofbloodappear,abrightspotofredonhisbrownskin.I look into his eyes, dark

eyes,trueeyes…theeyesofa friend who knows moreaboutmethananyoneelse.

“Iswear.”I push my thumb toward

him. He pokes it, one quickjab, glancing up as if hehopeshedidn’thurtme.Ourthumbs touch. Blood toblood.

S

Chapter19

Chicken

aturday morning, beforeI’m even out of my

nightclothes, Nettie is in myroomsearingmyscalpwithacurling iron; then she twists

combedwhorlsofmyhairuptight,eachpinlikeaweapon.I beg for Maggy, but Nettiesays, “Fiddle-faddle. Maggyisn’t a lady’s maid. Shedoesn’tknowhowtodohair.If Maggy worked in theSweetings’ household, she’dbeascullerymaid.”When Nettie leaves, I rip

out half of the hairpins andloosentherest.ButAuntHortenselovesmy

hair. All day she and Nettiehover, drilling me: Whichfork do I use for dessert?Whichismywaterglass?Mybread and butter plate? ThenNettie insists on givingme amanicure.Torture.Ican’tgetamomenttovisit

Noah.Luckily,Ibroughthimextra food and water lastnight.Whenit’sfinallytimetoget

dressed, it takes me half an

hour to get everything on,evenwithMaggy’shelp.Thebodiceofmydresshaslayersof white feathers. It fits sosnugly,Maggycanbarelygetthe dress fastened over mycorset. She has to put myshoes on for me, because Ican’tleanovertohookthem.The shoes pinch. The dress

issotight,myribsmaycrack.Will I be able to sit down?WillIleaveatrailofchicken

featherswhereverIgo?When I see myself in the

mirror,myheartstops.I look from the side.

Straight on. From the backwith a hand mirror. I rundown to the bathroom tocheck that mirror, and thedownstairsone,too.Iseeme…buttheprettiest

me imaginable. Ialmost looklike Hattie or one of thebeautiful girls at Miss

Barstow’s. How could thisbe?From one side of the room

to the other I sashay, just toheartheswishofthedressonthe floor, imagining whatGemma will say when sheseesme. Ipeek in themirroragain. In my regular clothesI’m straight up and down.Now I have curves. It’salmost worth the bother tolookthisway.

When Billy comesdownstairs, he gapes at me,thenwhistles.I glare at him. “It’s

nothing,” I say, but hisresponse shocks me. I reallydolookdifferent.When Aunt Hortense sees

me, her eyes beam sobrightly,Ihavetolookaway.“Oh, how I wish your papawereheretoseethis.Youarelooking more and more like

yourmothereveryday.”I should thank her, but the

words won’t come out. I lether hug me, then stomp outthebackdoor,myfacehot. Iwalk across to the Sweetingcarriage house, which is likea palace, with electric lightsand hot and cold runningwaterandacarpetinthetackroom. Tonight I’ll be ridinglike a princess in a finecarriage.

Ho has the black carriageharnessed to fourbayhorses,each with four white socks.The horses have been bathedandgroomed, and their coatsare gleaming. Petting theirsleek necks and softmuzzlesmakes me feel like myselfagain. Then I dust off mygloves. Can’t go to LaJeunesse smelling like ahorse.Iclimbintothecarriage.Ho

picks up the lines, and thehorsestrotforward,fourpairsofearspricked.WepickupBillyinfrontof

our house. Evenwith a faintblackeye,Billyisimpressivein his Prince Albert cutawayand black gloves. Ho scootsover, and Billy slides in tocommandtheteam.Uncle Karl and Aunt

Hortensestandtogetherinthedriveway. Aunt Hortense’s

smile is radiant. I meet hereyes and smile, but I can’tadmit that I’mglad shewentto all this trouble for me.Still,Ithinksheknows.“Is that ourPeanut?”Uncle

KarlasksAuntHortense.“The very same,” my aunt

replies.Billy waves goodbye, and

the horses trot out the grandentrance, tails swishing,hoovesclacking.

When we get to the PalaceHotel,thelineisablocklong,filled with the finestcarriages, fringe-toppedsurreys, hacks, landaus,coaches,andbuggies.A loneautomobile waits in line, itsmotorspewingsteam.Horseschamp at their bits, paw theground,spreadtheirlegs,andpee in the driveway. Silk-coated Chinese porters withvelvet-handledshovelsscurry

about picking up greenmanuretheseconditdropstotheground.Ho will return at eleven

whenthecotillionends.CanImanage that long in thiscorset, making conversationabout warts and excessiveearwax with a boy I barelyknow?I’dliketoseeayoungman tied into a corset for anevening. He’d never put upwith it! Still, I can’t wait to

seeGemmaandHattie.Whatwilltheysayaboutme?We roll into the Palace

courtyard,making a splendidshow.Atthefrontoftheline,amanwithabigstomachanda topper swings a jewel-handledcaneasheannouncesourarrival.It’sPeter,themanwho works for Uncle Karl.He’sgotadeepvoiceperfectfor announcing. Plus, heknows everyone. Somebody

must have pegged him forthis.“And here we have the

lovelycoachofMr.andMrs.Karl Sweeting. Mr. WilliamandMiss Elizabeth Kennedy… what an honor to ride inyouruncle’sfinest.”“The coach gets better

billingthanwedo,”Iwhisperto Billy as I step out, barelyavoidingtrippingonmyhem.ButBilly’sattentionisona

girl with a waist thecircumference of a teacup,black hair, and a crimsondress. Everyone’s watchingher, but she doesn’t seem tosee them. Her face lights upwhenBillytakesherhand.Then Gus appears in a

cutaway with a boutonniere.Hishandsareshovedintohispockets, his shouldershunched forward. His hair isnewlycut,hisshoesasshiny

aspolishedspoons.Whenheseesme,hesmiles

andstandsupstraight.“Don’tsayanything.Iknow

Ilooklikeagiantchicken,”Itellhimundermybreath.“Luckily,Ilikechicken,”he

mumbles.Ismileathim.Hishandsare

still jammedintohispockets,butforasecondIseethemanhe is becoming. My cheeksarehotaswewalktogether.

WhatdoIsay?Launchingadiscussion about earwaxsuddenly seems like a badidea. “Where’s Gemma?” Iask.“She’s supposed to bewith

Spencer,buthedoesn’tseemtoknowthat.”“Oh no! He doesn’t know

he’sGemma’sescort?”Gusshrugs.“Heknows.”“Let’sgofindher.”Gemmaiswearingapainted

silkdresswithabluebeadedbodice that brings out theblue in her eyes. She’salready seated at one of thelongwhite tablesablazewithcandles. When she sees me,hereyesglisten.“Lizzie!Youlooksopretty.”“Youdo,too,”Isay.“What

happenedtoSpencer?”Hernostrilsflare.Shelooks

away.“Wantustogofindhim?”

Shenods.I followGus to thebackof

the enormous, glass-domedcourtyard filled with palms.Light pours in from theglowing ceiling, and violinsplay. In the middle of thefloor, Spencer dances with abeautifulblondgirlinadressthe color of the evening sky.Spencer can’t take his eyesoffher.“Spencer.” I’m about to

lurchforwardandgivehimapiece ofmymind.Howdarehe dance with someone elsewhenhecamewithGemma?Gus takes me by the hand,

which stops me cold. Sweatdrips down undermy corset.“Dowehavetodance?”Gussmilesatme.Westandat theedgeof the

dance floor full of glitteringdresses and dark pressedsuits. It smells of perfume

andperspiration.Spencerandthe girl in the evening-skydress look as if they’ll nevercome off the floor. If we’regoing to talk to him, we’llhavetodanceoutthere.Iclosemyeyesandpretend

Gus is Noah and this grandcourtyardismycozyroomathome.Gus’s hand is on the small

of my back. His touch islighter than Noah’s. He’s

taller; we’re eye to eye.WheredoIlook?Gus’sstepsarequickashesteersmeoverto Spencer. I’m a half beatbehindhim.Heslowsdown;Ispeedup.Wherearehisfeet?I barely miss stepping onthem.Myfacegetshotter.“Can I talk to you?” Gus

murmerstoSpencer.Spencer tries to swing the

evening-skygirlaway.Gus repeats his question,

boldly.Spencerfrowns.“Now?”“Yes.”Guscutsin.Hetakes

thehandofSpencer’spartner.Ohno!Ihavetodancewith

Spencer?Istandstock-stillasGusandthegirldanceaway.Spencer offers his hand to

me, as if mine is covered insnot. He holds me with stiffarms so our bodies don’ttouch. His feet move in asquare,hiseyeonthegirl,his

everymovemeanttosayhowirritated he is to dance withthelikesofme.I screw up my courage. “I

thought you were here withGemma.”“She’soncrutches.Howam

I supposed to dance withher?”He swirlsme closer toGus.“Shecanstilldance.”Hesnorts.“Why’dyouaskher,then?”

“Our mothers arranged it,”he says. He and Gus switchpartnersagain.A smile darts across Gus’s

lips as he takes my hand.He’shappytohavemeback!Maybe it wasn’t Gemma’sidea forhim toaskme toLaJeunesse.Could it have beenGus’s?“Idon’tlikeSpencer,”Isay.

Billy and the pretty dark-hairedgirlfloatby.

“He’sfullofhimself.”“He said it wasn’t his idea

toaskGemma.”“That’s true. Gemma’s

always plotting. It backfiredthis time. I just hope shedoesn’t fall again. She’saccident-pronewhenshegetsupset.”A waiter in a white jacket

announces, “Dinner isserved.”We follow the flow of the

crowd into the dining room.A band plays, and girls insweepingdressesandboysinblackjacketsloadtheirplateswith oysters and creamedlobsters, sizzling soups andsourdough bread. Crab cakesand crumb-crust pies. Porkchops, pear tarts, andParmesanpotatoes.Bearmeatand beef bourguignon. Thetablesoffoodgoonandon.We fill plates for ourselves

and for Gemma, then joinHattie and her partner atGemma’stable.Spencer’shatand gloves sit on the chairnexttoGemma,butthat’sallwe see of him. With Hattiehere, I stiffen. She saysnothing about my dress, buthereyesjudgeme.“Lizzie,I’msurprisedtosee

you here,” she says. “Haveyou ever even been to acotilliondancebefore?”

“No,”Isay.“Didyoudance?”“Yes.”“I’m so sorry I missed it.”

Hattieputsher lipstickinhertinybeadedpurse.I think about what Noah

woulddo.He’dtell thetruth.I look Hattie straight in theeye. “I’mnothalf thedanceryou are, Hattie. None of usare. But I like dancing withGus.”

Gusturnsbrightred,andsodoI.WhydoIhavetobesoawkward?Still,it’strue.AndsayingthismakesHattiebackoff.Ican’twaittotellNoah.I concentrate on my food,

which I have been shovelingin.Whenmychestfeelslikeafurnace packed with coal, Iset my fork down and lookaround.That’swhen I noticePeterwalkby.“I’ll be right back,” I

whisper to Gus, then chargeafterPeterasbestIcaninmylong ruffly skirt and highheels.“Excuseme,sir?”Peterignoresme.“Sir…Peter,” I practically

shout, nearly tripping over abrocade-coveredtable.He glances back. “Lizzie

Kennedy,isn’tit?”“Yes, sir.” I hurry to catch

him. “I’m sorry I only knowyoubyPeter.”

“Indeed.What can I do foryou, Miss Kennedy?” He’spickedupspeed.“I want you to tell me the

truth, sir.” I scramble afterhim.“The truth, is it?” He

glances back. “Always adangerousprospect.”“Aboutthemonkey.”“Ahh, yes. What, if I may

ask, is your great interest inprimates?”I’mtryingmybest

tokeepup.“Well,sir,there’ssomething

going on with a monkey.Peoplearen’ttalkingaboutit,andIdon’tknowwhy.”“Ah, my dear, there are

manythingspeopledon’tseefit to discuss. Surely you’velearned that in your fourteenyears.”“Thirteen.”“Evenso.”Now I see that he’s headed

to the bar, where womenaren’t allowed. “You knowwhatIwanttoknow.”“My fair lady,yougiveme

far more credit than Ideserve.”I jump in front of him,

trying to prevent him fromgoinginside.“MissKennedy, I’msorryI

can’t be of more help. Ifyou’ll excuse me.” He dipsaroundme.

“Wait!”Ishout.He doesn’t look back. He

joinsacrowdedtable,butI’mstuck outside. Billy couldfollow him in there. It isannoying to be a girlsometimes.The curls Nettie worked so

hard on are falling into myface,soIblowthemaway.Peter clinks his glass.

“Gentlemen,yourhealth,”hetoasts, slipping his shoes off

under the table and settlingin. Iwave,hoping somebodywill notice me, but no onelooksmyway.

A

Chapter20

TheWolfDoctor

t Gemma’s tableeveryonehasmovedon

to dessert. Hattie is takingtiny bites of chocolate cake;Gemmaisdippingherforkin

raspberry filling. “You’re upto something,” Gemmawhispers when I slip backintomychair.Everyonestaresatme.“Whatmakesyousaythat?”

How I wish I could lie thewayBillydoes.“Lizzie, you have to come

with us. We can’t dancewithout you,” Hattieannounces.I look atGus.He seems to

knowwhatI’mthinking.“I’m still working on

dessert,” he tells her. I thankhimwithasmile.When Hattie and her date

are gone, I tell Gemma, “Iwant to talk to Peter—themanwhoannounceduswhenwearrived.Only,nowhe’sinthebarandhedoesn’twanttocomeout.”Gemma leans toward me,

her eyes sparkling. “You

wanttogointothesaloon?”Inod.“Let’sgo.”Shegrins,scoots

outofherseat,andgrabshercrutches, with Gus closebehind.I’m starting to see that this

is howGemma andGus are:Gemmagetsboredandcomesupwithawild idea,andGushelpsherpullitoff.Thistimeit’smyidea.Still, they didn’t even ask

me why I want to talk toPeter.It’simportanttome,soit’s important tothem.Is thiswhat it means to havefriends? How could I havemissed Gemma at MissBarstow’s before? Are thereothergirlsthereasniceassheis?We stop and look around

outside the bar.A tea cart istucked against the wall. Gusborrows a tablecloth from a

nearby table and drapes itoverthetop.Gemmayanksup the cloth.

“Canyoufitunderthis?”Isquatdowntosee if Ican

get my ruffles and feathersunderneath. Luckily, they’veloosened up since Maggylacedmein.Inod.“Guscanpushtheteacart,”

Gemmasays.“How are we going to

explain pushing a tea cart in

thebar?”Iask.“I know,” Gus says, and

disappears. Ina fewminutes,he’s back with a whitewaiter’sjacketoverhisarm.“Where’d you get that?” I

ask.He grins. “I’ve been here

with Papa. I sawwhere theykeep them.”He takes off hisPrinceAlbert andhands it toGemma, then slides his armsintothesmallwaiter’sjacket.

“Don’t button it,” Gemmasays.She turns tome.“Whatwill you dowhen you get inthere?”“I’m going to make that

man Peter answer myquestion.”“How?”Howdoyouforcesomeone

to tell you something?Hmmm. Then I flash on hisshoes. “By ransoming hisshoes.Hetookthemoff.”

Gemmaburstsoutlaughing.I crawl under the tea cart.

Gemma figures out away tofold the cloth back so I canpeek through. She tucks inmyskirt.Guspushesthecartandleavesmebehind.“Not so fast,” Iwhisper. “I

can’tkeepup.”Wepractice untilwe get it.

Then Gus maneuvers the teacart over the doorway bumpintothebar.

“Sir,” Gus says when ourcart is in line with Peter’stable, “may I take yourempties?”Perfect. I’m liking Gus

better and better. Peterdoesn’t noticeGus.Awaiterisinvisibletohim.IsthiswhyJing doesn’t want Noahworkingforanyone?I lift up my tablecloth and

the one on Peter’s table andduck my hand under, trying

to see the shoes in the darktangle of legs. I manage tograboneshoebutbrushalegas Ido.The leg jerksback. Ifreeze.But no one calls out or

peeks underneath. I crawlback under the tea cart,holdingtheshoetomychest,then reach out and squeezeGus’sankle.Gus pretends to drop

somethingandduckshishead

under the cart. I nodvigorously, and he beginspushing the tea cart towardthe door with all my rufflesunderneath. I have all I canmanage trying to hold theshoeandinchforwardinthisdress. I need both hands tocrawl. I put the shoe undermy armpit. That doesn’twork. I hold the shoelacebetween my teeth. The shoebonksmychest,flappingthis

wayandthat.Whenwe’re safelyover the

doorway bump and aroundthe corner, Gemma lifts thetableskirt,andIhopout.Gus and Gemma burst out

laughing when they see theshoelaceinmymouth.“Goodjob,Lizzie.”Gemma

straightens my dress andsmoothesmyhair.We wait for Peter to

discover that his shoe is

missing. But Peter is busytoasting his buddies andknockingbackshots.Gemmagoes in search of moredessert.FinallyGusandIseePeter wiggle around in hisseat, then duck under thetable.Gus grins. I put my hands

overourmouthssowewon’tlaughoutloud.“I’ll tell him you have it,”

Gus says, and marches in

wearing his own jacket. HewhispersintoPeter’sear.Peter’s head swivels in my

direction.Hestompsout,oneshoeon,oneshoeoff.Hisbreathstinksofwhisky.

His jacket is off. Aperspiration stain marks hiswhite shirt. He glares. “I donot appreciate your highjinks, Miss Kennedy. Whyhave you chosen me topersecute?”

“You know what I need toknow,sir.”Hegroans.“Isthisaboutthe

monkey?”“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to

bother you, but it’s veryimportant.”He sighs. “Dr. Kinyoun, a

misguided physician with aninflated view of his ownworth, believes he hasconclusive evidence that theplague has come to our city.

Heclaimstohaveproventhisby injecting the plaguepathogen, supposedly culledfrom a dead man, into a rat,two guinea pigs, and amonkey. The rat and theguinea pigs died. We’rewaiting to see if themonkeysurvives.”“That would prove the

plagueishere?”“That’s the claim of Dr.

Kinyoun—also known as the

wolfdoctor.”“Whyisthisasecret?”“Itisn’t,exactly.Youruncle

is opposed to giving ink tosuch shenanigans. We leavethat sort of scurrilousreporting to Hearst’sExaminer. Now, my shoe,please.”“And what about the

quarantine?”“The dead man who

allegedly had the plaguewas

found in Chinatown. Thewolf doctor called thequarantine, and now he’stryingtoprovetoeveryoneitwasn’tamistake.”“Will you tell me if the

monkeydies?Please,sir?”“Will I tell you? Miss

Kennedy,Ihaveindulgedyoubeyond what any prudentgentleman would, could, orshould.Now,shallIgetwordto your aunt and uncle of

your behavior, or will youkindly return my property tomeand let thisbe theendofit?”I hand over his shoe.

“Thank you, sir.” I bob myhead.When I turn around,Gus is

standing by the table takingthis all in. Gemma ishobblingalongononecrutch,holding a plate piled highwithcookies.

“Youdidit!”Gemmaoffersmeacookie.“With your help. What a

teamyoutwoare!”Slowly, we drift to the

courtyard to wait for ourcoaches, letting others go infrontofus.Noneofuswantstoleave.

***

WhenIgethome,Maggyandthe parrot are waiting up for

me.“MissLizzie,havefun?”Maggyasks.“Yes, actually,” I say,

thinking how I mustremember every detail to tellNoah.Inmyroom,sheunlacesthe

corset. The stays and tieshave left red impressions onmyskin.Itfeelswonderfultobeoutofit.Ipullonmysoftflannel nightdress and crawlintobed.Maggyturnsoutthe

gas lamp. Only the moon’slightremains.

W

Chapter21

AHarebrainedPlan

hen I wake up thenextmorning, I think

about what Peter said. Theentire quarantine rides on a

monkey? How can that betrue?Whatwillhappenifthemonkeydies?Willtheymakeit a real quarantine, withdoctors and nurses andyellow plague flags? Whyisn’titarealquarantinenow?All I have is questions. I

wanttogobacktoNoahwithanswers.ItakeoutthefeatherNettie wove into my hair. Iwas so tired last night, I fellasleepwithitin.

My eyes find Jing’s gifts.I’ve been out having fun inmy white-feathered dresswhileJinghasbeenlockedinChinatown. Why is it I’venever given Jing a gift? Idon’t even know when hisbirthdayis. Ihavetogethimout of there, and I’m notgoing to wait around for astupidmonkey.I’mstill tryingtofigureout

a planwhenBilly knocks on

mydoor.“C’mon,” he says. “I need

toteachyousomething.Now,before church and beforeeveryonegetsup.”I stare at him, not moving

fromwhere I’m curled up inmy quilt. It’s been so longsince Billy taught meanything.“You may not realize

this”—his face turns red—“butyou’re…Alldressed

up last night, you … Look,you need to know how todefendyourself.”“Againstwhat?”“People. Men. The world

isn’t what you think.” Hefrowns. “Put on your oldclothes.Meetmeatthebarn.”Heshutsthedoor,andIslip

into an old skirt.When I getdown to the stable,Billy hashis boxing gloves on. He’spracticing punching the air.

Heseesmeandstops.“Okay. Let’s say it’s dark

and you’re walking in fromthebarn,andsomeonecomesat you like this.” He lungesfor me. “What would youdo?”“Kick him in his

reproductiveapparatus?”“Not a bad idea. But what

happens if he has you likethis?” He stands behind me,hisarmaroundmythroat.

I shakemyhead.Or try to,anyway. I can hardly movewith my neck in the vise ofhisarm.“I’m going to keep it

simple, and thenwe’regoingto practice. Did Papa everexplaintoyouhowtodefendyourself?”“No.”“Of course not.”He snorts.

“Look, you should never dothisifyou’rekiddingaround,

but if you’re in danger …there are points on a person,Lizzie, that will kill them.Temple, armpit, liver, groin.Behindtheear.”He spends an hour making

me practice different movesuntil I have mastered them.It’s so nice to have the oldBilly back. He could beinstructingmeonhow todigforturnipsandI’dbehappy.

The next morning afterMaggy comes down, I sneakup and leave Noah suppliesonthebottomstep.Heknowstowatchforthemnow.Iwantsobadlytogoupand

seehim.Maybelaterthecordwill be down. Maybe I willhave found Jing by then.Wasn’t Papa supposed to bebackbynow?Igathercleantowels,cloths,

bandages, gauze, Papa’s

contagiongloves,amask,anda medical coat. I roll themintoa tightballandput themin the bottom of my bookbag. The bag is overstuffed,which Aunt Hortense is sureto notice. I head down thelong path to the Sweetings’stable. If I climb into thecarriage here, Aunt Hortensewon’tseemybag.Ho is in the back, shining

bits.“Excuseme,Ho,” Isay.

“Ineedtogotoschool.”Ho jumps. “Yes,miss.”He

hurries to the black horsesalready harnessed to thebuggy.Aunt Hortense comes out

when she sees us. She peeksinto the carriage. “Eager togettoschool,arewe?”“Yes,ma’am,”Isay.“HappieratMissBarstow’s,

Itakeit?”AllalongAuntHortensehas

said I would grow to likeMissBarstow’s.Ican’tadmitshe’s right. I don’t meet hereyes.“Glad to hear it. Have a

good day.” She taps thecarriage,andHodriveson.

***

All during school, I canbarely concentrate. Afterelocution, Hattie brings upSpencer.

“Spencer? Spencer who?”Gemma sniffs. “But you-know-whoistotallysmitten.”“Inoticedthat,”Hattiesays,

andwaggles her eyebrows atme. “Thequestion is…howdoesLizziefeelabouthim?”Hattie and Gemma look at

me.“Gus? Of course I like

Gus,”Isay.Theynod,waitingformore.“Ihadfun,okay?”

“That’s it?” Gemma asks.“That’s all we’re going toget?”“Yes.” I hurry down the

frontstepsinsuchafluster,Iforgettocheckmyslip.Therearemirrors hung everywherebecause Miss Barstow can’tstand it when your slip isshowing. “Lizzie, a penny,please.” Miss Barstow holdsouttheorphanjar.Iforkovera penny. You have to

contribute every time shecatches you with yourpetticoathanging.Themoneygoes to the McKinleyOrphanage.I run back inside to fixmy

slip.“What’sthematterwithyou

today?” Gemma whispers aswegatherourbooks.“Nothing.”“I don’t believe you,” she

announces.

If only she and Gus couldhelp me with this. If only IcouldtellheraboutJing.Butit’s one thing to play aransom game with a shoe,another thing to sneak intothe quarantine zone ofChinatown.When Ho comes after

school, I dive into thecarriage.“Um,Ho.”Iclearmythroat

to control the trembling.

“Could you take me to afriend’shouse?”“Yes,miss.Whereisthat?”Iholdmybreath.“Downby

Chinatown.”Ho’s Adam’s apple slides

upanddown.Hestealsalookback. “Mrs. Sweeting knowsaboutthis?”“Of course.” I try to sound

convincing, but mostly I’mjustloud.I’ve put him in a bind. He

doesn’twanttodispleaseme,as I can report him to AuntHortense. But if he goesalong with what AuntHortense calls “Elizabeth’sharebrained plans,” she’llhavehishead.Iwatchwhichwayhesteers

the horses. Toward home orChinatown?Iholdmybreath.Chinatown!We’re getting close. I can

see the barricade up ahead.

Ho fidgets, stealing glancesbackatme.I spot a nearby building

with paint peeling from theposts, blinds down and oneboarded up window. “Here,”Isay.He pulls the horses up.

“Miss?Idon’tthink—”I jump out of the carriage.

“Tell Aunt Hortense I’ll behomebeforedark.”“Miss, are you sure Mrs.

Sweeting—”“Yes, yes. She knows.” I

sliparoundacornerandwait.Whenhe’sgone,Itieonthe

protectivemask, the cap, thecoat, and the gloves. Foronce, I’mglad I’m tall.Withthemaskon,Icanpassforanadult.Papa says there are woman

doctors, but since I’ve neverseen one, I’m going topretend to be a nurse. It

would be better if I had aproper uniform underneaththe medical coat, but nomatter. I head to thequarantine zone. My handssweat in the gloves. I untiethe bottom of the mask so Icanbreathe.Here the quarantine line is

nothing more than a wireacross the road. Surely I cangetthroughthat.Two policemen patrol the

wire. “Excuse me! Excuseme, sir!” I wave. “I have toget inside. I have to seepatients.”“What?Who are you?” the

tall policeman with shinybuttons asks. The otherpoliceman is eating asandwich.“I’m Dr. Kennedy’s

assistant,”Isay.“Who’s he? What you got

allthatonfor?”

“Incaseofcontagion,sir.”The tall policeman steps

closer. He looks me up anddown.“Howoldareyou?”“Twenty-two,”Ilie.“Twenty-two?” He snorts.

“Howoldareyoureally?”“Twenty-one,”Itryagain.He laughs. “Lost a year

already.Don’t you know it’sa crime to lie to a policeofficer? Ben, how old youthinkthisoneis?”

The other officer squints atme.“Take the mask off,” the

firstofficersays.Iuntieit.He shakes his head. “Even

younger than I thought.Fourteenatmost.Thatright?”Adropofsweatslipsdown

beneathmyshirtwaist.The policeman crosses his

stiff arms. “You don’t haveanybusinessinthere.”

I stand stupidly, unsure if Ishouldkeeppretendingortellthetruth.The policeman turns away.

“Ben,yougotanotheroneofthemsandwiches?”Nowwhat?MaybeIcantry

againontheothersideofthequarantine area. I’mmarching that way when Ihear thewheelsof a carriagecreakbehindme.Gemma’s head pops out.

“Lizzie!Lizzie,isthatyou?”TheTrotters!Gus,Gemma,

andtheirdriver.“What in theworldareyou

doing?” Gemma demands astheir carriage pulls up besideme.“WhatamIdoing?”GusandGemmaexchangea

look.“Youwereactingweirdat school,” Gemma explains.“We decided to follow you.And it’s a good thing we

did.”“I was not acting weird,” I

say.“You were. Why are you

dressedlikethat?”“Ourcook, Jing, is stuck in

the quarantine. I’m trying togethimout.”“Quarantine for what?”

Gemmaasks.“Theplague,”Gustellsher.“Forgoodness’sake,Lizzie,

takethatstuffoffandgetintothis carriage right now.”Gemma pats the seat next toher.Ilookoveratthepoliceman

patrolling. I didn’t fool thisone. What makes me thinkI’ll fool the next? Will theytake me to the police stationnexttime?Putmeinjail?Notelling what Aunt Hortensewill do if she has to bailmeout.

I climb up into the Trottercarriage.Gemma helps me get the

mask untied. “If your cookhas been in the quarantine,he’llbecontagious.”“It’s not a real plague

outbreak,”Isay.“Whyelsewould theyhave

aquarantine?”sheasks.“It has to do with a

monkey,” Gus explains.“We’re waiting to see if a

monkey dies. And if themonkey dies, it might reallybetheplague.”“That is the craziest thing

I’veeverheard,”Gemmatellsme.“Iknow,butit’strue.”“WhyisJingsoimportant?”

Gemma asks as I settle inbetweenGemmaandGus.“He’s our cook. He’s a

memberofourfamily,”Isayaswepassarowofrun-down

buildings.Laundryhangsoutthe window to dry. Pigeonscoo and scurry aroundbucketsofoldcrabshells,theair thick with the smell offish.Gus nods, his brow

furrowed. “Wouldn’t it bebetter to try to get him outthantrytogetyouin?”“I just…haven’tbeenable

tofigureouthow.”“We’ll help you.” Gus

smilesatme.IlookfromGustoGemma.

Theyactuallyseemexcitedtobeapartof this.Didanyoneever have better friends thanthesetwo?TheTrottersliveinayellow

house with a witch’s capturret and big bay windowsthat look clear down to thebay and the little island ofAlcatraz. The Trotters’garden is filled with yellow,

pink, peach, and lavenderroses. Mrs. Trotter is on theporch with a big floppy hatandpruningshears.Gemma takesme up to her

room. It’s larger than mine,with pale yellow stripedwallpaper, a wicker backrocker,ahatstandfilledwithhats,andatablejammedwithmusicboxes.WhenGuscomesin,hehas

a pen, paper, and an

envelope. He sits down atGemma’swritingdesk.“What are you up to?”

Gemmawantstoknow.“Writingaletter.”I glance over at the

stationery:TROTTER, BLACK,ANDJESSUP,ATTORNEYSATLAW.“On Papa’s letterhead?”

Gemmaasks.“Yep,”hemutters.WewatchasGusdunksthe

pen into the ink, taps off theexcess, and begins writing.Gemma leans over hisshoulder.“It has come to myattention,” Gemma reads,“that the cook in theresidenceoftheesteemedandrevered Dr. Kennedy hasbeen unable to see to hisduties. Dr. Kennedy’s workhas been impeded by hiscook’s absence. His absence

has caused heartache andhardship of great magnitudefor the Kennedys, and it isimportant, imperative, andessential that he be releasedatonce…”Gemma’s mouth drops

open. “You’re not going tosignPapa’sname.”“Course not.”Gus smiles a

sly smile. “I’mgoing to signmyname.”“Gus! He was named after

Papa,”she tellsme.“Still”—she raises her eyebrows athim—“he won’t like youusinghisstationery.”They stare at each other,

consideringthis.“It’s pretty good, though.

Official, like the way hewrites,”Gemmasays.Gus’s eyes are onme. Is it

my opinion that matters tohim?“Sounds like a lawyer to

me,”Isay.“And it’s for a good cause.

You know how Papa alwaystalks about making moraldecisions,” Gemma says,noddingnow.Gusbendshisheadoverthe

page, his pen nib scratchingagainst the paper as hefinisheshisletter.

There’sahoptomystepasIclimb up into the Trotters’

carriage.We don’t want to risk

running into the samepolicemen I talked to earlier.So we take a long routearound to the other side ofChinatown.Beyond the ropes and

sawhorses of the quarantineline,redlanternshang,carvedwoodendragonswindarounda pole, and red silk shirtsflutter in the breeze. I search

the faces as I always do, butnoJing.Guspresentstheenvelopeto

a mounted policeman, whoreads the letter, rubshiseyesunder his spectacles, andreadsitagain.Thepolicemanrefolds the letter and slips itback into the envelope.“Sorry, son.” He returns theletter to Gus. “I’m afraid Ican’tdothat.”“But we need our cook,” I

say.The policeman shrugs.

“You, me, and my auntTheresa.Welet themallout,won’t be much of aquarantine,now,willit?”“But that’s a letter from a

lawyer,”Gemmapointsout.“Iseethat,miss,butit isn’t

a court order. I’m sorry. Ican’t let you through.Go onnow.”Heflapshishand.“Weneedtokeepthisareafreeof

traffic.”The Trotters’ driver turns

the carriage around. I lookbackatthepaperparasolsandcone-shaped bamboo hatshanging on hooks. On thisside, the signs are all inEnglish.Gemma takesmy hand and

squeezesit.“Sorry,Lizzie.”No one says anything else

the rest of the way home. Ibegin to wonder if I’m ever

goingtogetJingout.

A

Chapter22

Button-HeadLion

fterschoolthenextday,thecordisdown.Itake

the stairs two at a time. Butthen I remember that Noahwill need supplies, and I run

backto thekitchentofillmybasket.WhenNoahopensthedoor,

Ifillhiminoneverythinginabigrush.IexplainwhatPetersaid and how I tried topretend to be a nurse to getinto Chinatown. I tell himhow Gus Trotter wrote aletter on his father’sletterhead, but that didn’twork,either.His upper lip trembles.

“You’re going to give up,aren’tyou?”hewhispers.“Ofcoursenot,”Isay.Heflasheshiscrazygrin.“I

wishIcouldgowithyou.”I think about how nice it

wouldbeforNoahandmetowalk down the street, or ridein the carriage, or bicycle inGolden Gate Park like otherfriendsdo.“Iwishyoucould,too.”“Hey.” He smiles. “I made

something foryou.”Hepullsasmallbrownpaper-wrappedpackage out of his pantspocketandhandsittome.I unfold the paper and pull

out a piece of fabric. Abutton-hole strip. Exceptmine has a button in thebuttonhole. The button is theheadofananimal,thebodyissewn in gold thread. It hasfourbigpawsanda tailwitha yellow puff at the bottom.

Around the button a thickyellowmanehasbeenfluffedout from the strip. Noah hasmademeabutton-headlion.“So you’ll remember to be

brave,”hesays.“With the girls at Miss

Barstow’s?”Iask.“With everyone. Be your

best true self. That’s whatBabasays.”Isigh.“That’shard.”“It takes a lot of courage,”

he agrees. “That’s what IthinkaboutwhenIdotheliondance.”“Thank you for this,” I

whisper, holding the buttonagainstmychest.He nods, pleased that I’m

pleased.“Lizzie!” I hear Billy

trompingbelow.Noah’sfacefalls.“Ohno,”Iwhisper.

“LIZZIEEEE! Where theheckareyou?”ItakeoffoutofJing’sroom

and down the stairs. On thesecond floor, Billy sees mecome out of the servants’stairwell.“What were you doing up

there?”“Lookingforthekittens.”“Kittens,huh?”Hewatches

me closely. “What’s thematter with you, anyway?

This morning you weremoping around like yourhorsedied.”“ItriedtogetJingoutagain.

Didn’twork.”Billy scratches his eyebrow

and frowns. “I thought he’dhave found a way home bynow. Maybe he needs ourhelp.”“Of course he does. What

doyouthinkI’vebeentellingyou!”

He shrugs, stares out thehall window. “There’s thiswoman,DonaldinaCameron,who lives inChinatownwitha bunch of girls. If there’s agirl in trouble, she rescuesthem. People call her theAngry Angel, because shegets people out of dangerousplaces. Anyway, I heard thather front door isn’tquarantined. Her back dooris.”

“Thatdoesn’tmakesense.”“Whataboutthisquarantine

makessense?”“Nothing,” I admit, sitting

onthehallchairandunlacingmyboots.“I helped her get a girl out

once.Climbedatree,jumpedin the window, and carriedthegirldown.Sheowesme.”“Outofwhere?”“Abadsituation.”Hepicks

a flower out of the hall vase

and rips it apart petal bypetal. “She was working forpeople in Presidio Heights.Theywerebeatingher.”“Why?”He shrugs. “Bad people do

badthings.”“She’sokaynow,right?”He nods, wadding up the

petalsinhishand.“YoushouldtellPapawhen

you do things like that. Itwouldmakehimproud.”

“Which is exactly why Idon’t.”I frown at him. “Why

wouldn’t you tell himsomething that would makehimhappy?”He sighs. “Because I don’t

want to do things for him. Iwant todo them forme.”Heopenshishand.“But you did it for you.

What’s the matter with justtellinghim?”

He snorts. “Put your shoesbackon.Youwanttotrythisornot?”I shove my toes back into

my boots. “Of course I do.But what will we tell AuntHortense?”He smiles in his sly Billy

way.“Leavethattome.”

“I understand you andWilliam would like to go tothe opera tonight,” Aunt

Hortense announces when Icomedownthestairs.“Oh, yes,” I say.Opera? I

mouth the word to BillybehindAuntHortense’sback.He nods. Later, in the

wagon, he explains. “Weneedtime.Theoperagetsoutlate.”“Shebelievedyou.”“Of course. She believes

everythingIsay.”“Mustbenice.”

“Itis.”“But what happens when

she comes home and we’renotthere?”“She’s going to a

masquerade ball with UncleKarl. We’ll be home beforeshe is,”Billy says, andpicksupthelines.“Shouldn’t we be wearing

operaclothes?”“She’s upstairs. She can’t

seeus.”

“Won’tHotellher?”“No.”“Whynot?”“Heowesme.”“Does everybody owe

you?”“Yes.” He smiles. “As a

matteroffact,theydo.”We take the fast route to

Chinatown and then goaround to the back side.Through the quarantinewire,

Iseeavegetablestand,afewweird-looking bumpy greenvegetables. Bins of brownroots. Not much there. Aretheyrunningoutoffood?Atthefarcorner,outsidethe

wire,westopataplainthree-story brick building. I can’tsee the back door from here,but there’s the quarantineropedownthestreet.“Why would they

quarantine her back door but

notherfrontdoor?”Iask.“People think God will

protect her because she’sdoing his work. Look, youstay here with John Henry.”He climbs down. “I’ll go inandtalktoher.”The sun is setting, leaving

anorangeglowon the street.A group of Chinese girls inshirtwaists and skirts hurriesup the front steps. A horsetrotsdownthehillbehindus.

I’mgettingalittlemoreusedto Chinatown, but still it isstrangeandIdon’tlikesittingoutherebymyself.Although,technically I’m not in thequarantine, so this isn’tChinatown.Thedarker itgets, themore

anxious I become. I sit uptall,trytolookfierce.Butmyfeet are cold andmy bottomistiredofsitting.EverytimeIseesomeonewalkby,Ijump.

I think about Noah’s lion.Beingbrave is a lot easier indaylight. FinallyBilly comesout. “They’re going to sendsomeoneinforhim.”“Whattimeisit?”“Seven-thirty.”“What time is Aunt

Hortensegettingback?”“Late. Those masquerade

ballsstartlateandlastalongtime.”“What if she calls the

police?”“What if she does?Do you

wanttogetJingoutornot?”The lights are on in Miss

Cameron’s house. A girlcarrying a lantern walks bythewindow.Upstairsweheargirlssinging.“Billy?”“Yes.”I pull my knees up. “Are

you going to become adoctor?”

“No.”“Whynot?”“Remember when Mama

died? Remember how surePapa was that he could saveher?”“That wasn’t his fault. He

triedhisbest.”Ipullmycoattighteraroundmyself.“Iknowhedid.That’swhy

it’s a stupid profession.Nothinghedidworked.”“You can’t prevent people

fromdying.”John Henry shuffles his

legs.Hebitesathisshoulder,leavingawetspitmark.“But you shouldn’t tell

people you can help themwhenyoucan’t,”Billysays.“Itmakesthemfeelbetter.”“It’salie.”“But, Billy, sometimes you

canhelpthem.”“Yeah…Iguess.”

We listen to the distantfoghorn and watch the fogroll in.Under a dim gaslightinChinatown,agroupofmeninblackareservingfoodtoalonglineofpeople.Thesmellofsoysaucewaftstowardus.A crucifix hangs in the

window of Miss Cameron’shouse,backlitandeerieinthenight. The singing hasstopped. A girl giggles.Voices rise and fall, some in

Chinese,someinEnglish.“So,what are you going to

do?”“Haven’t decided. Might

want to be a fighter,” Billysaysfinally.“Why?”An owl hoots in the

distance. A family ofraccoons scurries down thestreet, making their strangeclickingsounds.“It’sfun.”“It’sfuntogetablackeye?”

He shrugs. “I don’t mind.Besides,there’salotmoretoitthanthat.”I rearrange myself. Try to

get comfortable. Use mypurseasapillow.I’malmostasleep when the wagonjiggles. I grab Billy’s arm.“Billy!”“Shush, Lizzie. It’s okay,”

Billywhispers.I turn back. A Chinese

woman in a large silk tunic

andsilkpantsandaredsilkenhatclimbsintoourwagon.ItightenmyholdonBilly’s

sleeve.“Billy!”AndthenIseeherface.“Jing!” I dive over the seat

to give him a hug. His facelooks thinner. More drawn.And silly with that hat. “Ican’t believe it’s you! Areyouokay?Whathappened?”“You two gotme out.”His

voicehas a tremble in it, but

his lips are smiling. “Goodtrick.”“How did you get stuck in

there? Do you know howworriedwe’vebeen?”“Shush, Lizzie!” Billy’s

eyes are on two policemenwalking ourway. Jing slinksdown, crawls under an oldsaddleblanket.On the way home, I keep

glancing back at the blanket-coveredlump.Idon’twantto

let Jing out of my sight. Iwant to tell him everythingthat happened. How hard Itried to get him out. Howstrange it was to realize hehad a son. Iwant to tell himabout Gemma and Gus andhowMiss Barstow’s isn’t sobad anymore. I want to askhim what he knows aboutUncleKarl,andwhetherJingis his last name or his firstname.Andwhy he getsmad

at Noah but he never getsmad at me. There are amillion things to ask, butmostlyIwanttotellhimhowmuchhemeanstome.HowIdidn’trealizethat,untilnow.“Jing,” I whisper to the

saddleblanket,“whenisyourbirthday?”“Shush, Lizzie,” Billy

whispers.“August 16,” Jing whispers

back.

AssoonaswecrossundertheSweetings’ archway, we seethat the light is on in ourkitchen.“Aunt Hortense?” I say to

Billy.“What time is it,anyway?I

thoughtshe’dstillbeout.”“What are we going to tell

her?” I ask as she bursts outthe door, still wearing hergreen masquerade dress, herBibleinherhand.

“I’ll think of something,”Billymutters.Jing peeks out from under

theblanket.“ThankGod,” shewhispers

asshereachesus.“We’re sorry to have

worriedyou,AuntHortense.”Billy’s voice sounds sincere.Hecouldactuallybesorryheworried her. “But we gotJing.”“Iseethat.Goodtoseeyou,

Jing.”Her hands are trembling.

“Go inside. Both of you.We’ll talk about thistomorrow.” Her voice ishoarse. “But you shouldknow that Mr. Sweeting hasheard fromyour father.He’llbehome late tonight.Andofcourse you know that thequarantineisover.”Billy and I look at each

other.

“You didn’t know,” shesays. “So how did you getJing … Oh, don’t even tellme.”Shesighs.“Idon’twanttoknow.”

T

Chapter23

TheEmptyRoom

he sun is rising when Iwake up. Down in the

kitchen, I hear the pop andhiss of bacon frying in thepan.

Jing is manning the skillet.Papa is reading the paper.There are baskets of biscuitsonthetable.Everything is the way it’s

supposedtobe.“Lizzie!” Papa jumps up,

wraps his long arms aroundme,andgivesmeagreatbigPapahug.“You were away too long.

Don’tdothatagain!”“Couldn’t be helped.” He

pushes my hair out of myface.“Imissedyou.”“Imissedyou, too,Papa.”I

beamatPapaandJing.Ican’twait to see Noah’s face. HemustbesohappytohavehisBababack.“IgaveJinganexamination.

As fit as a fiddle, of course.What a ridiculous charadethatwas.”I hold my breath, waiting

formore.Howdoeshe think

Jing got out? Aunt Hortensemust have told Papa aboutlastnight.Papa spreads jam on a

biscuit. His face is relaxed,happy.Not twistedandsmallthe way it gets when he’smad. Maybe she didn’t tellhim.“WhathappenedwhileIwasgone?”heasks.Isticktosafesubjects.Itell

Papa and Jing about GemmaandGusandLaJeunesseand

howMiss Barstow’s isn’t sobad now that Gemma and Iarefriends.Papaseemspleased.My eyes fly to Jing, who

knowsmorethananyoneelseabout how hard MissBarstow’s has been for me.He saw how I always stoodby myself. He tried to cheerme up when I came homemiserabledayafterday.“I would have liked to see

you all dressed up,” Papasays. “Aunt Hortense musthavebeenbesideherself.”Hepusheshisglassesuphisnoseandtapsthenewspaperpage.“So glad that quarantine is

over. But you?” Papa smilesat me. “You’ve got betterthingstoworryabout,likethenextcotillion,Isuppose.”I can’t stand to have Papa

think this. I’m about to openmy mouth and tell him how

untrue it is, when Jing stepsovertooffermeabiscuit.Hiseyescatchmine.Hewinks. Itake a deep breath andmanagetocontrolmytongue.“So.” Papa looks at me.

“TellmemoreaboutthisGusfellow.”Even as I chatter, a sudden

heaviness comes over me.Thequarantine isover.Whatwill happen to Noah now?He’ll go back to Chinatown.

Will I be able to see himagain? Can we visit eachother? I don’t want to losehim. He is my best friend. Ilike Gus and Gemma a lot,but I can’t tell themeverythingthewayIcanwithNoah.After breakfast, Aunt

Hortense’s houseboys comeandcollectherthings.I try to sneak up the back

stairssoIwon’trunintoher,

but she comes looking forme. “Elizabeth!”She followsmeintomyroom.“YouandIneedtotalk.”“I have to get ready for

school,”Isay.Sheplantsherfeetsmackin

frontofme,pokingatthehairneatlypiledonherhead.“Weneedtotalknow.”Neitherofussitsdown.“HowdidyougetJingout?”“Donaldina Cameron got

himout.”“Whoisshe?”“Someone Billy knows.” I

don’tlookherintheeye.“Sothatoperanonsense?”“Billysaiditwasn’texactly

alie,becausewewentbytheopera.”She crosses her arms and

stares at me. “What do youthink?”“Itwasalie,”Iadmit.“But

why are you tougher on methanonBilly?”“Between your papa and

Mr. Sweeting, Billy hasenough eyes on him. Andthat’sbesidethepointhere.”“Yes,ma’am.”“I’m glad Jing’s back. I

missed him, too. But youcan’t take matters into yourown hands like that,Elizabeth, and then liethrough your teeth to me.

You can’t treatme as if I’mnothingmorethananobstacleforyoutogetaround.”“Yes,ma’am.”“Don’t ‘yes, ma’am’ me.

Just tellme you didn’t go toChinatown.”“Ididn’tgo toChinatown,”

Isay.TechnicallyIdidn’tgo,technically it isn’t a lie, but…“How exactly did you get

himback?”

I stare at my quilt. “Like Isaid, this Donaldina womangot him back. She owedBilly.”AuntHortensenods.Thisis

the way Uncle Karl doesthings.She’susedtoit.“I’msorry,AuntHortense,”

Iwhisper.“I can’t do this anymore,

Elizabeth,” she shakes herhead.“Are you going to tell

Papa?”“It’s not your papa I’m

worried about. It’s you andme.Doyouthinkwecaneverlearntotrusteachother?”Whataquestion. I’venever

really thought aboutworkingsomething out with AuntHortense.DoIevenwantto?Notreally.I don’t say this, but Aunt

Hortense seems to know itanyway.Shesighs,closesher

eyes.Herliptrembles.“Just remember there’s a

pricetopayforsecrets.Trustis what holds us together,Lizzie.Secretstearusapart.”“You called me Lizzie,” I

whisper.“SoIdid.”Herhandsareon

the dresses in my closet,separating themso theyhangan inch apart.When shegetsto theendof thedresses,sheleaveswithoutanotherword.

When I get home fromschool, Uncle Karl and Papaare standing in the drivewaytalking. Papa has his armscrossed in front of him. IsUncleKarltellingPapaabouthow I showed up at hisnewspaperluncheon?Idriftcloser.“I don’t see it that way,”

UncleKarlsays.Papa breathes in sharply.

Hisfaceisred.

“Let him go, Jules.” UncleKarlbrushes thegroundwithhis foot. “Billy has to workthis out for himself. Youknowhedoes.”Heglancesatme. “And as for you, Peanut…Idon’tevenknowwhattosayaboutyou.”Uncle Karl’s intense blue

eyesburn throughme. Iholdmybreath,waitingforhimtotellPapawhatIdid.“So far as I can see, your

daughterisgoingkickingandscreaming into adulthood.Isn’t that right, darlin’?”UncleKarlasks.Idon’tanswer.“You should have seen her

all dressed up for LaJeunesse. You would nothave recognized her.” UncleKarl is smiling, but his eyesaretalkingtome.HewantstomakesureIknowhe’stellingPapaonlythegoodthings.

Irunaroundtoseeifthecordis down, careful to watch tomakesureUncleKarldoesn’tseeme.It isn’t. Too many people

around. Where is OrangeTom?Icheckallofhisusualhaunts,includingthenewonein the bottom of the laundrychute.OrangeTomhasvanished.Allafternoon,Ikeepwatch,

but no matter where Papa,

Billy, and Maggy are, thecorddoesnotcomedown.Asfor Jing, does he know Iknow about his son? Noahmade me swear not to tellanyone. That includes Jing,doesn’tit?Why didn’t I talk to Noah

about this before? We onlythought about getting Jingout, not what would happenafter the quarantine endedandJingcamehome.

It’s early evening by thetime Billy goes out, Papawalks across to the Sweetinghouse, and Jing goes to thebarntotalktotheblacksmith.Maggyandtheparrottakethelaundryin.But still no cord. I break

Noah’s rule and sneak up tothethirdfloor.Jing’sdoorisclosed.“Noah?”Iwhisper.Noresponse.

“Noah?”Still nothing. I take a deep

breath and pull open Jing’sdoor.Noah’s books are not piled

on the chair. Noah’s buttonstrips aren’t heaped on thebed. Noah’s homeworkassignmentsaren’tstackedonthe bookshelf. The colorfulthreadballsNoahandthecatplayedwitharegone.The quarantine is over.

Noah has gone back toChinatown. It was only amatter of time before PapaandtheSweetingsfoundhim.Itwasnokindof life hiddeninanatticroom.It’sbetterforNoah.It’sbetterforJing.It’sbetter.Irundowntomyroomand

slamthedoorandthenIstarttocry.

PartTwo

W

Chapter24

TheEggTrick

hen I wake up, thefirst thing I think is:

No school for five wholedays.ItwilltakethatlongforMiss Barstow to move the

school to the fancier spot inPresidioHeights.Istretchandyawn.Butthenthere’sshoutingin

the hall. I run out. Billy’sdoorisclosed,but thevoicescomethroughit.“You’ve been lying all this

time?”Papaasks.“Notlying,justnotsaying,”

Billyreplies.“Lies of omission are still

lies.”

“I didn’t plan it. It justhappened.”“It just happened? A

successful person has a plan.Noplanisaplantofail.”“Failure, then. That’s my

choice.”“Don’t be stupid, Billy,”

Papasnaps.“Youdefine ‘stupid’asany

decisionyouwouldn’tmake.”Jingcomesupthestairs.He

crosses his arms and rocks

fromfoottofoot.“Billy.” Papa’s voice

softens. “Explain this to mein a way I can understand.You’re earning money for amotorcar?”“It’s not just that. I like to

fight.”“That is a barbaric

sensibility.”“Uncle Karl doesn’t think

so.”“UncleKarlandIdon’tsee

eye to eye on most subjects.Youknowthat.”“He knows more than you

doabouthowtostandupforyourself. People takeadvantageofyou.”“Theydonot.”“RememberthattimeinSan

Mateo?Theysaidtheydidn’tsend for the local doctorbecause they knew he’dcharge and you would treatthemforfree.”

“Yes, I remember. And Ineverwentback.”“Idon’twantpeopletotake

advantageofme.Ineedtobeable to back up what I say.Otherwiseit’sjusttalk.”“Courage comes from your

heart,notyourfists.”“People don’t push you

around if you can handleyourself.”“Fighting is not how you

earnmoneyorrespect.”

“There’s nothing wrongwithbeingafighter.”“I didn’t say there was; I

justdon’twantmysondoingit.”“I’m not going to live my

life as ‘your son.’ I’m goingto live it my way.Makemyown decisions. Think formyself.” Billy bursts out ofhisroomandstormspastJingandme.Papa comes out, his face

red. “I’m sorry you had tohearthat,”hesaystous,thenrunsdownthestairs.

Neither Papa nor Billy isaround for breakfast, but Ican’t stop hearing theirwords. Papa never gets madlikethat.The knife sharpener has

arrived and is working hisgrinding wheel out back.Maggy’s doing the laundry

on the side porch, pouringbluing into the wash water.She scrubs the clothes andfeeds them through thewringer. Jing is cleaning thechicken coop. I head out totalktohim.Ihaven’t saidawordabout

Noah. I hoped Noah wouldtell Jing how I helped him.Jing must have wonderedhowNoahgotfood.Jinghadsomeprovisions in his room.

Did Noah pretend it wasenough?Wouldn’tJingknowbetter?IwantJingtoknowIhelped

Noah. That we’re friends. Iwantitsobadly,Ithinkaboutitallday.“Jing?”He looksup,scrubbrush in

hand.“What’syourlastname?”He rolls his tongue into his

cheek.“Why?”“Justwondering.”

“InChinayour lastname isyour first name. In China, Iam JingChen. InAmerica, IamChenJing.”“WhatshouldIcallyou?”Hepeeksoutfromunderhis

eyebrows.“‘Jing’hasworkedwellforus,don’tyouthink?”“Howdidyougetcaughtin

thequarantine?”He dunks the scrub brush

intothebucketandswishesitaround.“I thoughtIcouldbe

helpful, but the situationwasalreadytoofargone.Istayedtoo long, and they wouldn’tletmeout.”“I’mgladthingsarebackto

normal,”Isay.“Back to normal.” His

eyebrows slide up and thendown.Hetakesthewetbrushout and begins scrubbing thegate.“Aren’tthey?”Hekeepsscrubbing.“Thank

you for coming for me,” hewhispers.I beam. “We tried before.

Billy and I. And I trieddressing up like a nurse, butthe police stopped me. Andthen Gus Trotter wrote aletter.Nothingworked.”Hestopsscrubbing.“Ihave

never dressed as a ladybefore.”“Youlookedgood.”Welaugh.

“I heard you were a leaderinChinatown.”“A leader?” He shakes his

head. “I’m just an oldmagician.” He’s scrubbingagain,hisfacethoughtful.“Did you go to college?” I

ask.His eyes grow larger. He

staresatme.“Ofcoursenot,”hemutters.“You wanted to, though,

didn’tyou?”

Hiseyebrowsfurrow.“Whywouldyousaythat?”“Youliketoreadsomuch.I

just…wondered.”Henods.“Did Uncle Karl have

something to do with thequarantine?”“No.”“Areyousure?”“Yes.”Hemotionswithhis

finger that I should follow

him.Hepulls threeoldstrawhats off the hooks and putsthemontothetacktrunk.HeliftseachhatsoIcansee

there’snothingunderit.“Pickone.”IpointtothestrawhatJohn

Henrytookabiteof.He picks up the hat.

Underneathisanegg.I smile at him. I love this

trick.Ialwayshave.“How’dyoudoit?”

“Amagician never tells hissecrets.”“YoutaughtBilly.”“Notthisone.”“You know a lot that you

don’t talk about, don’t you,Jing?”Iwhisper.He picks up the brush and

returnstothechickencooptocontinue hiswork. Iwait forhim to say something else.It’sonlyasI’mwalkingawaythatIhearhimsay:“You’rea

clever one, Lizzie. I’vealwaysknownthat.”

I

Chapter25

ToilandToil,OurMaggyDoyle

takeoutmypencil towritea poem about Maggy.

When I’m done, I read it toheras shecleans theparrot’s

cage.

Loyal,loyalMaggyDoyleDoesourdishesbuthasnowishes.Toilandtoil,ourMaggyDoyleOnlyyearnstowatertheferns.

Her face screws up.“‘Yearns’?”“‘Yearns’ means ‘wants a

lot.’”Shegivesmea funny look.

“I do not yearn to water theferns,”shemutters.Ilaugh.“Well,whatdoyou

yearnfor?”Shestrokestheparrot.“Maggy?” Nettie calls,

stomping through thekitchendoor and into the drawingroom. She snaps her fingersat Maggy. “I found anotherone.”Maggyclosestheparrot

inhiscage,turns,andfollowsNettie.“Found another what?” I

callafterthem.“Never you mind, Miss

Lizzie. This is betweenMaggyDoyleandme.Right,Maggy?”I don’t like the sound of

this.Ifollowthemtothepathon the other side of theSweeting house, careful nottoletthemseeme.

“There!”Nettiepointstotheflower bed, bright withnoddingdaisies.Maggyleansdown,picksup

adeadrat,andcarriesittotherubbish heap. The Sweetingshavefivestableboysandfivegardeners.ThereisnoreasonMaggyshouldbedoingthis.Idashdownthepathandup

the Sweeting stairs. AuntHortense has her accountingledgersfannedoutinfrontof

her.“Whatisit?”sheasks.“Canyoucome?It’sNettie.

She’smakingMaggypickuprats.”“Rats?” Aunt Hortense

follows me down the steps.Maggy has another dead ratinherhand.“What is this all about,

Nettie?”AuntHortenseasks.Nettie’s eyes harden when

she looks atme. “Nothing toworryabout,Mrs.Sweeting.I

got it all taken care of,ma’am.”Hervoiceischipperandsweet.“Yes,Nettie, I cansee that.

But I would like to know.”Aunt Hortense’s eyes drillintoNettie.“Maggywasjusthelpingus

out. That’s all. Such a nicewoman. Too bad she’s …”Nettietapsatherhead.“Why are you making her

throw out your dead rats?” I

ask.“Nobody wants to touch

’em none,” Nettie says.“Maggy,shedon’tmind.”“Maggy does too mind!” I

shout.Maggy watches me. Aunt

Hortenseplantsherfeet.“Forgoodness’ sake, Nettie.You’re not to treat Maggythatway.”“But, Mrs. Sweeting, she’s

askingtodoit—”

“She is not!” I stamp myfoot.“Let Maggy speak for

herself, Lizzie. Maggy”—Aunt Hortense’s voice isgentle—“did you ask Nettietoletyouhelpwiththis?”“No, thank you. No, no,

no.”“Now,Maggy…Shedon’t

mean that,”Nettie tellsAuntHortense.Aunt Hortense arches an

eyebrowatNettie.“No, no, no.” Maggy

continuesshakingherhead.“Pardonme,ma’am.”Nettie

grindsherteeth.“Imusthavebeen mistaken.” We watchherscurryaway.Maggy takes out her

polishing cloth and beginsworkonagardenseat.“Thank you, Aunt

Hortense,”Iwhisper.“Don’t be silly. We can’t

have our Maggy treated likethat.”Aunt Hortense looks at the

rats. “The work of OrangeTom,nodoubt.”I shake my head. “Orange

Tom’sgone.”“Gone?” Aunt Hortense

frowns.Hereyesshiftrapidlyrighttoleft.“Mustbethenewbarn cat. Maggy, go withLizzie and wash your hands.ScrubthemlikeMr.Kennedy

doesbeforesurgery.”

T

Chapter26

PungYau

he next morning, I findBillyinthecornerofthe

barn, his big hands coveredby puffy gloves, punching aburlap bag of potatoes he’s

hung from the rafters.Thwack, bunkity, bunkity.Thwack, bunkity, bunkity.Juliet skitters around in herstall.JohnHenryhangsintheback. Head up, ears pricked,eyes watchful, not the lazywayheusuallystands,restingononebackleg.Billy slips off his gloves,

picks up a rope, and beginsjumping. The rope slaps theground.

“IsPapastillmad?”Iask.“How should I know,” he

huffs. His face is red exceptaround his mouth, which iswhite.Why doesn’t that partofhisfacegetred,too?“What are you doing that

makeshimsocrazy?”“Thirty-five, thirty-six,

thirty-seven,” he counts.“Looking out for myself,thirty-eight,thirty-nine.”“Why wouldn’t he want

that?”He catches his foot on the

rope, stops, and wipes thesweat from his face. “Hethinks every conflict shouldbe settled by a bread-and-butternote.”“Hedoesnot.”He dribbles water from a

bucket into his mouth, andthen pours the rest over hishead. “People walk all overhim.”

“No,theydon’t.”He wipes the water off his

face. “Sure they do.Where’sOrangeTom,anyway?”“He’sgone.”“Andthekittens?”Hestares

atme.What do I say to this?

“Gone,too,”Imumble.“Is that so?” He puts his

glovesbackonandwhalesonthebagagain.Thwackfumba.Thwack.

WhenIturnaround,Papaisstanding behind us in thebrown tweed vest and jackethewearsontheroad.“Lizzie,I’ve got a local call.Interested?”“Ofcourse!”Papasmiles,histwo-dimple

smile.Thwack. Fumba-fumba.

Billy hits the potatoes sohard, thebagsplitsandsomeof the potatoes spill onto the

barnfloor.“Where?”Iask.“Daisy Bennett’s servant

girl. How soon can you beready?”“Fiveminutes.”Thwack. Thwack. Fumba.

Another potato falls out.Billy’sbackistous.“I need to immunize you

both,”Papasays.“Fromwhat?”Iask.

“Theplague.”“What?”Isay.Billy stops hitting the bag.

Heturnsaround.“It’s a precaution… that’s

all. I’d rather not takechances.”“Why do I need to be

immunized? I’m not goingwithyou,”Billyannounces.“Humorme,”Papasays.“Why should I?” Billy

whispers.Papa’s face gets red.

“BecauseI’myourfather.”“Idon’twantto.”Papatakesabreath,sucksin

his lips. He turns and walksinto the house. I follow him,rolling up the sleeve of myshirtwaist.In the cold storage room,

Papasetshisbagonthetable.Heunrolls theclothtorevealacleansyringe.It’sJing’sjob

toboilthesyringesandrerollthem in clean chamois. Papatakes out a small rectangularbottlemarkedwith an IP forthe maker. Institut Pasteur.And then it says YERSIN’SANTI-PLAGUE SERUM. Hesticks the needle into thebottle and pulls the stopperback, suctioning the brownserumintothechamber.“‘Yersin’s,’”Isay,“rhymes

with‘persons.’”

He swabs me with alcohol.Theneedlepricks.Theserumis injected. Papa cleans myarmjustasBillywalksin.I roll down my sleeve. “I

read that theplaguecan looklikeabadcaseofthefluwitha terrible headache. Swellingin the groin and black-and-blue marks is how youknow.”Billy snorts. “That’s what

youdoinyoursparetime?”

“Swelling in the lymphnodes, yes,” Papa answersme.“Butthisisjustmeerringon the side of caution.There’s no evidence theplague ishere.”Papafocuseson Billy. “Change yourmind?”“No,”Billysays.Papa’sfacefalls.“I’m sorry, Papa,” Billy

whispers. “It’s just, peoplewho get sick get sick. And

people who don’t, don’t. Idon’t see as how yourintervention does much ofanything.”“Sometimes it is just a

matter of giving comfort,Billy.You’rerightaboutthat.But immunizations aredifferent.There’srealsciencebehindthis.Theyworkinsideyou to stimulate your ownimmune system to fight thedisease.Look,youknowhow

to immunize yourself. I’llleave everything in yourroom.”Billy doesn’t seem to care.

But this makes me wonderaboutNoah.Howwillhegetimmunized? And Jing, too,for that matter. It doesn’tseem fair that we getimmunized but no one else.Andwhat aboutGemma andGus?Papasaysthisisonlyaprecaution, so I suppose I

shouldn’tworry.“Get thepicnicbasket from

Jing. I’ll meet you in thebarn,”Papatellsme.I run upstairs and change

into my softest ribbedstockings and my mostcomfortable skirt. It may betwenty-four hours before Ichangemyclothesagain.Jing is in the kitchen,

wrapping turkey legs for thebuggy.Mystomachgrumbles

whenIseehim.Henodstowardthepartially

loaded hamper. “Bacon, corncakes,currantscones.”A happy sigh escapes my

lips.Jingsmiles.In the barn, Papa is

harnessing Juliet. Jing handsme the food basket, and Iplace it in its usual spotbetweenthemedicalbags.Papa climbs in and gathers

the lines, and Juliet prances

out.“Wait.” I hear Jing running

behind us, my coat with thebrown velvet collar in hishands.The Chinese words for

“thankyou”floatthroughmyhead.“Dohje,”Isay.Jing stiffens. His eyes

register shock. Then a hugesmilebustsopenhisface.“Where’d you learn that?”

Papaasksme.

“I found a Chinese-Englishdictionary,”Isay.Aswetrotontothestreet, I

run my hand over my armwhere it aches from theshot.“You immunized me. Whycan’t you immunizeeveryone?”“Not enough serum.Comes

from horses. They lose quitea number before they gatherenoughforoneman.”“Thehorsesdie?”

“Sometimes,yes.”“Icouldn’tstanditifahorse

diedbecauseofme,”Imutter.“You are more important

thananyhorse,anddon’tyouever forget it.” Papa settlesintohisseat.“How did you get the

Yersin’s?”Iaskaswepassamilk wagon driven by aChinese man with a longbraid.“Medical officers are given

immunizations. We have tostaywell so we can care forthesick.”“SoI’mamedicalofficer?”“Todayyou are.”Hewinks

atme.“Butthisisanaccidentcall. Broken bones, I’mguessing.Thegirljumpedoutofasecond-storywindow.”“Why?”“Didn’t want to be

immunized.”Kind of like Billy, I think,

thoughIdon’tmentionthis.Itwould get Papa riled upagain.The dark water of the bay

comes in and out of sight aswe travel up and down thesteep streets. Juliet isbreathinghard,hercoatshinywith sweat. I rest my headagainstPapa.Heputshisarmaroundme.HelikesitwhenIgooncallswithhim.My father reins Juliet into

the Bennetts’ small stable. Islipoffherharness,thenleadher to thewatering troughasPapahurriesuptothehouse.After giving her a flake of

hayfromtheBennetts’bale,Iclimb the steps to the frontdoor. A maid with shockingblue eyes leads me up threestairwells to a tiny dormerroom, where a slenderChinese girl in a maid’suniform lies on a narrow cot

moaning with pain. AnotheruniformedChinese girl, a bitolder, stands in the doorwayspeaking in fast Chinese, thelanguageabarricade.Papaisinthehall,talkingto

them in his soothing voice,but thebiggergirlhasawildlook in her eyes. She won’tstoplongenoughtohearhim.Ican’tunderstandaword,buthermessageisclear.Goaway.

“She’s in pain. I can help.”Papa’svoiceisgentle.“You go. Leave alone,” the

girlsays.The delicate girl in the bed

sobs. The other girl standswithherarmscrossed. Insidethe dormer room are bannersof Chinese characters,tasseled baskets full of socksand towels, a bowl oforanges, a pencil sketch of arooster.

Papa steps closer. “Sheneedshelp.”The older girl shouts, then

slamsthedoorinhisface.Papa sighs. “Maybe Daisy

has someone who cantranslate.” He disappearsdown the narrow stairwell.The voices continue at afuriouspaceinsidethecloseddoor.I wish I had the Chinese-

English dictionary. I

memorizedonlyafewwords,and I have no idea how topronouncethem.“Nei-ho” means “hello.” I

trythisout.“Nei-ho,”Isay.Behind the door, the

conversation slows.Are theylistening?“Nei-ho,” I repeat. And

then,“Pungyao.”Friend.Now one of the girls is

answering me. She’sspeakingslowly,thoughIstill

can’tunderstand.“Pung yao,” I repeat, and

then in English, “Open thedoor.Icanhelpyou.”Silence on the other side,

then whispers followed bylouder rapid-fire Chinese.They seem to be discussingthis.“Pung yao,” I whisper,

touching my hand to myheart.The door opens; the girls

peeratme.“I can help,” I say. “But

onlyifyouletmein.”Theynod.Myfeetmoveastepcloser.

Thedoorremainsopen.Ifinda clean cloth in Papa’s bag.“Can you get cool water onthis?”Iaskthebiggergirl.Her eyes fly tomy patient.

Shedoesn’twanttoleaveherwithme.Butthepatientnods,andtheothergirldisappears.

What would Papa do now?“Wheredoesithurt?”Iask.“My knee,” she answers in

English.“Anywhereelse?”Sheshakesherhead.“CanIdoanexamination?”The girl doesn’t respond. I

step into the attic room,whichsmellslikeoranges.Onthe shelf is a collection ofteacups. An embroideredChinese dress hangs on a

wire. I can only stand upstraight in the center of theroom.I perch on the edge of the

cot.Thisgirlwas so terrifiedthatshejumpedoutasecond-storywindow.Imustn’tscareheragain.Her eyes are glassy with

fear, but she’s worn down.Sheknowssheneedshelp.IexamineherasbestIcan.

Scratches are scattered over

herneckand face.Her lowerarm is badly bruised. Shemusthavelandedinabush.Itprobablybrokeherfall.“Canyoumoveyourarms?”She nods, then shows me.

“It’s just the knee.” Shetouchesherleftknee.“Whatisyourname?”“Mei,”shewhispers.I focuson thekneeasPapa

comesupthestairs.

“Noluck,”hecalls.“Mei,thisismypapa.”Itell

her. “He’s a doctor. He canhelpyou.”“No!”Ifrown.“Hecan.”“No!” She jerks away and

yelpswithpain.“Okay.” My hand is up,

fingerssplayed.“She’safraidofyou,Papa,”

I call out to him. “Can you

tellmewhattodo?”My father makes his

thinking noise—a poppingwith his tongue. He rubs hisfreshlyshavedchin.He’s tootall for the attic even in thecenter where the ceilingcomes to a point. He standshunched over, then slides tothefloor,settlingbackonhisheels so he can peer into theroom as I work. “Okay,Lizzie…We’ll take thisone

stepatatime.”“Shesaysherkneehurts.”“Anythingelse?”“Minorlacerations.”“Fever?”“Hard to say. She could be

warmfromthecrying.”“If she has a substantial

fever,you’llbeabletotell.”Iputmyhandlightlyonher

forehead.“Nofever.”“Good. That’s good. Let’s

focusontheknee.Leftone?”“Yes.”“Can you help Mei move

her leg out of the covers?” Iask Mei’s friend, who ishunkereddownatthedoor.Theothergirlmovestoward

the bed and pulls back thequilt, revealing Mei’s thinbare leg. The knee looksdistorted.Nowonder it hurtssomuch.Papalooksin.“Fromhereit

appears to be a kneecapdislocation,” he says. “Thequestion is … are therecomplications? Could bebrokenbones,sprains.”“HowwillIknow?”“Askherhowlongherknee

hasbeenhurting.”“Itdidn’thurtmuchatfirst,

but every hour now it getsworse,”Meitellsme.“Didyouhearthat,Papa?”I

ask.

“Yes.Checkherankles,herfeet. Go slowly,methodically.”MeiislisteningtoPapa.She

holds her breath as I slowlyrun my hands along her leftleg.WhenIgettothepatella,she winces. “I think it’s justtheknee.”“Probably the best thing is

to give her chloroform andpop it back in. Then seewhereweare.”

“Nochloroform!”Meicries.“Itwillhelpwith thepain.”

Papa’svoiceiscalm.“No!”“We’lldoityourway,Mei.

Lizzie,letmetellyouhowtoslideitback.”Me?Areyoucrazy? Iwant

tosay,butIcan’tletMeiseeI’mafraid,too.“First,Lizzie,feelyourown

knee. See in your mind howthe patella fits with the tibia

andthefemur.”“Likethebonesinthebone

bag,”Isay.“Exactly.The impactof the

fall popped the kneecap.Gether friend to hold her, andthen gently ease the kneecapbackinplace.”Mei’sfriend’seyesarewary

asshestandsnexttothebed.Mei’s face is scrunched uptight. She breathes three bignoisy breaths. My hand is

trembling. I don’t want tohurt her. I glance at myfather. He nodsencouragingly. And I pushthepatellabackinplace.Sheshrieks. I don’t hear thepop,butIfeelit.Tears flow down Mei’s

cheeks.“Yougetit?”Papacalls.“Ithinkso.”Thatmusthave

hurtlikecrazy.“Good. That’s good,

Lizzie.”“Idon’tthinkit’sbroken.”“No, I don’t, either,” Papa

says.Mei and her friend are

talking in Chinese again.Calm,notangry.Everyoneisbreathingmoreeasily.“She can have aspirin,”

Papa says. “We’ll wrap it.Tellheritwillbebettersoonbut she needs to stay off herfeet asmuch as possible.No

goingupanddownthestairs.I’llletDaisyknow.”Mei nods at me. “I heard.Doh je, pung yao,” shewhisperstome.

“

Chapter27

Gus’sIdea

When people getemotional, they can’t

reason,” Papa tells me whenwe’re back in the buggyheadedhome.

“Butjumpingoutawindowrather than gettingimmunized?That’s insanity,”Isay.We pass an advertisement

for Dr. Blake and hisIndestructible Teeth. Whatcould possibly make teethindestructible?“Did Mei seem crazy to

you?”heasks.“Notatall.”“I’m guessing no one

bothered togiveheraproperexplanation of why animmunizationwasrequired. IwishI’dthoughttotalktoheraboutthis.”“Were they trying to

immunize Mei againstsmallpox?”Iask.“Theplague.”“The plague? Why would

they want to immunize her?Mei’s not a doctor or thedaughterofadoctor.”

“Daisy didn’t give anydetails,”Papasaysaswepassa ragman with his wagonpiledhighwithscraps.

***

Whenwegethome,mymindchurns with questions. Billyrefused to get immunizedbecause he knew it wouldupset Papa. But why wouldMeijumpoutthewindow?IstartapoemaboutMei.

Imadeanewfriend,Mei,Whojumpedfromawindowtoday

What rhymes with“patella”?“Fella.”A team clatters across the

cobblestonedriveway. Ipeekoutthewindow.TheTrotters!I dash downstairs. In the

buggyareGemmaandHattie.“Lizzie.” Gemma grins.

“You have to come. We’re

sleeping at my house, thenwe’re going to Playlandtomorrow. Please say youwill.Please.”Shepressesherhandstogether.IglanceatHattie.Sheisstill

prickly.“Ask. Then go get your

things,” Gemma tells me.“We’llhelp.”Gemmaisalreadyoutofthe

buggy,headedintomyhouse,with Hattie behind her.

Gemma’s faster now thatshe’soffhercrutches.In my room, she sifts

through the dresses andshirtwaists in my closet,pushing some to the back,pulling others to the front.She takes out a dress AuntHortense bought for me.“How come you never wearthis?”“Toofrilly.”“Wear it tomorrow,”

Gemmacommands.Hattiepeeksoutthewindow

from behind the blind.“Whose house is that?” Shepoints at the Sweetingmansion.“Hortense and Karl

Sweeting.”She squints at me. “How

come you share a drivewaywiththem?”Idon’tlikethewaysheasks

this.IsshewonderingifPapa

worksforthem?“They’remyauntanduncle.”Hattie’s mouth drops open.

“Karl Sweeting is youruncle?”Inod,watchingher.“How come you never told

anyone?”Hattiedemands.“WhywouldItellanyone?”“You knew, didn’t you,”

HattiedemandsofGemma.Gemma frowns at her.

“What do I care who heruncle is?” She continuesinstructing me on what Ishould and shouldn’t wear.She tries on my hats, andmatches each with a parasolandgloves.On the way out, I let Jing

know I’m visiting theTrotters, andwepile into thecoach. I sit between HattieandGemma.Hattiecan’ttakeher eyes off the Sweeting

mansion. Gemma holds myhand while she and Hattiekeep up a running chatterabout brassieres—a favoritetopic.

When we pull up to theTrotters’,Gusisontheporchwearing a black shirt andbrown football pants,bouncing a big ballwith onehand.“He’s obsessed with that

ball,” Gemma whispers.“Somenewsport,hesays.”“Bouncing the ball is a

sport?” Hattie asks as shepullsherskirtupjustenoughso we see her delicate bootsand gracefully climbs downoutofthecarriage.Gemma shrugs. “Then they

run back and forth trying totosstheballintoafruitbasketnailedtothewall.Basketball,hecallsit.”

“Neverheardofit,”Isayaswewalkuptothehouse.“Nobody has,” Gemma

agrees.

InGemma’sroom,Guslookseverywhereexceptdirectlyatme.Gemma and Hattie hide

their giggles behind theirhands.“I need to talk to Lizzie,”

Gussays.

Hattie doesn’t look happy.First Karl and HortenseSweeting are my uncle andaunt.NowGushasamessageforme.Gemma’s hands fly to her

hips.“What’sthebigsecret?”Gus comes closer and

whispers into my ear: “Themonkey’sdead.”Ijump.“Areyousure?”Henods.“Whatdidhesay?Youhave

to tell us. Did you hear,Hattie?”Gemmaasks.“Themonkey’sdead,”I tell

Gemma.“Remember?”“Does thatmean theplague

ishere?”“I don’t know, Gemma,” I

say.“Ibettergohome.”Gemma frowns. “Not now.

We’regoingtoeat lunchandthenspendthenightandthengotoPlayland.”“I can’t do that. I have to

findoutaboutthis,”Itellher.Gemma’s hands are on her

hips again. “Wecameall thewayovertogetyou.”“I know. I’m sorry. But I

have to talk to Uncle Karl.And Papa’s a doctor. He’llcome home when he hearsabout this. He’ll need help.So…Ihavetogo.”“Don’t be crazy. If it’s the

plague,Lizzie,youcan’t—”“I’ll driveyou,”Gus jumps

in.“Whose side are you on?”

Gemma demands. Hattiesteps closer to Gemma andtakesherhand.“Hers.”Guspointstome.“I’mtryingtokeepherfrom

gettinghurt,”Gemmasays.“It’s not working,” Gus

says.“Thanksalot,”Gemmatells

him. “Anyway, you can’tdrive her without a

chaperone.”Hattienods.“Who’s going to know?”

Guscrosseshisarms.“Iwill.”“Gemma!” Gus rolls his

eyesather.Gemma sighs. “You owe

meforthis.”“Fine,”Gussays.“I’msorry,”Iwhisper, then

followGusoutthedoor.“Lizzie, wait!” Gemma

shoutsafterme.“Promisemeyou won’t do anythingstupid.”I run back to Gemma’s

room and give her a quickhug. “Don’t worry. I’ll befine.”

In the small barn, we climbinto the buggy, and theTrotters’stableboyhandsthelines to Gus. Gus makes aclicking noise, and the little

chestnuttrotsforward.Outonthestreet,Gusglancesoveratme. “That’s not all, Lizzie. IheardtheyweregoingtoburndownChinatown.”“What!Why?”“I don’t know. They hate

theChinese.Theywant themout.”“You can’t just burn down

people’s houses. That’scriminal! They have noright.”

“It’snotmyidea.”“Who?Who is going to do

this?”“I don’t know exactly. I

don’t even know if it’s true.I’ve been asking aroundbecause youwanted to knowabout themonkey.” His faceturnsred.“When are they going to

burnChinatown?”“Iheardmidnighttonight.”“Tonight! Gus, they can’t.

The police have to stopthem!”“And they will. At least, I

thinktheywill.”When we get to the

Sweeting mansion, I thinkGuswilljustdropmeoff.Buthe hands the horse andcarriage to Ho and hurriesafterme up themarble stepsthroughthethicksweetsmellof jasmine. In the foyer, theelectric chandelier sparkles.

We’re already inside by thetime the butler appears. Ialwayscomeinbeforehehasa chance to get the door.Hedoesn’tlikethis.IwalkGus through the big

kitchen, which smells ofbanana pudding. Nettie isinstructing twohouseboysonthe correct use of thedumbwaiter. She ignoresme.We really don’t like eachother after what happened

with Maggy. I hoped AuntHortense would fire her, butshehasn’tyet.Upstairs, Aunt Hortense is

on the telephone. I peek intoUncleKarl’soffice.UncleKarl lookspleasedto

see me. He’s wearing a red-stripedvestandawhitelinensuit.Astrawboaterhangsonthe hat rack. “Why, Peanut,you’ve brought a friend tovisit.”

“Uncle Karl, this is GusTrotter.”“Pleased to make your

acquaintance, Mr. Trotter,”UncleKarlsays.“You, too, Mr. Sweeting,

sir,”Gussays.“We’re here because we

heard the monkey died,” Isay,andbracemyself.UncleKarlgroans. “Lizzie!

Doyouneverlearn?”I blunder on. “But, Uncle

Karl, if the monkey died,doesn’t thatmean the plagueishere?”“Poppycock.Hearsay.”“But Dr. Kinyoun injected

theplaguegerm—”“Kinyounoffedthemonkey

toprovehispoint.Hehadnochoice.Hisreputationwasonthe line. The quarantine wasmassively unpopular. Hedidn’t want to look like anignoramus for having called

it.”He pulls the dowels of

papers down and beginssifting through them. Whenhe finds the article he’slookingfor,hesetsitinfrontofme. “Look here.” He tapsthe Chinese words. Thetranslationishandwrittenandpastednexttothetext.“Eventhe Chinese can see throughtheseshenanigans.”

THEMONKEYISDEAD

Why should Chinatown’sgoodnamedependonthelifeanddeathofamonkey?…Inthe view of this newspaper,the monkey’s death was notcaused by plague. Alas, themonkey’s death was due tostarvation—a result of itsunlucky encounter with thisphysician.

I hand the page to Gus to

read.“If this monkey nonsense

weretrue,don’tyouthinkI’dsplash it all over the frontpage?”UncleKarlasks.“Yes.”“YoubetIwould.Sellalot

of newspapers, that’s forsure.”Uncle Karl will do

practically anything to sellmorenewspapers.Ioncesawhim give free puppies to

newsboys who sold more ofhisnewspaper, theCall, thanofHearst’sExaminer.“Mr. Sweeting, sir.” Gus

looks directly at Uncle Karlfor the first time. “There’stalk of burning downChinatown.”Uncle Karl nods. “I know

thereis,butitdoesn’tamounttoahillofbeans.Chinatownis in the heart of the city. Ifthey torch it, what’s to stop

thewholecity fromburning?It’s just talk. Cooler headswillprevail.”“Yes,sir,”Gussays.“Look,Iappreciatethatyou

two young people are socivic-minded this afternoon,but on a beautiful day liketoday … I’d head out toOcean Beach.” Uncle Karlstands up to usher us out.“Shall I arrange a ride foryou?”

“Not right now. Thanks,UncleKarl,”Isay.Uncle Karl has made me

feel better. Burning downChina-town. Who would dothat?Still, somethinghe saidniggles. He said a fire inChinatownwouldputthecityat risk. It’s as if he’s notworried about Chinatown,onlytherestofthecity.Gus and I walk down the

formalstairwell.Ialwaysuse

the servants’ stairs, but if Itake Gus that way, it willmakeAuntHortensecrazy.Outsideonthecobblestones

between the houses, Guspoints to a dead rat. “We’vehadwaymoredead rats thanusual this year, have younoticed?”“Yes, and our mouser has

run away. Seems we shouldhave fewer dead ones layingaround.”

“At school we’ve beenreading about London inShakespeare’stime.Theyhadthe plague then. They thinkShakespeare’s sisters died ofit.”“Really?”Gusissosmart.“Yep…andtheytalkabout

alltherats.”“Papa says rats are

connectedtolotsofdiseases.”Gus nods. “I suppose, but

that’s not the only thing that

bothersme.Whenpeople tryso hard to prove somethingisn’t true, it makes mesuspicious.”“So what are you saying,

Gus?Youthinktheplagueishere?”“Iwonder.”“Well, Papa says there are

no confirmed cases,” I tellhim.Gus climbs into his buggy.

“Then I’m wrong. He’d

know.”“Gus?”“Yes.”Heturnsbacktome.

“Thank you for finding outand for bringing me home.You’re a good”—my facegets hot—“you know,friend.”“Oh, um, yes.” He turns

away,butnotbeforeIseethebrilliantsmileflashacrosshislips.

After dinner, I spot Billy inthe stable saddling JohnHenry.I run to the barn in my

stockingfeet.“Whereareyougoing?”“Nowhere.”“Do you know when Papa

willbeback?”“I think JackClemons took

him up to San Rafael. Hiswifehadaseizure.Beatleasta day before we’ll see him

again.”“CanIaskyousomething?”“Shoot.”“Gus was talking about

people burning downChinatown. Have you heardanythingaboutthat?”Billy’s eyes shift slightly.

He slips the bit into JohnHenry’smouth.“Why?”“Why? Because it’s

important.”

“IsJinghere?”“No.”“Whereishe?”“Idon’tknow.”“When’s he coming back?”

BillypullsthereinsoverJohnHenry’s ears and then flapsthemoverthepommel.“Idon’tknowthat,either,”I

say. “Hey, wait. You knowsomething.”“No.”Hisvoicefalters.

“Youdo.”Billy places the toe of his

boot in the stirrup. “I don’tknowanything!”“Billy.” I hang on his arm

like I used towhenwewerelittleandIwantedsomething.“Tellme.”“Stop being annoying.

Look.” He shakes me off,turns, and looks straight intomy eyes for once. I see theold Billy then. He’s there

behindthenewone.“I’minafighttonight.Gotabigpurse.I don’t want to be worriedaboutyou.Stayoutofthis,allright?”“Youworryaboutme?”“Ithappens,”hesnorts.Ilet

go of him, and he gets ontoJohnHenry.“Shakespeare’s sisters died

oftheplague,”Itellhim.“Bully for Shakespeare’s

sisters. You’re not going to

die of the plague. But youmight stick your nose whereitdoesn’tbelong.”“UncleKarlsaidtheyaren’t

going to burn Chinatowndown.”“He’s right, so go inside,

Lizzie, like a good girl.” Hewhacks John Henry with hiscrop and the big horse trotsforward.“Can’tIcomewithyou?”“No.GointhehouseorI’ll

tell Aunt Hortense. I meanit!”

I

Chapter28

TheNightRide

’ll stayoutof itonceI’veletNoahandJingknowto

getoutofChinatown. I hopeUncle Karl is right, butthere’s no way I’m going to

sitaroundthehouse.Ineedtowarn them, even if it meanslyingtoAuntHortenseagain.Billy would only say stayawayifthereweresomethinggoingon.Navigating Chinatown’s

narrow streets with a horseand buggy is too hard. Billycouldbarelymanage.AndifItook the wagon, who wouldwatch itwhile I searched forNoah?

I could put on my overallsand ride Juliet bareback, butAuntHortensewouldkillme.She’d rather I rode in mybirthday suit. She doesn’tevenapproveofsplitskirts.IfIridepastherwindow,she’llhearme.Myonlyhope is togoafter

she falls asleep. This time Iwon’t be so stupid as to useUncle Karl’s name. Shedoesn’t know about Noah.

Shewon’tfindoutaboutthis,either.I’llbebackbeforeshewakesup.AsIwaitinmyoveralls,the

big yellowmoon high in thenight sky, my hands shakeandmykneeswobble.Maggyisasleep.Jingisn’tbackyet.TheSweetingbedroomison

the other side of theirmansion, but what about theservants? The Irish sleep onthe fourth floor, and the

Chinese sleep in thebasement. Will they hear?Twohuntingdogsarekeptinthestableat thefarcorneroftheir property. Will AuntHortense and Uncle Karlassumetheirdogsarebarkingataskunk?Orsendsomeonetoinvestigate?I tie my hair back, take

Billy’s old cap off the hatrack, and let myself out thebackdoor.Thesoundsof the

doorshutting,mystepsonthefootpath, even my breathing,seem unnaturally loud.Someoneisgoingtohear.In our barn, Juliet is lying

down in her straw bed. Mypresence startlesher, and shegets up. She knows Ishouldn’tbehereatthishour.The windowless tack room

is pitch-black. Light a gaslamp? No. If a maid or astable boy looks out, they’ll

see a light and knowsomethingisamiss.Ifeelmyway through the bridles towhat I think is Juliet’s, butwhen I get it out to themoonlight, I see it’s an oldonewithabustedthroatlatch.Back I go, running my

hands along each bit, until Ifind another round snafflering.ThistimeI’mright.In my overalls I’ve packed

money, matches, and a

cookie.I’dliketoridewithalight, but I can’t gallopholding a lantern. There’s afull moon out tonight. Julietshouldbefine.Istickmyfingerintotheflat

space behind Juliet’s teeth;she opens her mouth for thebit, and I slip the headstalloverherears.ThenIleadherto the mounting block, lacemy hands through her darkmane, get a firm hold of the

reins, and slide my leg overherwarmback.One horse is quieter than a

horseandabuggyorahorseand a wagon, but hooves onthe cobblestones make aracket.Myplan is to ride onour grass until the lastpossible moment, then cutacrosstothecobblestonesforthefinaltenfeet.Juliet knows me well. I

don’t have to kick her to get

hertomove.Aslightsqueezewill do. Sometimes I justthink what I want and shedoesit.I huddle over Juliet’smane

aswetrotalongthegrass.Myheartpumpswiththethrillofridingin thecrispnightair. Isteer her around the last treeand onto the driveway. Herhooves clatter as we trotthrough the gate.Butwhen Iturn back to look, nothing

stirs.Thestreetisdarkandquiet.

A lamplighter tends to agaslight; electric porch lightsflicker. The wind cutsthrough my jacket; the nightiscolderthanIexpected.InthedistanceIhearahorse

snort, a drunkenman’s song,theclankingofmetal.I keep Juliet trotting down

the centerof the street, awayfrom the dark alleys. Aunt

Hortense’svoicerunsthroughmyhead.Thisisnoplacefora young lady, Elizabeth. Foronce,she’sright.IfIweretodisappearrightnow,itwouldbe morning before anyoneknew, and that might be toolate.The girls from Miss

Barstow’s talk about peoplegetting “shanghaied.” Out ofthe darkness, someone grabsyou and hits you over the

head. When you wake up,you’re on a ship sailing forShanghaiorsomeotherplacehalfway around the world.Some eventually make ithome.Mostdonot.The road is flat on this

block. I urge Juliet to gallopbefore the steep hills beginagain and I have to pull herback to a jog. I pass a fewbuggies and men on footcoming home from the

saloons, butnoonepays anyattention to me. In the dark,with my short hair, Billy’scap, and my overalls, I looklikeaboy.Upanddownthestreetswe

go. When the street is levelagain,IsqueezeJuliet’swarmsides, and she breaks into agallop.She’sbreathinghard.Up ahead, an abandoned

wagonblockstheroad.Ipullher up. Juliet prances, roots

with her head. I wheel herbackaround theway I came,but when I turn, five menappearoutofthedarkness.In front of me, the men.

Behindme,thewagon.“Purtyhorse,”ayoungman

withascruffybeardsays.Theyformawallinfrontof

me. Juliet senses my terrorandspins.Theshortonewithsweaty, shiny skin has brassknuckles.

I consider the wagon. It’stoo big to jump. Could wesqueezethrough?No.“Why, she’s a girl, ain’t

she?’saysthetallonewhoismissingmostofhisteeth.Hehasaraspylaugh.“A horse and a girl. Looks

likewehitthejackpot.”“You give us that horse,

littlegirl,andmaybewe’llletyougo,”ScruffyBeardsays.“Ormaybewewon’t.”The

short one smells of rum andurine.Amanwithabullchesthas

aknife.Iseeitglint.They’re closing in. I leap

off,slipmyfingersundertheheadstall, and pull Juliet’sbridle off. I swing the bridlehardandhitJulietonthebuttwiththebit;sheboltsthroughthe men. With no bridle onand no saddle, she’simpossible to catch. In the

commotion, as they chaseher,Irunformylife.My feet fly over the street,

footsteps right behind me. Ipickupspeed,glancingback.There’s more room betweenus now, but just as I turnaround,my foot twists and Ifly through the air and slamhard into the street. ScruffyBeard leapsontomebefore Ican get up. I don’t see hisface.ButIcanfeelhisbeard.

Smellhissweat.I yank free, but a cold arm

like a metal pipe wrapsaround my chest. A secondarmhasmebythethroat.I scream.The arm tightens,

cutting off the sound. BullChestknocks thebackofmyknees with a metal bar, andmy legs cave. I collapseforward, his chest bearingdown on me. I gasp in thesmell of his rotting teeth, try

tokickout.Trytoshovehimoff.Think, think, I tell myself,

but my mind has gone dark.That’s when Billy’s voicecomes to me. There arepoints on a person, Lizzie,that will kill them. Temple,armpit, liver, groin. Behindtheear.With a sudden shock of

power, I bustmy arm out ofBullChest’slockandhithim

as hard as I can behind hisear.Heyelpsandloosenshisgrasp for one second, and Ipull free. Scruffy Beardcatches my leg. I yank itloose; the denim rips. I runlikefire.

M

Chapter29

Honolulu

yheart beats fast.Myteeth chatter. I run

past Chinatown, trying tofigureoutwheretostop.TheChinatown streets are lively

even this late. So differentfrom how it was during thequarantine. A gamblingparlor is lit upwith gaslight.Oneof the shops is open, itswindow crammed with driedsea horses, snakes, birds,crabs, live ducks, and greenfrogs. I keep running,terrifiedthat themenarestillfollowing, though when Ilook back—no one. I’mdripping sweat, but the wind

chills me. I just want to gohome, but I have to warnNoah.Irememberoncehetoldme

he lives in an alley offKearny, but I have no ideawhere that is. All the streetsignsareinChinese.Mycapisgone.Myhairhas

fallen down around myshoulders. No mistaking meforaboynow.I check my locket watch.

Eleven-thirty. I only have ahalf hour! I need to asksomeoneforhelp.Butwho?Ihopeforawhiteman.But

I feel more comfortableasking someone like Jing. Itrust him more than anyoneelse, even Uncle Karl. Awaveofguiltcomesoverme.Whatathought!Still, it couldn’t be a white

man, because a white manwon’t be able to read the

streetsigns.HowmanywhitemenknowChinese?An old man with a short

beardwalksby.Buthehasasourface.Ican’tbringmyselfto ask him. A younger manwatches from across thestreet. The way he looks atmemakesmeshudder.I pass by three other men,

but none seem right. Wherearethewomen?Then I spot a kid, maybe

nineyearsold.Hehasastickinhishand,andhe’srunningit along an iron railing.Rappity fump. Rappity fump.What’shedoingoutsolate?“Hey? Can I ask you

something?”Theboy turns.Hiseyesare

watchful, but he doesn’t runaway.“Look,” I say, “do you

knowaboynamedNoah?”Hewhackshis stickagainst

his pantaloons. He doesn’tanswer, but I can tell heknows.“Could you take me to

him?”Ilowermyvoice.“I’mafriendofSixofSix.”Ashockofsurpriseregisters

in his eyes. “Six of Six …you?”“Yes.”Theboy frowns. “You look

likeagirl.”Ishrug.

“NogirlcouldbeafriendofSixofSix.”“HowwouldIknowaboutit

otherwise?”He peers at me. “What’s

Noah’sChinesename?”“Choy.”The boy nods reluctantly.

“Could go get him …maybe,”hemutters.He’s afraid to show a

strange white girl whereNoah lives. But we don’t

have time, and I can’t standout here by myself. What ifthosemencomeforme?“Iwanttogowithyou.”He shakeshishead. I reach

intomypocketandpulloutanickel.The boy inspects the nickel

inthemoonlight.Heteststheweightinhispalm,thenslipsit into his pocket. I followhim down a shadowy alley,whichgetsdarkeranddarker.

Iputmyhandout,feelingmyway.Thewallisgrimy.Icanbarely see the boy.Where isheleadingme?My panic rises as the dark

presses in. In front of me adoor squeaks, opening to abarely visible space. I grabthe boy’s shirt. I can hardlybreathe.And then—smoke. The

smell is thick inmy nostrils.Have they started? Are they

burningChinatown?WhydidI come here? I’ll be burnedalive.But no. Cigarettes. Only

cigarettes.Tinyredcirclesoffire in the night. We’rewalking by people smokingcigarettes. I let go of theboy’sshirt.We go left, down rickety

metal stairs that creak fromour weight. The banistersways, and I yank my hand

back.Thesoundechoesinthestairwell.At the bottom, my feet hit

hard dirt. I follow the boybehind a paper screen andthroughanotherdoorway.Behind me footsteps. My

heart thumps. I grabhis shirtagain.“Someone’scoming,”Iwhisper.“It’snextdoor.”We walk across an

underground room, this one

darker than the last.Something smells awful. IholdmybreathforaslongasIcan,thengasp.Mystomachclenches; food shoots up mythroat. I barely manage tokeep it down.A sick taste inmymouth.“What is that smell?” I

whisper.“Nevermind.”That’swhenIrememberthe

matchesinmypocket.Istrike

one. Ina flash I see the tiny,cluttered room. Tables andchairs are shoved on top ofeach other, and barrels arepiled high. Each barrel isclosed,exceptonehasshoes.It’snotjustshoes.It’sfeet.A cry comes out of my

throatbeforeIcanstopit.A body is rolled in the

barrel.Anotherisstuffedintoa burlap sack, just the knees

visible.Thematchgoesout.“They’re dead,” I whisper,

strikinganothermatch.Theboydoesn’tanswer.My

skin crawls. My mouth goesdry.“Areyousurethis is thewaytoNoah?”“Yes.Thesafeway.”Thisisthesafeway?Itryto

light another match, but myhand is shaking too hard. Ikeepwalking.“I’mnotsupposedtobeout.

My father might see me if Itakeyoutheotherway.”I follow even closer.Don’tleavemehere.We’re walking up two sets

of stairs to a courtyard. Theboy heads for a skinny door—half thewidth of a normalone,twothirdstheheight.Heknocks.Nooneanswers.Heknocksagain.Please letthisbeNoah.

The door cracks open. Inearly wet my pants. Andthen—Noah!His eyes are wide. “Lizzie,

what—!”I hug him. I don’t want to

lethimgo.Theboywatches,his eyes flickering withfascination.NoahtalkstohiminChinese. The boy answersback, his tone full ofquestions. Noah shakes hishead, his voice definite. The

boydisappears.“Noah, I heard they’re

coming. They’re going toburn down Chinatown.Tonightatmidnight.Wehaveto get out of here. You andJingneedtocomehome.”Noah gasps. He closes his

eyes, and when he opensthem, he’s breathing hard asif he’s been running. Heshakes his head. “I desertedthem for the quarantine. I

can’tdothatagain.”“But what’s the sense of

stayingandgettinghurt?”“You warned me. Now go

home, Lizzie. It isn’t safehere.” I follow him into asmall room. There’s a barrelof rice with an abalone shelldipper, neat stacks ofnewspapers against onewall,and a rack of bright silkclothesagainstanother.“If you don’t go, I won’t,

either,”Isay, thoughIsoundbraver thanIfeel.Partofmewants to help Noah. Theotherpartdoesn’twant togobackhomealone.“IsJinghere?”Iprayheis.

He’ll keep me safe. Healwayshas.Pleaselethimbehere.“He’s on his way back to

yourhouse,”Noahtellsmeasa furry orange tail thrashesout from behind a bolt of

cloth.“OrangeTom!”Noah nods. “I tried to get

him to go back. Hewouldn’t.”“Helikesyou.”“Yes…”Hetakesmyhand.

“We’vegottogo.”“WhereisyouruncleHan?”“At a meeting of the Six

Companies.”We take a different way

back up to the mouth ofChinatown. Noah stops andknocksondoorsaswego.Hewarns them in fast Chinese,his hands gesturing wildly.“Honolulu”istheonlywordIrecognize. Soon boys arescurryingafterus.“Noah,” I whisper, “why

were there dead bodies inthose barrels? That kid tookme past them on the way toyou.”

Noah does a double take.“Shhh,” he whispers. “Wearen’t allowed to talk aboutthat.”The boys following us are

mostly Noah’s age. Six ofSix, I’m guessing, thoughtherearemorethansix.Word spreads through the

streets. “Honolulu!Honolulu!”theyallcry.“What does that mean?” I

ask.

“They burned downChinatowninHonoluluwhenthere was a plague outbreak.Everybody was afraid thiswouldhappenhere.”We’re running now. There

seemstobeaplan.Theywereexpectingthis.“Honolulu!Honolulu!”Some hold paper lanterns,

kerosene lamps, candles.Boys are dressed in brightChinese pants and blouses.

They are in short pants anddarkjackets.Othersareallinblack.In the distancewe hear the

sound of horses. The shoutsof men.We see the flash oftorches. There are hoots andhollers in the dark night,some twenty men onhorsebackandonfoot.Are the men who attacked

me out there? I grab Noah’shand.Noahwrapshis fingers

aroundmine.Hewon’tletgo.“Noah!” I shout, but he

can’thearmeovertheroarofthe approaching mob. Myarms tremble. My handsshake.IsqueezeNoah’shandasPapa’swordsfloatthroughmy head. Courage comesfrom your heart, not yourfists.Noah stands in the road.

Oneboy,hishandraised.Mythroat feels frozen. I stand

next to him,my hand in his.Togetherwe raise our linkedhands.Soontheothersfallin…alineofsilentboys,handsraisedinthenight.Thefirstofthemobseesus.

Their torches are held high,burningbright.“Get out of the way!”

someoneshouts.Somehorseshave stopped; others keeptrotting toward us. There aremen on foot. There are men

withknives.Weare justabunchofkids

standing together in onewobblyline.Wecan’t fight them.We’re

outnumbered. We have tooutthinkthem.Moremenjointhemob.Myheartbeatsloudlyinmy

head.“Hey, hey, excuse me.

Move out of the way.” Abrown horse gallops toward

us.Juliet!I gasp. Those men caught

her!They’vecometogetme.But the tall rider is Billy.

BillyhasJuliet!“Lizzie, what are you

doing? Get out of there!Didn’t I tell you to stayhome?”Billyshouts.“Getheroutofhere!”abig

man in fisherman’s thigh-highbootsshouts.Othersjoinhim.

But I’m not leaving Noah.“Billy,helpus!”Ishout.Juliet is walking across the

space between the Chineseand the mob. “Come on,Lizzie,” Billy says in thevoice he uses to gentle ahorse.Idon’tmove.“Getheroutofhere.We’re

goingtotorchthisplace.”“They’restealingourjobs.”“Send’embacktoChina.”

“Burn it! Burn it!” theyshout.Mymind freezes.We can’t

stop them. I look at theglistening torches. And thensuddenly in a rush it allmakes sense. The monkey’sdeath,thefeetinbarrels.Papa and Uncle Karl are

wrong. The plague is here.But everyone is hiding it. Isthereawaytousethatnow?“It’s the plague,” I shout.

“Themonkeydied.Weknowfor sure. If you catch it,there’ll be nobody to protectthecity.”“That ain’t true,” someone

yells.“Allthemorereasontoletit

burn,”anothermanshouts.“Keepitfromspreading.”“Burnitout!”theyshout.“Why you in there? Aren’t

you afraid you’ll get sick?”somebodyelseshouts.

“Iftheplague’shere,burnitout!” a voice bellows frombackinthecrowd.“Burn it! Burn it!” Others

takeupthecry.“Lizzie!”Billyagain.“You can’t burn it.” My

voiceisstrong.“Asktherichpeople. Ask them if themonkeydied.Askthemwhatthatmeans. You go in there,you’ll catch theplague.Theywon’t.”

“Don’t make no sense,”someone else says. “Why’dyou go in there if the plagueisthere?”“I’ve been immunized,” I

say.“Immu-what?” someone

asks.“It’s medicine. A shot so I

don’tgettheplague.”“Thattrue?”“Yes!”Ishout.

“Can I get me one?”someoneelsecalls.“How’boutme?”“Me!Me!” The voices call

fromallaround.The mob is breaking apart.

Somewant tobe immunized.Others just want to seeChinatown burn. Themen inthebackhootforburning,butsometurnback.“The monkey’s dead. It

means any of us could die.

Don’tgointhere,”Ishout.“The monkey’s dead. The

monkey’sdead.”Weallpickupthecall.“Anybody can die. Go in

there,you’llbenext!”Billy’svoiceboomsovertherest.Thesmallgroupintheback

is moving forward, fire intheir eyes. The leader on thesmall gray horse turns onthem. “You immu-nozed?Any of you? You want to

die?”“Ain’t going to die. Just

burn the place. That’ll takecareofit.”“Theplague.Younumskulls

ever heard of it? Deadliestdiseaseintheworld.”TheChineseareononeside

with me. The mob on theother. Billy and Juliet standbetweenus.“He’s right!” Billy says.

“Youcatchit,youdie.”

“Hey, ain’t that the fighterwesawtheothernight?”“Billy!” somebody shouts.

“It’sBilly!”Billy waves to them. “I’m

thedoctor’s son. Iknow. It’sdangerous to go in there.Don’triskit.”“Got to get rid of it. How

we going to do that?”somebodyelseshouts.“Go on, then,” the mob

leader shouts. “You want to

kill yourself … it ain’t aprettywaytogo.”“Burn it down. We can’t

catchnothing.”“Itdon’tworklikethat!”“Bestthingistogohome.”I

hear a familiar voice.Out ofthe darkness, Gus appears!He trotshisgraymare toourside.Gusstandswithus.“The rats!” Gus shouts.

“Kill the rats! They spreadthe disease. Thatwill get rid

ofit.”Thisissuchasmartthingto

say. True or not, it gives themobsomethingtodo.“Kill the rats!” Billy takes

upthecry.“Killtherats!”weallshout.

“The rats! The rats! Therats!”

O

Chapter30

TheServantsVanish

n thewayhome, I ridedouble behind Gus.

Where exactly do I put myhands? How do I keep my

legsfromtouchinghis?WhatifAuntHortenseseesthis?Ifthere’s anything moreimproper than ridingbareback on your own, it’sridingbarebackbehindaboy.“How’d you know I’d be

there?”Iaskhim.“I’mstartingtoseehowyou

operate.”It seems after what I’ve

beenthrough,theleastofmyworries should be riding

behind Gus, but it’spractically all I think aboutthewholeridehome.Beingagirl is complicated. But itisn’tallbad,Ihavetoadmit.Noah rides behind Billy.

Billy seems to know thatNoahisJing’sson.How?Gus lets me off in front of

the gate. The fewer horsesthat clatter across thedriveway, the better.NobodywantstowakeAuntHortense.

Noah slipswordlesslyup theback stairs. Billy and I putJulietaway.“Didyouwin?”IaskBilly,

rubbing Juliet’s legs withliniment.Heshakeshishead.“Nope.”“I’msorry.”“That’sokay.Ihaveanother

plan.”“For how to make the

money?”

“Yep.”“Atleastyoudon’tlooklike

yougotbeatuptoobadlythistime.How’dyouknowI’dbethere, anyway?” I ask,checking Juliet’s watertrough.“IcamehomeandputJohn

Henry away. I was justfinishing when Juliet trottedup,nobridle,nosaddle.Iranupstairs to see if you werethere. When you weren’t, it

wasn’t hard to figure outwhereyou’dbe.Youaresuchan idiot. Don’t you realizehowdangerousthatwas?”“How’d you know about

Noah?”He smiles his most

charming Billy smile as hetosses a flake of hay intoJuliet’smanger.“Iwentuptoseethekittens.”“Youmethim?”“I found the poem you

wroteforhim.”“But you didn’t tell

anyone.”“Do I look like a squealer?

Look.”Hestops,brushingthehayoutofhishair.“Keepthisquiet, okay?There’smore toAunt Hortense than youthink. But she’ll never in amillion years understandthis.”“I know,” I say, closing

Juliet’sstalldoor.

Upstairs, I head forMaggy’sroomlikeIusedtorightafterMamadied.Maggysitsupinbed.“MissLizzie?”I curl up in her bed. She

strokes my hair as I tell hereverything that happened. Itdoesn’t matter if she doesn’tunderstand it all. Whatmatters is thatshe’shereandshe accepts me just as I am.WhenI’mfinishedtellingherthe whole long story, she

settlesmeintomyownbed.

In the kitchen the nextmorning, Jing is there,serving hotcakes. Our eyeswatch each other. It’s onlythetwoofus.ButheknowsIknow, and thatmakes all thedifference.“Why didn’t you tell us

aboutNoah?”He nods as if he’s been

expecting this question. He

wipes his hands on a dishtowel.“Itwouldn’thavebeenfair.”“Fair?”Ifrownathim.“Mr. and Mrs. Sweeting

would not have liked it. If Ihad told you, it would haveput you and your papa in anawkward position. Againstyour own flesh and blood. Itwas my secret; it seemedunfairtoburdenyouwithit.”Asmuch as I hate to admit

it,he’sright.“I’mgladIgottomeethim.

Ishestillhere?”“Notforlong.”I nod. “Jing? Somebody’s

hiding the bodies of peoplewho died of the plague inChinatown,aren’tthey?”He eyes me carefully. “It

isn’t justChinatown.They’rehiding them everywhere.Shipping them out on carts,on train cars, in cargo holds.

Doctors are falsifying deathcertificates.Nobodywants tobelievewhat’shappening.”“Why?”“Some are terrified. Others

think it’s bad for business.There’s all kinds of finger-pointing andmisinformation.”“We have to get everyone

immunized,” I say. “It’s theonlysolution.”“No!” His face is red; his

nostrilsflare.“It’s science, Jing. It’s like

theelectric lights.Rememberhow we didn’t believe thatwouldwork,either?”Heshakeshishead,hisface

stony.Halfofmy father’spatients

think evil spirits causedisease. They’re certain acharm hung on a ribbon, arabbit’s foot, or an astrologychart is more effective than

real medicine. But this isJing.He’snotlikethat.I stand in front of him. “I

was immunized. I can’t gettheplague.”Jingturnsandwalksoutthe

door.

In the parlor, the dark nightcloth still hangs over theparrot, Mr. P. “MaggyDoyle,” the parrot chirps.“Maggy Doyle. Maggy

Doyle.”Strange, I’ve never heard

the parrot say that before.Pretty much all he says is“dirty work” and “supper’sready.”My boots are in Maggy’s

room. I go back up to getthem. The hall is silent. Herdoor is closed. “Maggy?Areyouuphere?”Iknock.“Maggy?”Noanswer.

I crack open the door. Theroom is hot and stuffy.Maggy is on her bed, shinywithsweat.“Maggy!” I touch her

forehead; heat radiatesthroughmyhand.“You’resick,”Iwhisper.She moans. Her eyes are

closed, and her arms arecrossedinfrontofher.I try to think clearly as if

this were a patient and not

Maggy.Papawouldwashhishands.Hewouldtaketimetogather the supplies he needs.He would bring cool clothsfor her fever, then examineher. He wouldn’t jump toconclusions. He wouldremaincalm.I go downstairs, wash up,

andgetwhatIneed.Back in Maggy’s room, I

take the towel from herdresser, pour water into the

bowl and soak the towel.Then I lay the cool cloth onher forehead, loosen herapron and high-collaredshirtwaist. She must havegotten dressed for work butwas too sick to leave herroom.I give her a sponge bath,

gentlewithherthewaysheiswith me. I try to get her totakeasipofwater.Examining Maggy feels

strange. But who is there totake care of her? Papa isgone. Dr. Roumalade won’ttreat a servant. There is onlyme. I need to find out asmuchasIcansoIknowhowtohelpher.“Maggy.” I try tomakemy

voice as soothing as Papa’s.“I’m going to take care ofyou.”“No.”Shesitsupstraightin

bed.

“It’sokay,”Iwhisper.“Maggy works for Miss

Lizzie,” Maggy says, tryingtogetoutofbed.“Today is opposite day,” I

say.“Lizzie isgoing toworkforMaggy.”“Oppositeday?”Her arms relax, and she

sinksbackintobed.Thenshebegins shaking, thrashing,kickingoffhercovers.I take a deep breath and

examineher.It’s when I get to her left

armpitthatmyhandbeginstotremble. In the soft tissue ofher lymph nodes are bruisedswellings.A drip of sweat slips down

myback.Don’t jump to conclusions,

Papa’s voice in my headreminds me. It could be abruise. Carefully I check theright armpit, where I see the

same thing a bit fainter andnotinthesamespot.Maggy’s eyes are closed,

her head sunk back into thepillow. She’s half-asleep,mumbling, talking like shesometimes does when sheworks. I get the worn oldstuffedbearshekeepsonherdresser and place it next toher.“I’ll be back.” I dash down

the stairs just as Jing is

comingup.“Maggy’ssick,”Itellhim.Hiseyebrowsrise.“It looks like theplague,” I

mumble.I see the shock in his eyes,

then run to Billy’s room.Billy is still asleep. I gentlywake him. “Billy, we needPapa. You have to get himnow!”“What?”“You said Papawas in San

Rafael. You said you knewwhere.Canyoufindhim?It’sMaggy…I think, I’mafraid…it’stheplague.”Billy’s sits straight up in

bed.“GetoutofheresoIcangetdressed.”Aminute later he bolts out

of the room, leaps down thestairs, grabs a cinnamon roll,heads to the barn, hooks thewagon to JohnHenry, and isgone.

I head for the cold box inthecold storage room,wherePapakeepshismedicine.Thebottles are in alphabeticalorder. Acetanilide, arnica,belladonna, bichloride ofmercury … paregoric. Nobottlessay“Yersin’s.”I search the cabinets—

bandages, scalpels,magnifying glasses,ointments,brace.Notasinglebottle of Yersin’s Plague

Antiserum.Idon’tevenknowif it will work, now that shehasit,butit’stheonlythingIcanthinktodo.Papa has a small practice.

Maybe they didn’t give himmuch.ButwhataboutBilly’sdose?IfIcanfindit,shouldIgive it toMaggy? Iwish I’daskedBillybeforeheleft.Did he immunize himself

with the Yersin’s? It’s onlyone vial, and everybody

needs it. Jing, Noah, AuntHortense, Uncle Karl,Maggy, Gemma, Gus, andHattie.And all of thosemenlast night. Papa said thereisn’tenoughYersin’s.Howcanyoudecideonelife

is more valuable thananother?Itrytocalculatehowlongit

will take Billy to get to SanRafaeland thenforPapaandBillytogethome.Oneday.Is

thattoolongforMaggy?No one survives the

hospital. It’s unthinkable tosend anyone there. We needDr. Roumalade, but how dowe get him here for aservant?AuntHortenselikesMaggy.

CanshepersuadeRoumaladetotreather?I dash down the stairs and

across the way to theSweeting kitchen, where the

quiet stuns me. No clangingof pots and rolling pins.Where is everyone? Whathappened?“Aunt Hortense!” I panic,

running through the emptyrooms. The house echoes.“AuntHortense!Please!”“Aunt Hortense!” I run up

thegrandstairwell anddownthe servants’ stairs. I checkthe Irish quarters, then godowntotheChinesefloorand

back into the kitchen anddining room.Up the stairs tothe music room. The wholehouse, as big as a hotel, isdeserted.What if Aunt Hortense is

sick? She always worriesabout me, but I never thinkabouther.It’sjustlikeMama.I paid no attention, and thenshewasgone.I hurry outside to the

Sweeting stable. The horses

are there. “AuntHortense!” Ishout.“Don’t leaveme,too.”The tears run down mycheeks.“Aunt Hortense!” I run up

to our stable, my feetpoundingthewalkway.And then she’s here.

Slipping and sliding in herfashionable boots, wearing alavender dress that hangsloosely without her corset.Her hair is down. No hat or

gloves. She reminds me somuchofMamathisway.“Lizzie,”shecries.“I loveyou,AuntHortense.

Do you loveme?”My voiceis cracking. The feelings arerising up in my chest,clogging my throat. Shewrapsherarmsaroundme.“Of course I love you,

Lizzie. You and Billy aremore important to me thananything else in the world.

Don’t you know that? Didyou think I’d put upwith allyournonsenseifIdidn’tloveyousomuch?”“Maggy’s sick. I think it’s

the plague. I read up on it.Fever,smallbruisedmarks,aswellinginherarmpit.”Aunt Hortense freezes. The

shockhitsherhard.“Areyousure?”“Prettysure.”“Whereisshe?”

“Herroom.AuntHortense.”Mythroatisthickwithfear.Ican hardly get the wordsthrough it.“Whataboutyou?Haveyoubeenimmunized?”She nods. “Dr. Roumalade

immunized me. Yersin’s.Cost a pretty penny, too.Your papa told me heimmunizedyou.”I let out my breath. For a

minute I just hold her, myarms trembling, aching with

gratitudethatshelookedafterherself.“Can you call Dr.

Roumalade?WillhecomeforMaggy?”Aunt Hortense frowns,

considering this. “Mr.Sweeting will getRoumalade.”“Hewon’ttreather.”“He will if Mr. Sweeting

insists.”“WillUncleKarldothat?”

AuntHortense looks atme.“I’llmakecertainhedoes.”Whatever Uncle Karl’s

faults, he can bringRoumaladeoutwhenweneedhim. No one else could dothat.

“

Chapter31

Rhymeswith“Persons”

Mr. Sweeting! Mr.Sweeting!” Aunt

Hortenseshouts,half-runningafterUncleKarl’smotorcar.

Uncle Karl stamps on thebrakes.Themotorcarsputtersand dies. “What’s thematter?”“Lizzie thinks Maggy has

the plague.”AuntHortense’shands are holding each otherso tightly, her fingertips arered.“Not possible. Where is

yourfather,Peanut?”“San Rafael,” Aunt

Hortenseanswersforme.

“Billy has gone for him,” Isay.“Can you get Dr.

Roumalade?” Aunt Hortenseasks.“Calm yourself, Mrs.

Sweeting!” Karl tells her asheclimbsoutofthehorselesscarriage.“Will you get him?” she

shouts.“Of course I will. But it’s

nottheplague.You’regetting

yourself worked up fornothing.”“Elizabeththinksitis.”“With all due respect,Mrs.

Sweeting, our Peanut is athirteen-year-old girl. This isRoumalade’s province. Notours,”UncleKarlbarks.Aunt Hortense nods, but

when his back is turned, shewhispers intomyear,“Seeifyou can find any moreYersin’s,Lizzie.Gonow!”

I run to the cold storageroomagain.Ithastobehere.Imusthavemissed itbefore.I tear theplace apart lookingfor a bottle marked with IPfor“InstitutPasteur.”When I return, Dr.

Roumaladeismakinghiswayout of the Sweetings’motorcar.Dr. Roumalade straightens

his coat. He reaches into theback for his doctor’s bag.

Aunt Hortense pounces onhim. “It’s our Maggy Doyle… There’s talk of theplague.”“The plague?And how has

this been determined?” Dr.Roumalade takes off his hatandsmootheshisbaldhead.“My niece examined her.

Jules Kennedy’s daughter.”Aunt Hortense nods towardme.Dr. Roumalade snorts. “A

girl has diagnosed theplague? Forgive me, Mrs.Sweeting,but—”“I told you it was

nonsense,” Uncle Karl tellsAuntHortense.Believe in yourself. Papa’s

voice in my head reassuresme.“IknowwhatIsaw.”“You’re going to take a

child’s word for it, whenevery doctor worth his saltknows these plague rumors

areuntrue?”UncleKarlsays.“The president of CooperMedical College has assuredus there is no plague,woman!”Dr.Roumaladeturnstome.

“Doesyourfatherbelievetheplagueishere?”Ishakemyheadmiserably.“Her own father doesn’t

agree with her. Why are wetakingachild’ssilly ideassoseriously,” Dr. Roumalade

asksAuntHortense.Itakeastepback,readyfor

AuntHortense to tellmeI’mwrong.“Lizzie.” Aunt Hortense’s

voice is low and strong.“What are the signs of theplague?”“Hard red lumps in her

groin and armpits, fever,black-and-blue marks,headache,dizziness,nausea.”“She read up on it. Does

thatmakeheranexpert?”Dr.Roumaladeasks.“Maggy has all of them?”

myauntasks.Herattentionisonme.“Yes,ma’am.”Karl looks to Dr.

Roumalade.“Surelytherearehalf a dozen illnesses thatpresentthisway.”“Not with lumps in the

armpits and black-and-bluemarks.”My voice comes out

boldly.IknowwhatIsaw.Roumaladeclearshisthroat.

“I’llneedtoexamineher.”“Ofcourse,”AuntHortense

says. “But, Doctor, whywould you immunize us ifyou knew the plague wasn’there?”Dr. Roumalade’s lips shift.

“Noharminbeingcautious.”Uncle Karl takes a bite of

his cigar. He watches Dr.Roumalade make his way to

our house. “I can’t live itdown if Hearst is right. Youknow that, don’t you?” hetellsAuntHortense.“For the love of God, Mr.

Sweeting, I don’t care ifHearstisright.”All I can do is pray that

when Dr. RoumaladeexaminesMaggy, he’ll knowhow to help her. He’s thedoctor for the railroad andComstock millionaires. They

wouldn’t hire a second-ratephysician,wouldthey?

IpacebackandforthoutsideMaggy’s room. We needPapa. Has Billy found him?Should we send everyoneaway, or keep them inside?And what about the yellowplague flag?… Should wehangit?When Roumalade finally

finishes,hewalksrightbyme

without aword. I chase afterhim down our two flights ofstairs and across the way tothe Sweeting house. “Dr.Roumalade? Dr.Roumalade?”Heignoresme.In the Sweetings’ kitchen,

heconferswithUncleKarl.The kitchen is silent except

for their hushed whispers.AuntHortenseand I stand infront of the stove,waiting to

hear.“Where are all the

servants?”Iask.“Gone,” Aunt Hortense

says.“Gone?”“Last night, theyheard ‘the

plague,’andtheytookoff.”I think about the mob in

Chinatown. Everybody isafraid.“I tried to explain about

immunization, but I couldn’tmakemyselfunderstood.Themore I said, the more upsetthey got,” Aunt Hortensesays.“It’s thesamewaywith the

smallpox vaccine. Peoplehave a hard timebelieving itwillhelp.”“It’snotjustthat.Therewas

somekind of crazy article inHearst’spaper.Areportergotimmunized with Haffkine’s,

and then he wrote about theside effects. Scared them allhalftodeath,”AuntHortensesays.Dr. Roumalade and Uncle

Karl have finished. UncleKarl beckons for AuntHortense.I can hardly wait to hear

what happened. “What didDr. Roumalade say?” I askwhen Aunt Hortense finallycomesbacktome.

“Notmuch,”AuntHortensesays.I can’t stand this. I head

back to our kitchen. On theway, I see Jing come in. Hedidn’t disappear the way theSweeting servants did. Noahmuststillbehere,too.“Jing,” Iwhisper, “I’ll take

care of Noah. I’ll make surehe gets immunized. Ipromise.”Jing’s face turns a baker’s

white. Hewobbles as if I’vekickedhimintheshins.“Dr. Roumalade has the

antiserum. We have to gethim to immunize everyone.Noah,too.”Jing’s face sours. “The

antiserum makes peoplesick.”“That’snottrue.I’vehadit,

andI’mfine.SohasPapa.”“No.” The word comes out

hardandangry.

“Papa wouldn’t haveimmunized me if it weren’tsafe.”“People die from the

immunization. I’ve seen itwith my own eyes,” Jinginsists.“I’mas fitasa fiddle,Jing.

Youhavetoputyourfaithinscience. You know that,” Isay.Jing scowls. What is the

matterwithhim?

A

Chapter32

Roumalade’sTriage

untHortenseandIlookafterMaggy.Shesleeps

fitfully,moaninginhersleep.She throws up, then curls up

into a tight ball, kicking offher bedclothes. Dr.Roumalade and Uncle Karlare hunkered down in theSweetings’kitchen.“It’snottheplague,Peanut.

It’s a stomach virus,” UncleKarl tells me. “Dr.Roumalade has done athoroughexamination.”“Shewastouchingtherats,”

Itellhim.“Doesn’t mean she has the

plague,”UncleKarlsays.Aunt Hortense looks at

Roumalade. “Like I said,Doctor,let’serronthesideofcaution and make sure ourMaggy is immunized. Jing,too.”“It’s not necessary. But I

will do as you wish, Mrs.Sweeting.” He walks out ofthe house and across thecobblestone drive to thestepping-stones that lead to

ourbackdoor.InthebigSweetingkitchen,

I help Aunt Hortense stokethefurnaceandboilwaterfortea. I’ve seen Jing do thisenough times to know howit’sdone.“I feel terrible about the

servants, Lizzie. How was Itoknowthereweretwokindsof serum? The other night,Roumalade was set to givesomething called Haffkine’s

antiserum to them.Apparently Haffkine’s cankill you if you’ve alreadybeen exposed, and the sideeffects are terrible.Roumalade wasn’t going touse his precious Yersin’s onthehelp.Andthisfromamanwho swears there is noplague.”Inaflash,itallmakessense.

Why Mei jumped out thewindow. Why Jing wouldn’t

let Noah be immunized. Itwasn’t the same serum. Itwasn’tYersin’s.Theservantswere going to be given theriskyimmunization.AndthenI can barely breathe.“Maggy!”Iflyoutthedoorandacross

the breezeway, up thestepping stones, and up twoflightsofstairs,threestepsata time, grateful for my longlegs.

When I get to Maggy’sdoor, I barge right in. “Whatareyoudoing?”Idemand.Roumalade’s small eyes

glare at me. “Taking care ofyour maid. Since you havesingle-handedly caused afrenzy of plague fear, youraunt has insisted thateveryone be immunized. Alittle knowledge is adangerousthing,Lizzie.”“Haffkine’sorYersin’s?”

Roumalade’s eyes registerhissurprise.“Whotaughtyoutobesoimpudent?”“Whatkindofimmunization

are you giving Maggy?” Idemand.“It’sYersin’s.She’samaid.

She shouldn’t have it. Butyourauntinsisted—”“Aunt Hortense paid for

Yersin’s,”Isay.“I know that. Didn’t you

hear me? That’s what I’m

delivering.”Iseethebottleinhishand.Hestickstheneedleinto the bottle, pulls thestopperback,andsuctionstheserumintothechamber.When he pulls the needle

out, I stare at the bottle. It’sround, and the IP mark ismissing. “You’re not.” Myvoiceshakes.“OfcourseIam.”I jump between him and

Maggy.“Yersin’scomes ina

differentbottle.”His nostrils expand. “You

have no idea what you’retalkingabout.”“I know exactly what I’m

talking about. That’s notYersin’s. Shall I get AuntHortense?”He glares at me, the filled

hypodermic needle in hishand.“Getawayfromher!”Iyell.He takes a reluctant breath,

thendigs intohisbag for thebottlewithIPonthesideandpreparesanothershot.Iwatchhiseverymove.He turns the label toward

me.YERSIN’S.“I’m only doing this out of

professional courtesy,” hesaysasheimmunizesMaggy.“You’re only doing this

because I’m forcing you andAunt Hortense is paying.” Istand at the door. “And now

you need to immunize Jingand Noah. With Yersin’s.” IknockonJing’sdoor.Iknowthey’re inside, but nobodyanswers.“Jing,” I call through the

door. “You were right. TheHaffkine immunization is abadone.Itcanmakeyouverysick, even kill you. Dr.Roumalade is here. He’sgoing to immunize you andNoah with Yersin’s. The

immunizationIhad.Thestuffthatworks.AuntHortense ispaying for it. You have tobelieveme,Jing!”I hold my breath. Jing

doesn’trespond.“There’snotmuchtime.Please,trustme.”Inside I hear muffled

Chinese.Thedoorfliesopens.Jing’s face is a mask.

Noah’s eyes ask me ahundred questions. I nod to

him, trying to convey all Iknow without lettingRoumalade see. Jing andNoah roll up their sleeves,and Roumalade fixes theimmunizations, with memonitoring his every move.Yersin’s for both. First heimmunizesJing.“Wait a minute,”

Roumalade growls, holdingNoah’s arm. “Your aunt saidtwoservants.”

“No, she didn’t,” I lie withallmyheart.“I distinctly heard her. She

said two. Maggy and oneother.”Panic flickers across Jing’s

face.“Shall we go ask her?” I

stick my face inRoumalade’s.“ThenIcantellherhowyouwereset togiveMaggy Haffkine’s eventhoughshepaidforYersin’s.”

Roumaladeglaresatme,theYersin’s in the hypodermicneedle. He gives the lastimmunizationtoNoah.

R

Chapter33

Billy’sSecret

oumalade has gonenow. He left written

instructions for how to takecare of Maggy. Bed rest.Fluids. Cold sponge baths.

Standard procedure for mostdiseases.Hestillwon’tadmitMaggy has the plague.Whatisthematterwithhim?AuntHortenseandIdoour

best tocareforMaggyaswewaitandwaitforPapa.Whenwillhebeback?I’ve just run a cool cloth

overMaggy’s foreheadwhenIhearJohnHenry’sclip-clopon the cobblestones. I rushdownstairs and practically

jumpontoPapaashe climbsdownfromthewagon.“Papa,amIglad—”“Lizzie.” His voice is

strained. “Go to theSweetings’ house and staythere.”“What?Why?”“Now.”Hisvoiceissharp.“But I’m taking care of

Maggy.Ineedto—”“Lizzie!”

Irunacrossthewayandupthesteps.Papacallsoutinstructionsto

Jing. I don’t hear what hesays, but Aunt Hortensecomes out and stands withme, her face white. Hershouldersshaking.My father and Jing are

unhooking the back of thewagon.Papascramblesinandgently cradles a man in hisarms.

Billy!Jingisononeside,Papaon

the other. Their arms arelaced under Billy. He is halfwalking. Mostly they arecarryinghim.“Was he in a fight?” I ask

Aunt Hortense. Though Iknow Papa would not sendmeawayifitwerethat.“No,” Aunt Hortense

whispers.I feel sick to my stomach.

Maggy. Now Billy. Are weallgoingtodie?Billy is tough.Hecan fight

anything. Papa is here.Nobodyisgoingtodie.How did Billy get it? He

hadtheYersin’s,didn’the?Maybeitdoesn’twork.Did he catch the plague in

Chinatown?I’m the onewhomade him

go.Isitmyfault?

ButMaggy has it, too. Shenever leaves the house. Thedisease isn’t just inChinatown.The rats gave it to Maggy,

and Maggy gave it to Billy.OrBillygaveittoMaggybutittooklongertoshowinhim.Or…Papa says even when you

knowhowadiseaseispassedfrom person to person,trackingthepathofcontagion

islikechasingthewind.But Papa is a wonderful

doctor. He’ll take care ofMaggyandBilly.He’llmakethemwell.ItrytopushoutofmymindthememoryofPapacaringforMama.Aunt Hortense takes my

hand and holds it tight. Wewatch Billy, Papa, and Jinggoinside.Papa does not come out

again. Jing hangs the yellow

plague flag, then leaves amessage in a basket at theSweetings’thatsayswearetostayhere.“Wait,Jing!”Iwavetohim

as he crosses back over thecobblestones. “Papa needsmyhelp.”Jing shakes his head. “You

staywhereyouare.”Aunt Hortense flies out of

the house. “Elizabeth!Underno circumstances are you to

enter a house with a plagueflag.”“ButI’vealready—”“Do you hear me?” she

roars.“Yes,ma’am.”Noah. What about Noah?

Thank goodness Jing andNoah had the Yersin’s. AndBilly? He had it in time,didn’the?IgetachairandoneofAunt

Hortense’s sweaters and

make myself comfortable onthe balcony. I can’t seeNoah’s window from here.But Jing is there. Jing willtake care ofNoah. Papawillcare for Billy and Maggy. IwriteanotetoPapaandleaveitinthebasketoutside.

DearPapa,I’vebeentakingcareofMaggyalready.Can’tI

comehelp?Love,LizzieP.S.AskBillyifhetooktheYersin’s.

For dinner, Aunt Hortensewarms up clam chowder forUncle Karl and me. Thebread is stale.We dip it intothesouptosoftenit.

“Any news?” Uncle Karl’seyessearchourfaces.Weshakeourheads.Allnightweworry.Nobody

sleeps.

Inthemorning,JinghasleftanotefromPapa.

DearLizzie,Billyisfighting.Maggyisdoingbetter.Youareto

stayput.Love,Papa

“He’sfighting.That’sgood,isn’tit?”IaskAuntHortense.Her hands tremble as she

fits the tea cozy over theteapot.Ipacethebalcony,mymind

fullofthemagictrickswedidwhen we were little. Billy

blindfoldedcatching theonlyredchickeninthecoop.Billytied up with a lead rope,untying himself with histeeth. Billy pulling bunnydroppingsoutofahat.If the tricks didn’t work,

Billywouldfigureouthowtomakeeveryonelaugh.Evennowwiththefighting,

hegotablackeyeandneededstitches. But he never gotseriouslyhurt.Andhewona

lotofthefights,didn’the?Nothingcanhappentohim.

He’sBilly.I think about him at La

Jeunesse dancing with thedark-haired girl in thecrimson dress.All eyeswereonher,butsheonlyhadeyesforBilly.Does the plague flag

hangingfromourhousemeanour barn, too? I decideagainst asking and take the

backwaytoourstable.Ican’tstand being cooped up at theSweetings’anylonger.Up to the loft I climb,

looking for Orange Tom.Maybe he came home withNoah.IfNoahisstillhere,hewillhavewrittentome.Sure enough, Orange Tom

isprowlingtheloft.Butwhenhe seesme, he skitters downthe ramp. I chase after himaround thebarn.Heslipsout

thedooranduptoourhouse,wherehesitstauntingme.Irunallthewaybacktothe

Sweetings’ kitchen, lookingfor food to bribe him. In thecoldstorage,Ifindanchovies.Outside with the stinkygreasyfishinmyhand,Ilookagainforthecat.Notontheporch.Igoback

tothebarn.Notthere.Aroundto the side yard. Behind thechicken coop. I finally find

himunderagardenchair.I throw a piece of anchovy

hisway.Histailswitches.He walks lazily to it and

picks itupinhis teeth.I tossanother. He watches it land,thenstrollsoverandsnatchesthatone.Onemoreanchovyandhe’s

close enough for me to grabhimbytheneck.Butthereisnothreadonhis

collar.Nomessage.Nothing.

When the brand-newmotorcar gets delivered, Ifigure Uncle Karl bought itforBilly.Hethoughtitmightgive himonemore reason tofightthisoff.Uncle Karl comes out onto

the porch, his eyes on theshiny automachine. “Thatwas nice of you,” I say, andplantakissonhischeek.Hegivesmeastonylook.“Yougotitforhim,right?”

“No.”Hisvoiceisgruff.“But Billy didn’t have the

moneyyet,”Isay.UncleKarl’skeenblueeyes

lockonthemotorcar.“How’dhe…”“He sold it,” Uncle Karl

whispers.“Soldwhat?”UncleKarldoesn’tanswer.“What did he sell, Uncle

Karl?”

Uncle Karl’s face iscrumbling. I’ve never seenhimlookthisway.“Not the Yersin’s,” I say.

“Hedidn’tselltheYersin’s.”Uncle Karl grinds his cigar

into the ashtray so hard, theendssplay.“Hedid.”“No!”Ishout.I run down to themotorcar

andkickthetiresashardasIcan. I bang the brand-newdoorswithmy fists untilmy

hands hurt. That stupid,stupid thing. I keep bashinguntil I feel Aunt Hortense’sarms around me. Herlavendersmell.“Lizzie,” she whispers.

“That’snotgoingtohelp.”“Howcouldhe?Hesoldthe

Yersin’sforthis…thishunkof—”“Lizzie…”“Billy!”Ihollerasloudlyas

I can. “Why are you so

stupid?” I’m sobbing now. Ican’tstop.Uncle Karl turns his back.

Hewalksinside.

T

Chapter34

PolishingtheMotorcar

he next day, I’m outthere with a cloth,

shiningeverylastinchofthatstupid contraption. Aunt

Hortensecomesoutwithme.“Tell him it’s perfect, AuntHortense.Ididn’tscratchit.Ihardlyevenputadentinit,”Iwhisper. “Tell him it’swaiting for him. He has todriveit.We’reallwaitingforhimtodriveit.Tellhim.”Tears flow down my

cheeks. They drip down mychin.“Tell him he’s not stupid.

Tellhimhe’sthebestgrumpy

brotherinthewholeworld.”Isob.“I’ll tell him, Lizzie.” She

dabs at her eyes with herhandkerchief.“Maybeifwegetthegirlin

the crimson dress. Thebeautiful one he took to thecotillion. Maybe if he seesher out the window,” I say.“Shecouldbealldressedup,justlikeshewas.”“Maybe.” Aunt Hortense

sniffs.“She was beautiful, Aunt

Hortense. You should haveseen her. And the boys hewants to fight. Maybe wecouldsetupafightringdownon the driveway so he couldsee. And we can get himbrand-new fighting clothes.Andmakea stage forhim todohismagictricks.Andtoolswith lots of bicycles to fixand … and … Papa has to

makesureBillycomestothewindow. He has to see. Canwe do that, Aunt Hortense?Canwe?”Uncle Karl is on the porch

pacing. Aunt Hortense hasmovedherchairouthere,too.WeallwanttobeasclosetoBillyaspossible.

This is where we are a fewhours later when my fatherfinally comes out of our

house. He sinks down ontothe kitchen steps; his headdropsintohishands.“No!”AuntHortensewails.

She holds me close. “NotBilly. Not our beautiful boy.Please,pleasenothim.”Uncle Karl goes back

behindthestabletowheretheservantschopwood.Wehearhimwiththeaxchoppingandchopping.Iwatchourhouseas if I’m

intheskylookingdown.Thiscan’t be true. It isn’t true.Billy will walk down thestairs as he always does, hispocket jingling from thenickels he earned fixingbicycles.Hewillgrabapieceof Jing’s pie, harness JohnHenry to the wagon, and offhe’llgo,callingmeapestandtelling me no, I can’t comealong.I hold my breath, waiting.

Letitoutandholditagain.But Billy does not come

down the stairs. Soon theblack undertaker’s wagonarrives.

T

Chapter35

SugarWater

hree days later, AuntHortense’s new maids

clean our house from top tobottom, Papa takes down theplagueflag,andImoveback.

It feels good to be home—andawful,too.EverytimeIwalkbyBilly’s

room, the emptiness hauntsme.Hisroomwasfullofhim.Itfeltlikehim.Itsmelledlikehim. But now the room isquiet. The quilt, the fightposters, the boxing glovesunmovedfromonedaytothenext.Iwonder how I’mgoing to

getthroughthis.WhenMama

died, it was Billy who keptme busy with the magicshows, the secret barebackrides, and the barn games.“Billy,” I whisper. “Didn’tyou know how much I needyou?”Everyday,Igotocheckon

Maggy. Most of the time,she’s sitting up in bed, theparrot on her shoulder. Papamoved his cage upstairs. Hesaid Maggy told him she

wanted the parrot in herroom. He was amazed. It’sthefirsttimeMaggyhaseversaidshewantedanything.Now when I walk into her

room,Mr.P. chirps, “MaggyDoyle! Maggy Doyle!” likehe’sannouncingherarrivalatacotillion.I wish I knew whyMaggy

got better and Billy did not.Wasitthetimingofwhenshereceived the Yersin’s? But

Yersin’s is supposed to bepreventative. Does it lessentheeffectof thediseaseonceyougetit?DidPapagiveittoBilly once he got sick? Themore I think about this, themorequestionsIhave.ThedayofBilly’sservice,I

put on the black velvet dressAuntHortenseboughtforme.Papa,AuntHortense,Uncle

Karl,andIalldriveinBilly’smotorcar. Billy would have

wantedthis.Weknowthat.Jing is in thewagonwith a

few of the Sweeting servantswho have returned. We arejustabouttogowhenMaggyDoyleappearswearingadarkdressnooneknewshehad.Inthe eight years she hasworkedforus,shehasn’teverworn anything but heruniform, and she has neverlefttheproperty.She climbs into the wagon

withJing.At the church there are a

few hundred people,most ofwhom I have never seenbefore. Everybody knowsUncle Karl’s nephew died.Somepeopleknowitwastheplague, and still they come.Everybody wants to payrespects. I sit next to Papaholding his hand. He hasbarely been able to speaksinceBillydied.Hishearthas

beencrushed.Welistentotheministersayabunchofthingsthat don’t feel like they fitBilly.But only the people who

love Billy are allowed tocome to the cemetery after.Asweclimbthehill,Gemmaruns to me and holds myhand.Gus standsby, lookingtall and handsome in hisblack suit. Gus is smart andquiet and kind—so kind.My

stomach flutters when I seehim, but not as much as itdoeswhenIseeNoah.I stand by Mama’s

gravestone, and then we alltake turns speaking aboutBilly.UncleKarl talks abouthow clever he was. Thebeautiful black-haired girlfrom La Jeunesse says howgentlyheheldherhand.Papatells stories about when hewaslittleandchangedall the

clocks in the house so hecouldhavehisbirthdaypartyall over again. Papa says hekeepswaiting forBilly todothatnow.When it’s my turn, I read

mypoemforhim.It’stheonetimeIdon’tcry.

Billyhadbighands.Hewaswildandhewasgrand.Hetaughtmetolandsoft

whenIjumpedfromourloft.HetaughtmetheknackofridingbarebackAndhowtofightinthedeadofnight.Icouldn’tlearnBilly’scharmorsewstitchesinmyarm.Butwhenhesawedhimselfinhalf,Iwashisstaff.AndwhenIwasblue,he

alwaysknew.Icanvouchhecouldalsobeagrouch.ButhehadawayofshowingupJustwhenthingswereblowingup.AmilliontimeshecametomydefensewithUncleKarlandAuntHortense.BillygavePapaawholelotofwoe,

Andwewillmisshimso,so,so.

In the small cluster ofSweetingservantsleavingthecemetery, suddenly I see ahead I know well. Blackstraighthairandawhiteshirt.Asquarejawandbrighteyes.Noah! He brushes by me,pressinganoteintomyhand.Wesaynothing in thecrowdof people. I feel the heat of

his skin on my fingers longafterheletsgo.Gemma’s head whips

around. “Lizzie, where areyou?”“Here.” I wave one hand

while slipping the note intomypocketwiththeother,andhurry back to the Trotters. Iwalk with them, AuntHortense, Uncle Karl, andPapa.Nobodyhasanythingtosay.

In the powder room at theSweetings’, I unfold Noah’snote. 4 p.m. Sunday in thestable.YES!This is the firsttime I’ve been able to smilesinceBillydied.

That night in our drawingroom,UncleKarl,Papa,AuntHortense, and I talk thingsout in a way we haven’tbefore.I pepper Papa with

questions. Billywas youngerand stronger. Shouldn’t hehave been able to fight theplague better than Maggy?And how did Maggy andBillyget it? IsGus right, therats spread the plague? If so,how,exactly?Papaisinthebigchair.He’s

leaned over, resting his longarmsonhisknees.Heshakeshis head. “Those are myquestions,too.”

“We need to know thesethings,”Itellhim.“She’s right,” Aunt

Hortensewhispers.Hervoiceishoarse.“Idon’tunderstandwhyDr.

Roumalade kept insistingMaggy didn’t have theplague. Her symptoms weresoclear,”IsaytoUncleKarlandPapa.Aunt Hortense and Uncle

Karl, sitting together on the

sofa,exchangealook.“His patients are railroad

money,dear,”AuntHortensesays.“So?”“Wordgetsoutwehavethe

plague, people won’t betaking the train to SanFrancisco.”“Nobody likes to lose

money, Peanut,” Uncle Karlsays.“But he’s a doctor. He’s

supposed to take care ofpeople, not worry aboutmoney.” I jump up and startpacing. I’m too upset to sitstill.“No two ways about it, he

behaved abominably,” Papasays.“Yes.” Aunt Hortense’s

eyes are onUncleKarl. “Dr.Roumalade used Yersin’s toimmunize himself and thepatientswhocouldpay.”

“So he did believe theplaguewashere,”Isay.“Who knows what he

believes. But he certainlymade a pretty penny on theYersin’s,”UncleKarlsays.“Oh no! That’s not who

Billysolditto…isit?”Iask.The room goes silent. Papa

lookslikehe’sgoingtobeill,but it’s he who answers me.“He sold it to one of hisboxing buddies. A man who

had been on the boat fromHonolulu.”“Is that how the plague got

here?”“Apparently.”“Why did Roumalade say

there was no plague?” I ask.“Wouldn’t he have gottenmoremoney for theYersin’sif he’d said the plague washere?”“Hewasplayingbothsides.

Keeping his wealthy railroad

patients happy while makingmoney on the side. Besides,hecouldn’tverywellsay theplague was here when thesurgeongeneraloftheUnitedStates said there was noplague,”UncleKarlsays.“Is that what they all

believed?”Iask.“Impossibletoknow,”Aunt

Hortensesays.“Why did you get upset

about that monkey?” I ask

UncleKarl.“Consensus was that the

monkey, guinea pig, and ratbusiness was a stunt. Dr.Kinyoun, the so-called wolfdoctor, concocted the wholething to save his hide.Nobody thought thequarantinewaswarranted.Hewanted to prove it was. Ididn’t want to give credencetowhateveryonethoughtwaspurenonsense.”

“It wasn’t much of aquarantine.Thereweren’tanydoctorsornurses,”Isay.“Kinyoun had the power to

call the quarantine, but hecouldn’t get the rest of themedical communityonboardwithit,”UncleKarlexplains.“Buthewasright.”Uncle Karl sighs. “He was

right. We know that now.But, Peanut, I’m in the newsbusiness, not the history

business.Ihavetocalleventsas they’re unfolding. Therewasn’t a reputable doctor inthe whole state who thoughtthiswastheplague.”“You know who else was

right,” Aunt Hortensewhispers.“Hearst.”“Mary, mother of God,

woman,doyouhavetobringthatup?”“Hearst printed plague

stories to sell more

newspapers. You did whatyou thought was right, Karl.You kept unfoundedallegations out of the news.”Papa’svoiceisquiet.UncleKarlstaresatPapa.“I

appreciate your saying that,Jules. Means a lot comingfromyou.”Papa nods. His movements

are slow, as if everything hedoesispainful.“Even with all that, why

would Dr. Roumalade try togive Maggy the Haffkine’s?Hemusthaveknownshehadthe plague. Did he want tokillher?”“Doyouknowforcertainit

wasHaffkine’s?”Papaasks.“Iknowitwasn’tYersin’s,”

Isay.“My bet is it was sugar

water,”Papasays.Uncle Karl nods. “Even

Haffkine’s costs money.

Roumalademusthavefigureda servant who has alreadycontractedtheplagueisalostcause. Better to give her thecheapestthingpossible.“Which reminds me, Mrs.

Sweeting,” Uncle Karlcontinues. “I got a bill fromRoumalade. He charged mean arm and a leg for theYersin’s, which I wasexpecting.Buthisbillsaysheimmunized three Kennedy

servants. It was only MaggyandJing.”Aunt Hortense’s eyes flash

tome.Thelookonherfaceisshocking. Does she knowaboutNoah?“That’s right. Two

servants,” Aunt Hortensesays.“Butpayitanyway.I’mon that children’s hospitalcharity committee with hiswife.I’djustassoonnothavetrouble with Hillary

Roumalade.”

I

Chapter36

TooManySecrets

’mhelpingAuntHortensewrite cards to all the

people who sent flowers forBilly.Wewear black and sitat a table in her sitting room

with the big windows thatopen out to the balconyoverlooking the garden. Iwatch her write. She hasbetterhandwritingthanIdo.“Why do people keep

secrets?”Iaskher.Shelooksup.“Becausethey

don’t trust each other, Isuppose, although there areallkindsofsecrets.Someareharmless.Somearenot.”“It seems like there have

been way too many secrets.I’m going to live the wayPapa does. Straightforwardandhonest.Nosecrets.”“You are, are you?” She

dipsherpenintotheink.“Yes.”Shetapstheexcessinkfrom

the nib. “In a perfect world,wewouldn’tneedsecrets.Buttheworld’s a longway fromperfect. Still, I try to be asstraightforward as I can,

which is a challenge, givenwhoI’mmarriedto.”“IfBillyhadtolduswhathe

wasdoing,ifhehadn’tkeptitsecret, we could have talkedhimoutofit,”Isay.She stops. “Billy was

headstrong. He wasn’t aneasyonetosway.”“Ifonlyhewerehere,andI

could convince him now. IknowjustwhatI’dsay.”“Whichis…”

“I’d tellhimhow importanthis life is tome and to PapaandtoyouandtoUncleKarl.I’d say he has to hold itgently in his hands as if it isthemostpreciousthingintheworld.Andneverevertradeitfor money. I’d tell himmoney is only wrinkled oldpaper. It’s nothing at allcompared to him, comparedtohislife.”“Iwishyoucouldhavetold

him that, too.” Her eyessearchmine.“Lizzie?”“Yes,ma’am.”“When were you going to

tellmethatJinghasason?”Icough,almostchoking.“I sawhimwith Jing.They

looksomuchalike, itwasn’thard to figure out.” She runsher hand along the penfeather.I remember how Billy said

Aunt Hortense is more

complicated than I give hercredit for,but thereare somethings she’ll never tolerate.MedancingwithNoahisoneofthem.Itreadcarefully.“He’s about your age, isn’t

he?”AuntHortenseasks.“Yes,ma’am,”Isay.“But he’s not working for

anyone.”“No,ma’am.”She nods. “Why do you

supposethatis?”

“Hewantstogotocollege,”Iwhisper.“Likeme.”One carefully shaped

eyebrow rises. I hold mybreath.She turns away. “Of course

you’ll need a propereducation,Elizabeth,andthenmedical school … if you’regoingtobeadoctor.”Igasp.She looks back at me. “I

wanted a different life for

you. Your father wanted adifferent life for Billy. Butthat didn’t work, did it?You’ll have to”—she canhardlygetthewordsoutoverthe welling in her throat—“liveyourlifeyourway.”“AuntHortense!”Ijumpup

and throw my arms aroundher.“Mygoodness,Lizzie.”Her

voice ishusky.She takesouther handkerchief and tries to

cleanupherface.Butassoonasshedoes,moretearscomedown.

Atquarter to four, Icheck toseewhere everyone is in thehouse. Papa is in his room.He is still so sad aboutBillythathecanhardlyeat.Iknowhewillget through it, justashe didwhenMamadied, butrightnowit’shard.Maggyison the porch knitting. She’s

almost all better. AuntHortense andUncle Karl areat their house. Jing is in thekitchen adding sugar to aboiling pot of apples. Theway he watches me, I knowhe knows that I’m meetingNoah.“Lizzie,” he says as I open

thebackdoor.“Yes, sir.” The word pops

outofmymouthwithoutmeeven thinking about it. Papa

and Uncle Karl are always“sir,”butneverJing.Jing’s shoulders pull back;

hisheadrises.Oureyesmeet.He doesn’t try to make melaugh. He has no frog in hispocket, no quarter in his ear,no feather or stone up hissleeve.He stirs the apples. “Your

mamawouldhavebeenproudofyou,”hesays.His words are warm inside

meas Iwalkout to thebarn.He has never said anythinglikethisbefore.Orange Tom lurks in the

foggy darkening afternoon,his thick fur matted on oneside, tail fleckedwith bits ofleavesandstraw.I open the barn door.Noah

standspettingJuliet’smuzzle.“Lizzie.”Hetakesmyhand.

“I’msorryaboutBilly.”Theheatofhishandwarms

mine.We start todance.Our first

stepsarestiff;thenslowlytherhythmbuilds.Myhandfeelssolid on Noah’s shirt as wecirclethestable.Noah steadies me. I don’t

care if I make a wrong stepwhenI’mwithhim.Wefloattogether,breathing

in the sweet smell of alfalfa.Only Julietwatches, slurpingher water. John Henry is

asleep.I don’t want this to end. I

holdontoeveryminute.Theworld is kinder with Noahholdingmyhand.When he lets go, he

crouches and pounces. Hejumps back onto his springylegs and then up onto hishands.One day, I’ll see Noah

performhis liondance inhiscostume with all of his

friends.Fornow, it’s time togo.AuntHortensehascomealong way, but I can’t upsether. Not now. Not after allwe’vebeenthrough.One day, things will be

different.One day, she’ll understand

thatNoahismyfriend.“I’ll be back soon,” Noah

says.Inod.By the chicken coop, I

capture Orange Tom. Hedoesn’t give me a chase thistime.Hesimplyallowsmetoscoop him up and carry himtomy room. I write one lastmessage.MyhandsshakeasIwrap the red thread aroundthenote.

UniversityofCaliforniain5years

Noah,Savemeachair.

I’llbethere.Lizzie

Glossary

Transliteration ChineseCharactersFriend“pungyau”朋友Hello“neiho”你好Papa“baba”爸爸Thankyou“dohje”謝謝

Author’sNote

The Monkey’s Secret isfiction. Lizzie and Noah’sstoryispurelyimagined.Theaccountof the1900outbreakof bubonic plague in SanFranciscowas true. I tried tostick to the facts asmuch aspossible, but I altered the

timingofsomeevents.Itookcreative license in extendingthe time between when theguinea pigs and the rat diedand the monkey’s demise. Imoved up the forcedimmunization usingHaffkineand only included onequarantine, when there wereactually two.Thechronologyattheendofthissectionlaysoutthetruedatesofevents.

TheCity“In 1900, white SanFranciscowasasophisticatedcity of 350,000 people,”1many of whom werefreewheeling, chock-full ofoptimismandbravado.Somehad become millionairesnearlyovernight,findingtheirfortunesintheGoldRush,therailroads,theComstocksilvermines, or the sugar business.The city was suffering the

growing pains of turning aWildWestminingboomtowninto the Paris of the Pacific.And though it was theVictorian era, in SanFrancisco there were “fewerrules and regulations than inwell-established cities backEast.”2

At the turnof the twentiethcentury, there were “onlyabout eight thousand cars inthe country.”3 Many people

did not welcome the newcontraptions. One of thereasons people were seekingto develop this form oftransportationwasbecauseofthe pollution caused byhorses. Manure, dust, anddeadhorsesonthestreetwereallbigproblems.Butthefirstmotorcars were quiteprimitive.Inearlyautoraces,a car was consideredsuccessful if it reached the

finishline.ThewinnerofthefirstAmericanraceclockedinatsevenmilesanhour.4

Street performerswere alsoa big part of the vibrant citylife. Though the Astral Dogscene was fiction, the ideacame from a memoir byMalcolm Barker about late-nineteenth-century SanFrancisco that included thisline: “A trick dog knowswhichgirlisyoursoulmate.”

ChinatownPrejudiceagainsttheChinese,whostoodonthelowestrungof the immigrant ladder,wasatitszenithattheturnofthetwentieth century, and“Chinatown was the districtSan Francisco demonized.”5Chinatown was its own citywithin San Francisco, anexotic ghetto crowded withtwenty thousand ChineseAmericans. Many white San

Franciscans held theChineseresponsible for allmanner ofdiseasesandsocialills.“As long as times were

good, the Chinese wereaccepted, but a late-nineteenth-centurydepressionturned the tide. Formerlyprized for their productivity,theChinesenowwerecastascunning and insidious jobstealers.”6

Chinese children were not

welcomeinpublicschools:

The(Chinese)boyswere sent toschool;thatis,tothe Chineseschool;theywerenotallowedtogoto the Europeanschool. At thattime, there wasonepublicschoolof about four

rooms, on ClayStreet, betweenStockton andPowell Streets,those inattendance beingmostly Japaneseand other races… The Chineseboyswenttotheirownschool.7

Thisaccountmakesitsound

as though Chinese girls didnotattendschoolatall. Ididfind other sources indicatingthat some Chinese girlsattended school along withChinese boys. DonaldinaCameron,whoappearsinthisnovel, was a real personknownastheAngryAngelofChinatown. She made it hermission to rescue Chinesegirlswho had been sold intoslavery.

MedicineRudyard Kipling once said,“Wonderful little our fathersknew.Half of their remediescured you dead.” And thatwas certainly true ofmedicine in 1900, though itwasafascinatingtime,ontheverge of epic change. Germtheorywas in its infancy,yetmany doctors did notunderstand—much lessbelieve—the science behind

it:

To the SanFranciscocitizens of 1900—even to mostpracticingphysicians—thenew bacteriologywas still a formof black magic:mysterious,dimlyunderstood,

untrustworthyand inferior tothe laying on ofhands and theobservation ofsymptoms at thebedside.8

Hospitals were widelydistrusted. Doctors routinelymade house calls andperformed operations onkitchen tables. Many barely

madea living.Better tohaveyoursonbeablacksmithorabricklayerthanaphysician.Some daughters of doctors

did accompany their fathersonhousecalls.Onesuchgirlwrote: “Whenever it waspossible,hetookmewithhimon his calls in the country. Iwas always eager to go: Iloved just being with him.”9And from the memoir of acountry doctor: “When the

roadswere good and the tripnottoolong,Itookmyblack-eyed little daughter withme.”10

Therewereveryfewfemaledoctors. And of course,womendidnotyetwearpantsorhavetheright tovote,andtheywereoftenrefusedentrytobars,restaurants,andotherbusinesses.

ThePlague

Bubonicplague isoneof themost feared diseases of alltime, thought to beresponsible for the death ofonefourthtoonethirdof thetotal population ofEurope intheMiddleAges.(Pneumonicplague is a type of bubonicplague contracted by about 3percentofcases.Itisfarmorecontagious than regularbubonic plague.) It isgenerally transferred from

persontopersonviaratfleas.The fleas suck the blood oftheinfectedrat.Whentheratdies, the flea hops to a newhost. The infected flea bitesits new host and injects theplague directly into thebloodstream.In1897,Paul-LouisSimond

discovered that rat fleasspread the disease. Hepublishedhisfindings,buthisresearch had not yet been

given the blessing of thescientificcommunity.In1900the U.S. Surgeon Generalpublishedareportstatingthattheplaguewascontractedbybreathing contaminated air.Though incorrect, it was theprevailingopinionatthetime.Throughout history, there

was anecdotal evidence thatlinkedratdeathtotheplague.“An ancient Indian text theBhagavat Puran, had, long

before, warned people toleave theirhouseswhena ratfell from the roof, totteredabout the floor and died; forthenbe sure thatplague is athand.”11

San Francisco rat fleasdiffer slightly fromAsian ratfleas and are less successfulat plague pathogen transfer.This may be one of thereasonstheplaguedidnotdoas much damage in San

Francisco as it did in otherlocations.Evenso,theplagueis mysterious. As authorEdward Marriott stated, “Ifdiseases have personalities,plague is an escape artist, acriminal Houdini.”12 How,for example, did the scourgeof the Black Death finallyend?Nobodyreallyknows.

The First Plague OutbreakinSanFrancisco

OnMarch6,1900,aChinamandiedof Plague inChinatown andvery soonthereafter othersof hiscountrymensuccumbed to thesame dreaddisease. Thelocal and federal

healthauthoritieswere thoroughlyalive to thesituationfromthestart, butencounteredinnumerableobstacles in theirefforts to controlthe disease. Thestory of howshort-sightedcommercialism

connived withlying newspapersto deceive SanFranciscansastothe actualpresence andextent of thePlagueisablackchapter in thehistory of thisfair city whichwill never begivenmuchspace

inalayhistory.13

Thewolfdoctor,Dr.JosephKinyoun, was trained at thePasteur Institute in thenascent science ofbacteriology. Hewas able toextract the plague pathogenfrom the corpse of the first-known casualty and inject itinto a rat, two guinea pigs,andamonkey.If theanimalsdied, he believed it would

confirmhisplaguediagnosis.Butnoonelikedthearrogant,abrasive Dr. Kinyoun, andwhen first the rat and theguinea pigs and later themonkeydied,itwaseasiertoattribute the deaths toKinyoun’s intervention thantotheplaguevirus.14The partial newspaper

account in the text on page200 is almost verbatim fromChung Sai Yat Po. Below is

anextractfromtheCall:

After appearing ina continuousperformance ofthree days, in ascientific farce,which proved tobe a commercialtragedy to SanFrancisco, theBubonicBoardofHealth, relying

on the testimonyof a rat, amonkey and aguinea pig, leftthe footlights,raised thequarantine ofChinatown andleft the city torecover,asbestitcan, from thewidespreaddamage inflicted

upon its tradeand every othermaterialinterest.What a spectaclethe incidentpresents! TheChief of Policehurrying atmidnight to ropein a quarter ofthe city; theBubonic Boardadopting the

phraseology ofgrave emergencyby bulletins thathad “thesituation well inhand” and inother termspromoting thebelief that it hadidentified theplague and hadgiven thepestilence a

flying switchfrom the glandsofaChinese intothose of aguinea-pig; thestolidindifference ofthe city; theinefficiencyofthequarantinemaintained bythe Chief ofPolice, which it

is said, Chineseboastofescapingbythepaymentofadollarahead—all go to make arecord of officialimbecility, andworse that hasnot been equaledin the history ofthe city. It isenough to makethe guinea pig

grin.15

Still, clear evidence of theplague could be found. “Inthe Chinatown epidemic,eighty-sevendeadrats,elevendead of the plague, werefound in the walls of aChinese restaurant. Severalcases of human plague hadbeen traced to this place, butthey immediately ceasedwhen the rats were cleaned

out.”16TheYersin versusHaffkine

immunization question alsoclosely hewed to actualevents. The Yersin’s didcomefromhorses,anditwasexpensive.Medicalpersonnelwere given thisimmunization, which wasthought to bemore effective.The Haffkine immunizationhad significant side effects,and it was dangerous if

injected into peoplewho hadalready been exposed to theplague. There is now,however, some questionabout how effective theYersinwas—though thatwasnotknownatthetime.It is also true that the

surgeongeneral“prescribedamass vaccination of all theChinese … [with Haffkinewhich] was violentlyunpopular in Chinatown.”17

Andonegirldidjumpoutthewindow rather than beimmunized.18

ConfusionandDenialMany people in both theCaucasian and Chinesecommunities had reason todenytheplagueoutbreak.SanFranciscans were vested inthe rise of their city. Therailroads brought tourists tothe jewel of the Pacific.

Imports arrived and exportsshipped from thriving ports.News of a plague outbreakwould have brought thebusinessofSanFranciscotoagrindinghalt.The Chinese feared

scapegoating with goodreason. The quarantine hadbeen patently unfair. AnyCaucasian person wasallowedoutofthequarantinearea, whereas the Chinese

were not. (Many SanFranciscans believed onlypersons of Chinese descentcould be infected by theplague,whichwas,ofcourse,untrue.) Then, too, theChinese feared thatChinatownwouldbetorched,as had happened when theplague struck Honolulu.19“By Friday, it is hoped thatwe will know that this wasnot the plague. Otherwise

what happened in Honolulumight happen to us.”20 Evenbeforetheplaguecrisis,therewere people who activelycampaigned to burnChinatown.Perhaps theonlybusinesses

tobeglad for a plague crisiswere the undertakers and theHearst newspaper enterprise.Hearstrealizedaplaguescarewould be good forcirculation, and he made the

most of it. All of the othernewspapersconspiredtokeepany real news of the plagueout of their pages. “In astunningadmissiononMarch25, the Call’s editorsadmitted that they and theChronicle’seditorshadmadea mutual pact of silence ontheplague.”21

It is impossible to knowhowmanypeoplediedof theplague. Doctors routinely

misdiagnosed it. “Mostphysicians’ attempts tounderstand plague amountedto little more than wildfumbling, their theories bornofprejudice.”22

People hid their plaguevictims—either by shippingthemoutofthecityhiddeninbarrels and boxes or viapaperwork ruseswhereby thecauseofdeathwasattributedto other diseases. Official

plague death toll accountsvaryfrom250to280people,but“toarriveatabettersenseoftherealnumbersofdeathswould require a carefulbiostatistical analysis of theunusual rise in deathsbetween 1900 and 1901recorded as acute syphilis orpneumonia…”23

“Chinese residents,concerned that their homeswould be burned down, hid

their sick relatives and thenshuttled them out of the cityin small boats at night.Sometimeswhenaninspectorarrived before a body couldbe removed, a dead manwouldbeproppedupnext toa table in an undergroundroom, his hands arrangedcarefullyoverdominoes.”24

EradicatingthePlagueBy1905thefirstplaguecrisis

hadsubsided.Chinatownandsurrounding areas had beenscoured from top to bottom,which made them lessattractive to the ratpopulation.When the secondSan Francisco plagueepidemic hit after the 1906earthquake, therewerefewifany plague deaths inChinatown. “Between thefirst [plague] epidemic in1900andthesecondin1907,

theroleofthefleaandtheratin transmitting plague tohuman populations waselucidated.”25 And the newsurgeongeneral,RupertBlue,was able to stop the plaguethrough an extensive ratteryoperation, which aimed totrap and kill 1,200 rats perday.

Notes

1. Crichton, Judy,America 1900 (NewYork: Henry Holt andCompany,1998)28.2. Barker, Malcolm E.,More San FranciscoMemoirs, 1852–-1899:The Ripening Years

(San Francisco:LondonbornPublications,1996)27.3. Crichton, America1900,15.4. Library of Congress:http://www.americaslibrary.gov/jb/progress/jb_progress_autorace_1.html(accessedNovember26,2014).5.Craddock, Susan,Cityof Plagues: Disease,Poverty, and Deviancein San Francisco

(Minneapolis:UniversityofMinnesotaPress,2000)55.6. Chase, Marilyn, TheBarbary Plague: TheBlack Death inVictorianSanFrancisco(New York: RandomHouse,2003)9.7. “The VirtualMuseumof the City of SanFrancisco,”:sfmuseum

.net/hist9/cook.html.8. Chase, The BarbaryPlague,46.9. Hawkins, Cora Frear,Buggies, Blizzards andBabies (Ames: IowaState University Press,1971)72.10. Hertzler, Arthur E.,M.D., The Horse andBuggyDoctor (Lincoln:University of NebraskaPress,1938)126.

11. Barnett, S. Anthony,TheStoryofRats:TheirImpact onUs, andOurImpact on Them(Australia: Allen &Unwin,2001)32.12. Marriott, Edward,Plague: A Story ofScience,RivalryandtheScourgeThatWon’tGoAway (New York:HenryHolt,2004)230.13. Marion, Jay, A

History of theCalifornia Academy ofMedicine, 1870–-1930(San Francisco:Grabhorn Press for theCalifornia Academy ofMedicine1930)85.14. Chase, The BarbaryPlague,47.15. San Francisco Call,3.11.1900:http://cdnc.ucr.edu/cgi-bin/cdnc?

a=d&d=SFC19000311.2.8016.Todd, FrankMorton,Eradicating Plaguefrom San Francisco:Report of the Citizens’Health Committee (SanFrancisco: Press of C.A.Murdock,1909)21.17. Chase, The BarbaryPlague,48–-49.18. Chase, The BarbaryPlague,50.19. Chase, The Barbary

Plague,19.20. Chung Sai Yat Po,March7,1900p.1. (inChase, The BarbaryPlague,19.)21. Chase, The BarbaryPlague,54.22. Marriott, Plague: AStory of Science,RivalryandtheScourgeThat Won’t Go Away13.23. Echenberg, Myron,

Plague Ports: TheGlobalUrbanImpactofBubonic PlagueBetween1894and1901(New York: New YorkUniversity Press, 2007)231.24. Sullivan, Robert,Rats: Observations ontheHistoryandHabitatof the City’s MostUnwanted Inhabitants(New York:

Bloomsbury,2004)157.25. Craddock, City ofPlagues,18.

Chronology

1900

January 2. SanFrancisco dock.The steamerAustralia arrivesfrom Honolulu,where the plaguehas struck. Rats

fromtheshiparebelieved to runup the sewers toChinatown.January–-February.Chinatown.Chinese observean inordinatenumber of ratsdying.March 6.Chinatown. A

man dies fromtheplagueinSanFrancisco. Firstknowncasehere.March 7. AngelIsland. Dr.Kinyoun, thewolf doctor,injects plaguefrom the deadman into a rat,two guinea pigs,andamonkey.

March 7–-10.First Chinatownquarantine.March 12. AngelIsland. The ratand the guineapigsdie.March 13. AngelIsland. Themonkeydies.March–-May.More deathsfromtheplague.

May29–-June15.SecondChinatownquarantine.June 14. Thegovernor ofCalifornia(Governor Gage)and the deans ofthree medicalschools sign amanifesto thatstates there is no

plague in SanFrancisco.

1902–1908November 1902.The city beginstotrytogetitsratpopulation undercontrol.February 1905.San Francisco’sfirst plagueoutbreak is

declaredover.April 18, 1906.The SanFranciscoEarthquake andfire rip the cityapart. In theensuingdays,ratsgain a footholdagain and theplague returnswith avengeance.

November 1908.The plague isfinallyvanquished inSanFrancisco.

AbouttheAuthor

Gennifer Choldenko is theNew York Times bestsellingandNewberyHonor–winningauthor of many popularchildren’s books, includingNotes from a Liar and HerDog,IfaTreeFallsatLunchPeriod, Al Capone Does My

Shirts,AlCapone ShinesMyShoes, Al Capone Does MyHomework, and NoPassengers Beyond ThisPoint. She lives in the SanFrancisco Bay Area, whereshe hopes never to see a rat.Dead or otherwise. Visit heronlineatcholdenko.com.

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