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would you care for coffee and beignets?” Joseph smiled and released my hand. “I know a place on the way to your steamer.”
    My face split with a grin. I was already late to my shift—a few extra minutes wouldn’t change that.
    â€œI never say no to free food.” I spread my arms wide. “Lead the way, Mr. Boyer.”

C HAPTER F OUR

    By the time I reached Canal Street and the Sadie Queen ’s red smokestacks came into view, the street was crawling with people. Rich, poor, black, white, American, and foreign—they swarmed in front of shops and on the iron-fenced balconies above. Many were on their way to jobs or freshly landed on the morning steamers.
    But most were spectators already lining up to see the race.
    â€œAnd the race doesn’t even start for ten hours,” I muttered as I darted in front of a carriage. I’d parted ways with Joseph after breakfast—the man needed to gather his “supplies” before boarding the Queen .
    A Spirit-Hunter. The whole concept seemed ridiculous. But also impressive—if it was true, of course. To be able to stop hauntings or fight the walking Dead sure sounded exciting. And leagues better than tending a steamboat engine. Maybe I could convince him to hire me.
    A streetcar clanged past and I charged with the flow of traffic around it, ducking left and twisting right. The closer I got to the water, the more elbows and parasols and sweaty bodies I had to slink around.
    Then church bells clanged out six o’clock. I was now officially late to my watch.
    I lengthened my stride, not bothering to apologize for stepped-on toes or jostled gentlemen. At last I popped out on the edge of the street with a full view of the Sadie Queen spring-lined to the pier—and a full view of her nearest paddle box, on which smiled the painted face of Cassidy’s mother.
    I met her once—Cassidy’s ma—at the same time I met Ellis. They both lived up in St. Louis, where Ellis was in a special hospital with other children like her. Hodgkin’s disease was incurable—nothing could change that—but at least her suffering was eased. And though it had been a brief visit, I would never forget how happy Ellis had been to see Cass. Or how pretty Mrs. Cochran had looked. All round cheeks and Native American Choctaw glow.
    â€œDanny.”
    I jumped, spinning around to find a younger version of that very same glow standing behind me. “Uh . . . Cassidy.”
    â€œWhere have you been?” she demanded, slinging off her uniform cap and thrusting it in my face. “Father is furious. He knows you went out last night, and now you’re late to your watch. If you keep this up, you’ll lose your job!”
    I sighed and twisted around to resume my hike down the pier. She stomped hot on my heels. “What has gotten into you, Danny? Why are you acting so strange?”
    I didn’t answer that question, and she didn’t press. We were having a hard enough time just walking, thanks to the sheer number of roustabouts. They were everywhere, taking apart the steamer piece by piece to lighten the load. Lots of boats did it for a race—carted off furniture, yanked down walls, and even pulled out floorboards—because without the excess weight, a steamer could sometimes double its speed.
    I sure hoped we doubled ours.
    We reached a row of reporters standing near the gangplank, their pens furiously recording everything. I shoved through the men . . . and then felt a hand on mine. I didn’t have to look to know it was Cassidy’s, trusting me to get her through the crowds.
    I pushed onward until at last we reached the steamer. But when I tried to release her hand and kick up the gangplank, she yanked me back.
    â€œI can sneak you into the engine room,” she said, her voice soft and urgent. “We can pretend you were there all along, and maybe Father won’t