Ring. Sister. Piano (Book 4 of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Eleven: Snow Angels

Northaven was a surreal experience for Jack. There were pubs named after him. Not just him, but memorable incidents in his life. At the first corner, the stagecoach passed an ale-house called The Lieutenant-governor's Fork. And then there was Cantonment Walk, the Parish of Joel Parish, and a bright, expensive-looking goldsmiths called The Rani's Jewels.

But most unsettlingly, there was the statue. Jack caught sight of it from the coach-window, and then ducked out of sight, as though looking at it for too long would identify him as one of the men on that pedestal, immortalized in bronze.

In a way, it was a good likeness. They hadn't made him taller than he really was, a mistake which most people – even tailors who had actually measured him – seemed to make. And he was smiling, which he had probably done a lot in those days. His head and shoulders were dusted with snow, which gave him a silvery, distinguished look.

He wondered if she'd seen it – if she had looked up at his face and felt a little nostalgic? Or perhaps she had shrunk back in horror or given the pedestal a kick. He had no idea what to expect. He'd take anything. Just let her be alive and whole and not gazing dreamily into the piano-player's eyes.

The town itself was typically Northern: steep streets, grey houses, glimpses of moorland from every vantage point. And yet, here and there, notes of India turned up. In the town square, he saw men smoking hookahs and cheroots. On one street corner, a man at a barrow was ladling hot, spiced chai into chipped glasses. The musical instruments were a cacophonous mess, but there were definitely sitars and tablas among them.

The thud of Indian drums and the play of Indian spices in his nostrils made his heart pound. Perhaps it was also pounding because it had to work hard to pump an insufficient amount of blood around his body. But it was mostly the thought of India, and how happy he'd been in India, and whether he could ever have that happiness again. 

He told himself it was stupid. He didn't know anything about her now. Was she horribly injured – horribly angry – horribly married? She had a million reasons to hate him. And yet, in the Indian room, she had been... tolerant. All he needed was her tolerance. All he needed was for her to be patient while he looked at her for half an hour and tried to work out what to do next.

He wondered whether anyone would recognize him from India. Or from the statue. It seemed unfeasible that they wouldn't, and yet he walked through street after street of happily oblivious new-breeds, none of whom gave him a second look. Perhaps he didn't look like Jack Cade anymore. Jack Cade was louche and bouncy and under-dressed, but he was frail and thin and wearing a neck-tie to hide the scars.

He stood around the outer edges of the dancefloor which took up the whole of the town square, and looked up at the inn they called The Birdcage. Instead of a pub sign, it had an ornate, gilded cage hanging up, filled with budgies. They were bright as candlewicks in the dusk, and they fluttered about so violently that the cage rocked back and forth without a breeze.

After a few moments staring hungrily up at the windows, he moved towards the front door. A carriage had just drawn up, and in the ensuing chaos of porters and packing-cases, he was able to stroll in unnoticed and get a look at the register. A Dr and Mrs Strood had checked in on Friday night and been given separate bedrooms. Always a good sign. She was in the attic room, but since the key labelled 'Attic' was hanging up behind the desk, he didn't bother climbing the stairs.

He went out again, spotted the telegraph office on the other side of the square, and picked his way through the dancers towards it. He couldn't remember if Simonelli still worked there. He had tried to keep track of every contact who might prove useful, but somehow Simonelli's details had slipped away from him. Still, at least he was easy to recognize. A gigantic Italian with reams of superfluous body hair would be unlikely to melt into the crowd – even a Northaven crowd.