“But they have no manners,” said the lady.

  “They have excellent manners,” said Jackson. “Western manners. But they’re tolerant folks. They’ll overlook the fact that you ain’t took a bite of food yet, nor drunk any good corn liquor, nor spat once even though you always look like you got a mouth full of something’.” Mike Fink laughed long and hard at this, and so did the roomers, though some were laughing at the lady and some were laughing at Jackson.

  Arthur Stuart asked a question that was bothering Alvin. “How does Andy Jackson get anything done, if the Simple House is full of river rats and bumpkins all day?”

  “He needs something done, why, one of us river rats went and done it for him,” said Mike.

  “But most river men can’t read or write,” Arthur said.

  “Well, Old Hickory can do all the readin’ and writin’ for hisself,” said Mike. “He sends the river rats to deliver messages and persuade people.”

  “Persuade people?” asked Alvin. “I hope they don’t use the methods of persuasion you once tried on me.”

  Mike whooped at that. “Iffen Old Hickory let the boys do those old tricks, I don’t think there’d be six noses left in Congress, nor twenty ears!”

  Finally, though, the tales of the frolicking at the Simple House—or degradation, depending on your point of view—wound down and the other roomers left. Only Alvin and Arthur, as latecomers, were still eating as they made their serious reports on the day’s work.

  Mike shook his head sadly when Alvin asked him if he had a chance to talk to Andy Jackson. “Oh, he included me in the room, if that’s what you mean. But talking alone, no, not likely. See, Andy Jackson may be a lawyer but he knows river rats, and my name rang a bell with him. Haven’t lived down my old reputation yet, Alvin. Sorry.”

  Alvin smiled and waved off the apology. “There’ll come a day when the president will meet with us.”

  “It was premature, anyway,” said Verily. “Why try for a land grant when we don’t even know what we’re going to use it for?”

  “Do so,” said Alvin, playing at a children’s quarrel.

  “Do not,” said Verily, grinning.

  “We got a city to build.”

  “No sir,” said Verily. “We have the name of a city, but we don’t have the plan of a city, or even the idea of the city—”

  “It’s a city of Makers!”

  “Well, it would have been nice if the Red Prophet had told you what that means,” said Verily.

  “He showed it to me inside the waterspout,” said Alvin. “He doesn’t know what it means any more than I do. But we both saw it, a city made of glass, filled with people, and the city itself taught them everything.”

  “Amid all that seeing,” said Verily, “did you perhaps hear a hint of what we’re supposed to tell people to persuade them to come and help us build it?”

  “I take it that means you didn’t accomplish what you set out to do, either,” said Alvin.

  “Oh, I perused the Congressional Library,” said Verily. “Found many references to the Crystal City, but most of them were tied up with Spanish explorers who thought it had something to do with the fountain of youth or the Seven Cities of the Onion.”

  “Onion?” asked Arthur Stuart.

  “One of the sources misheard the Indian name ‘Cibola’ as a Spanish word for ‘onion,’ and I thought it was funny,” said Verily. “All dead ends. But there is an interesting datum that I can’t readily construe.”

  “Wouldn’t want to have anything constroodlcd redly,” said Alvin.

  “Don’t play frontiersman with me,” said Verily. “Your wife was a better schoolteacher than to leave you that ignorant.”

  “You two leave off teasing,” demanded Arthur Stuart. “What did you find out?”

  “There’s a post office in a place that calls itself Crystal City in the state of Tennizy.”

  “There’s probably a place called Fountain of Youth, too,” said Alvin.

  “Well, I thought it was interesting,” said Verily.

  “Know anything else about it?”

  “Postmaster’s a Mr. Crawford, who also has the titles Mayor and—I think you’ll like this, Alvin—White Prophet.”

  Mike Fink laughed, but Alvin didn’t like it. “White Prophet. As if to set himself against Tenskwa-Tawa?”

  “I just told you all I know,” said Verily. “Now, what did you accomplish?”

  “I’ve been in Philadelphia for two weeks and I haven’t accomplished a thing,” said Alvin. “I thought the city of Benjamin Franklin would have something to teach me. But Franklin’s dead, and there’s no special music in the street, no wisdom lingering around his grave. Here’s where America was born, boys, but I don’t think it lives here anymore. America lives out there where I grew up—what we got in Philadelphia now is just the government of America. Like finding fresh dung on the road. It ain’t a horse, but it tells you a horse is somewhere nearby.”

  “It took you two weeks in Philadelphia to find that out?” said Mike Fink.

  Verily joined in. “My father always said that government is like watching another man piss in your boot. Someone feels better but it certainly isn’t you.”

  They weren’t done talking for a long while, but in the end, the decision was to leave Philadelphia in the morning, soon as they could, so they could get in a good day’s journey before dark.

  Alvin woke early in the morning, before dawn, but it took him no more than two breaths to notice that Arthur Stuart was gone. The window stood open, and though they were on the top floor of the house, Alvin knew that wouldn’t stop Arthur Stuart, who seemed to think that gravity owed him a favor.

  Alvin woke Verily and Mike, who were stirring anyway, and asked them to get the horses saddled and loaded up while he went in search of the boy.

  Mike only laughed, though. “Probably found him some girl he wants to kiss good-bye.”

  Alvin looked at him in shock. “What are you talking about?” Mike looked back at him, just as surprised. “Arc you blind? Are you deaf? Arthur’s voice is changing. He’s one whisker from being a man.”

  “Speaking of whiskers,” said Verily, “I think the shadow on his upper lip is due to become a brush pretty soon. In fact, I daresay his face grows more hair on it already than yours does, Alvin.”

  “I don’t see your face flowing with moustachery, either,” said Alvin.

  “I shave,” said Verily.

  “But it’s a long time between Christmases,” said Alvin. “I’ll see you before breakfast is done, I wager.”

  As Alvin went downstairs, he stopped into the kitchen, where Mistress Louder was rolling out the dough for morning biscuits. “You didn’t happen to see Arthur Stuart this morning?” asked Alvin.

  “And when wast thou planning to tell me ye were leaving?”

  “When we settled up after breakfast,” said Alvin. “We wasn’t trying to slip out, it was no secret we were packing up.”

  Only then did he notice the tears running down her cheeks. “I hardly slept last night.”

  Alvin put his hands on her shoulders. “Mistress Louder, I never thought you’d take on so. It’s a rooming house, ain’t it? And roomers come and go.”

  She sighed loudly. “Just like children,” she said.

  “And don’t children come back to the nest from time to time?”

  “If that’s a promise, I won’t have to turn these into salt biscuits with my silly tears,” she said.

  “I can promise that I’ll never pass a night in Philadelphia anywhere other than your house, lessen my wife and I settle down here someday, and then we’ll send our children to your house for breakfast while we sleep lazy.”

  She laughed outright. “The Lord took twice the time making thee, Alvin Smith, cause it took that long to put the mischief in.”

  “Mischief sneaks in by itself,” said Alvin. “That’s its nature.” Only then did Mistress Louder remember Alvin’s original question. “As for Arthur Stuart, I caught him climbing down the tree outside when I went out to bring in firewood.”

  “And you didn’t wake me? Or stop him?”

  She ignored the implied accusation. “I forced some cold johnny-cake into his hands before he was out the door again. Said he had an errand to run before ye boys left this morning.”

  “Well, at least that sounds like he means to come back,” said Alvin.

  “It does,” said Mistress Louder. “Though if he didn’t, thou’rt not his master, I think.”

  “Just because he’s not my property don’t mean I’m not responsible for him,” said Alvin.

  “I wasn’t speaking of the law,” said Mistress Louder. “I was speaking the simple truth. He doesn’t obey thee like a boy, but like a man, because he wants to please thee. He’ll do not because thou commandcst, but does it only when he agrees he ought to.”

  “But that’s true of all men and all masters, even slaves,” said Alvin.

  “What I’m saying is he doesn’t act in fear of thee,” said Mistress Louder. “And so it won’t do for thee to be hot with him when thou find him. Thou hast no right.”

  Only then did Alvin realize that he was a bit angry with Arthur Stuart for running off. “He’s still young,” said Alvin.

  “And thou’rt what, a grey-beard with a stoop in his back?” She laughed. “Get on and find him. Arthur Stuart never seems to know the danger a lad of his tribe faces, noon and night.”

  “Nor the danger that sneaks up behind,” said Alvin. He kissed her cheek. “Don’t let all those biscuits disappear before I get back.”

  “It’s thy business, not mine, what time thou’lt choose to come back,” she said. “Who can say how hungry the others will be this morning?”

  For that remark, Alvin dipped his finger into the flour and striped her nose with it, then headed for the door. She stuck her tongue out at him but didn’t wipe the flour away. “I’ll be a clown if thou want me to,” she called after him.

  It was far too early in the morning for the shop to be open, but Alvin went straight for the taxidermist’s anyway. What other business could Arthur Stuart have? Mike’s guess that Arthur had found a girl was not likely to be right—the boy almost never left Alvin’s side, so there’d been no chance for such a thing, even if Arthur was old enough to want to try.

  The streets were crowded with farmers from the surrounding countryside, bringing their goods to market, but the shops in buildings along the streets were still closed. Paperboys and postmen made their rounds, and dairymen clattered up the alleys, stopping to leave milk in the kitchens along the way. It was noisy on the streets, but it was the fresh noise of morning. No one was shouting yet. No neighbors quarreling, no barkers selling, no driver shouting out a warning to clear the way.

  No Arthur at the front door of the taxidermy shop.

  But where else would he have gone? He had a question, and he wouldn’t rest until he had the answer. Only it wasn’t the taxidermist who had the answer, was it? It was the French painter of birds, John-James. And somewhere inside the shop, there was bound to be a note of the man’s address. Would Arthur really be so foolhardy as to . . .

  There was indeed an open window, with two crates on a barrel stacked beneath it. Arthur Stuart, it’s no better to be taken for a burglar than to be taken for a slave.

  Alvin went to the back door. He twisted the knob. It turned a little, but not enough to draw back the latch. Locked, then. Alvin leaned against the door and closed his eyes, searching with his doodlebug till he found the heartfire inside the shop. There he was, Arthur Stuart, bright with life, hot with adventure. Like so many times before, Alvin wished he had some part of Margaret’s gift, to see into the heartfire and learn something of the future and past, or even just the thoughts of the present moment—that would be convenient.

  He dared not call out for Arthur—his voice would only raise an alarm and almost guarantee that Arthur would be caught inside the shop. For all Alvin knew, the taxidermist lived upstairs or in an upper floor of one of the nearby buildings. So now he put his doodlebug inside the lock, to feel out how the thing was made. An old lock, not very smooth. Alvin evened out the rough parts, peeling away corrosion and dirt. To change the shape of it was easier than moving it, so where two metal surfaces pressed flat against each other, keeping the latch from opening, Alvin changed them both to a bevel, making the metal flow into the new shapes, until the two surfaces slid easily across each other. With that he could turn the knob, and silently the latch slid free.

  Still he did not open the door, for now he had to turn his attention to the hinges. They were rougher and dirtier than the lock. Did the man even use this door? Alvin smoothed and cleaned them also, and now, when he turned the knob and pushed open the door, the only sound was the whisper of the breeze passing into the shop.

  Arthur Stuart sat at the taxidermist’s worktable, holding a bluejay between his hands, stroking the feathers. He looked up at Alvin and said softly, “It isn’t even dead.”

  Alvin touched the bird. Yes, there was some warmth, and a heartbeat. The shot that stunned it was still lodged in its skull. The brain was bruised and the bird would soon die of it, even though none of the other birdshot that had hit it would be fatal.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Alvin. “The address of the painter?”

  “No,” said Arthur bleakly.

  Alvin went to work on the bird, quickly as he could. It was more delicate than metal work, moving his doodlebug through the pathways of a living creature, making tiny alterations here and there. It helped him to hold the animal, to touch it while he worked on it. The blood in the brain was soon draining into the veins, and the damaged arteries were closed. The flesh healed rapidly under the tiny balls of lead, forcing them back out of the body. Even the ball lodged in the skull shrank, loosened, dropped out.

  The jay rustled its feathers, struggled in Alvin’s grasp. He let it loose.

  “They’ll just kill it anyway,” said Alvin.

  “So we’ll let it out,” said Arthur.

  Alvin sighed. “Then we’d be thieves, wouldn’t we?”

  “The window’s open,” said Arthur. “The bluejay can leave after the man comes in this morning. So he’ll think it escaped on its own.”

  “And how will we get the bird to do that?”

  Arthur looked at him like he was an idiot, then leaned close to the bluejay, which stood still on the worktable. Arthur whispered so softly that Alvin couldn’t hear the words. Then he whistled, several sharp birdlike sounds.

  The jay leapt into the air and flapped noisily around the room. Alvin ducked to avoid it.

  “He’s not going to hit you,” said Arthur, amused.

  “Let’s go,” said Alvin.

  He took Arthur through the back door.

  When he drew it closed, he stayed for just a moment longer, his fingers lingering on the knob, as he returned the pieces of the lock to their proper shape.

  “What are you doing here?” The taxidermist stood at the turn of the alley.

  “Hoping to find you in, sir,” said Alvin calmly, not taking his hand off the knob.

  “With your hand on the knob?” said the taxidermist, his voice icy with suspicion.

  “You didn’t answer to our knock,” said Alvin. “I thought you might be so hard at work you didn’t hear. All we want is to know where we might find the journeyman painter. The Frenchman. John-James.”

  “I know what you wanted,” said the taxidermist. “Stand away from the door before I call the constable.”

  Alvin and Arthur stepped back.

  “That’s not good enough,” said the taxidermist. “Skulking at back doors—how do I know you don’t plan to knock me over the head and steal from me as soon as I have the door unlocked?”

  “If that was our plan, sir,” said Alvin, “you’d already be lying on the ground and I’d have the key in my hand, wouldn’t I?”

  “So you did have it all thought out!”

  “Seems to me you’re the one who has plans for robbing,” said Alvin. “And then you accuse others of wanting to do what only you had thought of.”

  Angrily the man pulled out his key and slid it into the lock. He braced himself to twist hard, expecting the corroded metal to resist. So he visibly staggered when the key turned easily and the door slipped open silently.

  He might have stopped to examine the lock and the hinges, but at that moment the bluejay that had spent the night slowly dying on his worktable fluttered angrily in his face and flew out the door. “No!” the man shouted. “That’s Mr. Ridley’s trophy!” Arthur Stuart laughed. “Not much of a trophy,” he said. “Not if it won’t hold still.”

  The taxidermist stood in the doorway, looking for the bird. It was long gone. He then looked back and forth from Alvin to Arthur. “I know you had something to do with this,” he said. “I don’t know what or how, but you witched up that bird.”

  “No such thing,” said Alvin. “When I arrived here I had no idea you kept living birds inside. I thought you only dealt with dead ones.”

  “I do! That bird was dead!”

  “John-James,” said Alvin. “We want to see him before we leave town.”

  “Why should I help you?” said the taxidermist.

  “Because we asked,” said Alvin, “and it would cost you nothing.”

  “Cost me nothing? How am I going to explain to Mr. Ridley?”

  “Tell him to make sure his birds are dead before he brings them to you,” said Arthur Stuart.

  “I won’t have such talk from a Black boy,” said the taxidermist. “If you can’t control your boy, then you shouldn’t bring him out among gentlemen!”

  “Have I?” asked Alvin.

  Have you what?”

  “Brought him out among gentlemen,” said Alvin. “I’m waiting to see the courtesy that would mark you as such a one.”

  The taxidermist glowered at him. “John-James Audubon is staying in a room at the Liberty Inn. But you won’t find him there at this time of day—he’ll be out looking at birds till midmorning.”