He’d been up for hours, just sitting on the porch, watching the rise up between the tall trees all around the farm house. The summer was ending, but the mornings were still stifling and hot, like the world needed reminding of what the cold was for.
He heard the boots coming down the stairs inside, but waited until Topek was out the door before saying: “Sleep well?”
“Here and there. You?”
“Not at all.”
Topek sat down next to him, scanning the area, eyes settling on the barn. “He still alive in there?”
“For now,” sighed Émile, and lowered his head to his hands.
Topek paid him no mind. “You ready for today? For what you gotta do?”
Émile wanted to shake his head. He wanted to call it off, beg for more time, find another way…but he knew he couldn’t. So instead he said: “One true thing.”
Topek grinned. “One true thing. Sure. My first whore—”
“No,” said Émile. “Your biggest regret. The mistake you wish you could undo.”
This took a moment to process. Topek pulled his suspenders over his shoulders, then leaned back on his elbows as he watched the sun come up. Still, though, he didn’t answer. He just mulled. Émile was in no rush, though, so he let it happen.
“Ma always said: ‘When the man hits you down, you stay down so he’s got nothin’ more to strike you for.’ I never understood it myself, but then she was a freed slave, so there was a lot I didn’t understand about her. The way she begged forgiveness for things she didn’t do. Grovelled at the feet of white men for things she did, but didn’t matter. Called my pappy ‘master’ while carrying four of his sons.”
He laughed. “Biggest regret was when I was twelve, and my pappy hit her so hard she stopped moving altogether. Just lay there on the ground, eyes a little bit open, not breathing. And this fury built up inside of me, Shenny, this horrible burning like the pits of Hell focused all their fire through me. He was standing there, that smug son of a bitch, spittin’ on the woman he’d used all those years, saying it was her fault she was dead, and I…”
He opened and closed his hand. Opened and closed. “Fists like iron. Heart on fire. Mind racing all over the place, and you know the only thing that came to mind? ‘When the man hits you down, you stay down so he’s got nothin’ more to strike you for.’”
Émile imagined that young Topek, kneeling over his dead mother, needing revenge but fighting a ghost’s words of wisdom in a battle for his soul.
“My biggest regret is letting the bastard live. Because as good as my ma was, she got that one wrong. You give in, you lose it all. Sometimes you gotta do something worth gettin’ hit for.”
Émile nodded, solemnly, but said nothing.
“Now you,” said Topek, lying back, eyes closed as the sunlight crept over him. “Biggest regret.”
“I lost my nerve,” said Émile, without hesitation. “I got so scared of making mistakes that I stopped doing anything but reacting to disasters as they happened.”
“Not everyone can control the world, much as you might like to think otherwise,” said Topek with a grin.
“I found the man. The broker. Winnaker. It took me two years to do it, but I found him.”
“Do I know who that—”
“He said he still had her. And he said I could have her…for a price.” He looked down at his hands like they were soaked with blood. With the wrong blood. “I wanted to force him. I wanted to break his arm, then his other arm, then his legs and his ribs and every last piece of him until he told me where she was.”
Topek watched him, surprised and intrigued. But he knew just to listen.
“But every time I acted on those impulses, things have gone wrong,” he said. “People have died, ships have gone down, lives have been ruined. So I didn’t break him, didn’t force him. I did it the way you’re meant to. The right way. We set a price, we made a deal, and I went off to do it right. To earn enough money to buy her freedom—”
“Who’re we talking about here?”
“Marie,” said Émile. “Marie-Celeste. I promised her safety, and I left her in ruins. And it’s not because I tried and failed. It’s because I was too scared of failing.”
Topek reached out and tapped Émile on the back until he turned.
“She dead? This woman you’re after?”
Émile shook his head. “No. She’s alive.”
“Then that’s the worst damn regret I’ve ever heard. Consumption got my pappy, so I ain’t never getting that sorted. But you? You can save this girl Marie. So go do it. Stop whimpering about the past, and go make the future.”
Émile was about to answer when Jean came through the doors, squinting at the sun and stretching out his back. “He’s up,” he said to Émile, in French. “Wants to see all three of you. Now.”
He headed off to the barn without another word. Topek sat up, frowning to Émile.
“This a good thing or a bad thing?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Émile.
Inside, the assorted revellers were still trying to shake off their drunken stupor; some were crawling through the wreckage of the party like wounded soldiers, bleeding liquor and moaning of hangovers. In the back was Tremblay, holding court just like he had the night before. He leaned back in his seat, arms spread wide to welcome his guests again.
“Up early, I see,” he grinned. “It’s a good trait, rising with the sun. Keeps you nimble. Alert. Ready for traps.”
Émile stopped a short distance away, hands folded in front of him, a pleasant smile on his face. “I just like to watch the sun rise, myself,” he said.
Tremblay laughed heartily. Topek, standing a short distance to Émile’s right, watched the whole scene with great unease, because he had no idea what either of them were saying.
“Did you enjoy yourselves last night?” asked Tremblay, pointing upstairs.
Émile turned and translated for Topek: “He wants to know if you enjoyed yourself last night.”
Topek flashed Tremblay a wide grin. “Yes, sir. Most certainly.”
“Good,” said Tremblay, in English, before switching to French to say: “Warn him in any way, and you’re both dead men.”
Behind Tremblay, and off to the right, two men watched the proceedings with their hands resting on their pistols. They didn’t move at all, but their intent was clear. Émile laughed as genuinely as he could, and Topek chuckled too, like he understood a joke that hadn’t been told.
“Warn him of what?” asked Émile. “Did we—”
“It bothered me all night,” said Tremblay. “At first I thought it was because you were a spy—”
“But I’m—”
“But then I realized no, that’s not it at all. It’s the statues. Your story about the statues.”
Émile frowned like this all made no sense to him at all. “I don’t follow, sir.”
“You said you were tracking the statues. That you tracked them to New York—”
“Yes, sir, where the thieves—”
“Yes yes, but before that. That’s the thing. Before that is what bothers me.”
“Before what?” asked Émile. “If I can shed light on things, sir, I would be most—”
“Mercer had them smuggled into the country,” said Tremblay. “That discretion is what I paid him for. So how is it that you know about these statues at all? How are you tracking something that only a small handful of people know about? And more importantly: how is Mercer supposed to prove ownership of something that should not exist at all?”
Émile didn’t let his smile falter, but he felt the panic set in. It wasn’t the question that worried him, it was what would happen when Mercer was brought in, gun to his head, and told to corroborate whatever lie Émile spun. There were a thousand ways to explain this away, but if his story didn’t match Mercer’s, they were all dead men.
“Honestly, Mr Tremblay, I don’t wish to impugn a man’s honour in a setting such as—”
“Try it all the same,” said Tremblay. “Because to me, this smells like a trap. I just can’t tell what kind yet.”
Émile raised his hands slightly, to calm things, but noted how the men in the background tensed as he did so. The trouble was, Topek was sure to have noticed it, too.
“Mr Mercer, sir, is not what he seems,” said Émile. “He has connections, yes, and he finds things most cannot…but black market? Not truly. Not in the traditional sense.”
Tremblay sat forward. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Mr Spy.”
Émile listened for some sign Mercer was coming. Some sign he could dodge this altogether. But Tremblay must have told his men to keep the status quo until his interrogation was complete. He was orchestrating this perfectly.
“Mr Mercer isn’t fetching illicit treasures from under the officials’ noses, sir,” said Émile. “He is importing things legally, through proper channels. He calls them black market goods to create an aura of mystery, and to drive up the price.”
Tremblay stood, his jaw tense as he watched Émile for some sign of a lie. “They’re worthless?”
“No, sir, they are priceless. Just not illegal. The British Empire deals in priceless goods like candy. They even have an import category just for looted Egyptian artifacts…which is how my associate and I discovered this case in the first place.”
Tremblay tipped his head to the side, like he could see through deception if he got the angle right. “What category is it?”
“FEA-243,” said Émile, without hesitation.
“FEA-243 is for exotic fruits,” said Tremblay, eyes narrow. “Bananas and coconuts and such. Explain that.”
Émile smirked. “Exotic fruits are FEC-105, sir. And bananas are a separate category altogether, FPC-86. Though I’ll admit, they do change their classifications so often, it’s hard to keep track.”
Tremblay said nothing, made no moves. Topek had definitely noticed the firearms in the room, and was looking for a way to defend himself without looking like he was making a move to strike first. Émile worked so very hard to stay neutral, to seem confident but submissive. It was hard. So very hard.
Finally, Tremblay lifted a hand…and wagged a finger in the air.
It was if the outside world had been frozen, and suddenly thawed. The front door opened and Mercer was dragged in, wrists still bound, and dropped on his knees beside Émile. Meanwhile, the revellers, who had been keeping a low profile, started to stir once more, dragging themselves to their seats and muttering for coffee or whisky or both.
Émile gave Topek a calming nod, and their bodies both visibly relaxed, having passed the test.
But Émile’s smile faded from his face at the sight of several of Tremblay’s women descending the staircase to join him, arrayed against the wall behind him like a tableau…including Marie-Celeste. She stared at him like she was surprised to see he still existed. Like his continuing existence was a curiosity to her.
Topek saw her, and gave her a wink. Émile felt sick to his stomach.
Tremblay, though, had other matters in mind: “So, Mr Mercer,” he said in English. “You’ve been lying to me?”
Topek frowned at Émile, who couldn’t risk reassuring him. He just had to hope he could play along.
Mercer looked to Émile in horror and confusion, but spoke to Tremblay. “N-no, sir, I would never—”
“You told me those statues were priceless! You said to acquire such artifacts was difficult! And expensive! And dangerous!”
Mercer was getting nothing from Émile, so he pleaded his case straight to Tremblay. “It is difficult, sir. I swear to you, it took all of my considerable talents to—”
“Import them legally?” Tremblay laughed. “With paperwork?”
Mercer was speechless. Émile wanted to save him, but he knew it would spoil the whole lie. He had to let Mercer sort it out himself. Somehow.
“I didn’t…” he began. “I mean I wouldn’t…” He was at a loss. “I got the artifacts you asked for, sir. I swear to you, they’re genuine.”
“Genuine, yes, but overpriced, aren’t they? No one died in the acquisition of them. No one was ever in any danger. So why do you charge me such great sums?”
“I…” stammered Mercer. “I mean…I can offer you a partial refund, of course.”
“Partial?” laughed Tremblay. “Partial, really?”
“Full!” Mercer said, desperate. “Please, just give me a few weeks to arrange the money, but I can—”
“And the statues,” said Tremblay. “The money and the statues. That would soothe the bruised trust between us.”
“Of course, sir. Anything to repair the damage I—”
“Good!” said Tremblay, clapping his hands together. “A toast, before you go, then?”
Jean appeared beside Tremblay with a tray of whisky in shot glasses. Tremblay took two for himself, then the tray made its way around the room to Topek, Émile and Mercer. Topek seemed keen to participate; Mercer was shaking so much, he spilled half his glass within seconds. And Émile was stuck watching Marie-Celeste, who was observing him with the cruelest of expressions. Drink up and go, she was saying. I’m used to you leaving.
“To a job well done!” Tremblay said, raising one of his glasses. “And seeing it through to the end!”
He downed his shot, and Topek did, too. Mercer followed suit out of fear, but still, Émile’s eyes were locked on an idea he couldn’t shake. A guilt he’d never outrun.
Tremblay did his second shot, and handed the glasses back to Jean. “Now, if there’s nothing else to discuss, we can—”
“I have a request,” said Émile, and Tremblay’s face broke into a bemused grin at being interrupted so.
“A request, hmm? Well, I’m sure we can accommodate you, depending on—”
“Her,” said Émile, pointing at Marie-Celeste. “I want her.”
Tremblay looked back, and laughed. “Memorable evening, was it? Well alright, another round won’t hurt—”
“No,” said Émile. “Away. I want to take her away.”
“Émile…” growled Marie-Celeste.
Tremblay was having a hard time following, but he was still amused by it. “Good God, girl, what did you do to him last night?” He gave Émile a condescending smile. “She’s not for sale.”
“I know,” said Émile. “I…”
Topek was reading the room, the tension that was building. “What’s going on?” he whispered, but Émile ignored him—ignored them all and spoke directly to Marie-Celeste.
“You don’t need to live this way,” he said. “You don’t need to be here.”
She was angry, he could tell. Furious at being put on the spot. “I told you last night: I want to be here.”
“Because I failed you,” he said. “Because I…because I did what I was supposed to, instead of what I could. And I’m sorry, I am. But not for saving you. For not saving you enough.”
“I keep telling you, I don’t need saving—”
“Halifax. Home,” he said, and she froze.
“What did you—”
“Do you remember, on the ship that day? The lighthouse, and I pointed to the city and I said Halifax. Home.”
“I don’t—”
“You want a place to be free? That’s where you can be free. You can marry, you can work, you can live, and no one will stand in your way. Your choices will be your own. All your choices will be your own.”
Tremblay was losing his temper. Visibly. “Mr Deschênes, I don’t know who you think this is, but—”
“I made her a promise,” said Émile, tears in his eyes. “Years ago, I made her a promise to keep her safe. And it has been far too long—longer than she deserves—but I intend to keep that promise.”
Tremblay gave Jean a sideways glance, and the men around the room tensed all over again, their hands very noticeably on their weapons. Émile ignored it all.
“Hey Shenny,” hissed Topek. “What’s going on, man?”
Émile reached out his hand to her. “Please,” he said. “Let me keep my promise, Marie-Celeste.”
Topek’s eyes widened instantly. “Oh hell,” he said, and in a heartbeat, aimed both his pistols at Tremblay’s face. Every other gun in the room was drawn, too pointed at him, Émile and Mercer at once.
It was deadly silent.
Émile kept his hand outstretched. “Please,” he said. “I’m done with failing people.”
But before she could answer, Tremblay lifted his hand and—