Free Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century) by Cherie Priest

always looked after them, hell, high water, or hunger.
    But he knew his mother well—a simple woman who sometimes amazed him with her lack of curiosity, and sometimes annoyed him with her nervous nature. He knew of the safehouse in question, a quiet and hidden place at the edge of Lookout; he’d been there before, when he worked at the university. But all its quietness and all its hiddenness would never assuage her fears. She’d wear them like a blanket, and share them with her young charge. He thought unhappily of Caleb, a calm, quiet boy who’d been a toddler when they’d first come to the East Coast, and had grown into a solemn, silent thing that reached his uncle’s hips in height. The poor child would absorb his grandma’s fears, and hold them inside, and say nothing because that was how he’d made it this far.
    Gideon sighed.
    The best he could hope for was to protect them from each other. It was both the least he could do, and the most he could expect to accomplish. But these were not the best of times, and so far, he had not protected them from anything.
    When there was nothing left to be done at the ruins of the Jefferson’s laboratory wing, Mary, Henry, and Gideon Bardsley climbed into Mary’s carriage and made the quick ride back to the Lincoln home. Once there, Mary left the two men in the library, where her husband was ensconced in his favorite chair with a blanket over his legs and a cup of coffee in his hand.
    Thin, sallow Nelson Wellers sat in a chair across from the fire, and Polly stood by with the steaming pot, ready to dole out a warm beverage to the night-chilled newcomers.
    “Gideon, Henry. Please come in. Take a seat,” the president urged. “Coffee, anyone?”
    Henry politely waited while Polly served. When the maid finally pushed her little cart out of the room, he asked Lincoln, “So, the Pinkerton agent—she hasn’t arrived yet?”
    Abraham Lincoln shook his head. “No, but any minute now, I should think.”
    Gideon lifted an eyebrow as he dropped into a large leather chair. “She?”
    “Oh, yes. One of their finest investigators, or so I am assured. An eminently capable woman,” he said. “But Henry’s told you of your mother, I hope? She and Caleb are safe and sound, and Troost is en route to them as we speak.”
    “Yes, the marshal told me. They’re in Tennessee.”
    “It’s less than ideal.” Lincoln spoke aloud what Gideon had privately concluded. “But it’s the best possible arrangement at this time. If they run, the bloodhounds will chase them, so I think we can all agree that they’re better off hiding until we know precisely what we’re up against. Now, Henry”—he shifted topics so smoothly, Gideon didn’t have time to offer some gentle agreement—“that telegram you sent was most alarming. I was hoping you could give us the particulars, and perhaps fill in some of the gaps between what we heard last week and your present understanding of the situation.”
    “It might be best to wait for the Pinkerton agent. He’ll need—I mean, she’ll need—to be briefed, and she might have questions.”
    A deep gong rang through the first floor, and Lincoln smiled. “A good suggestion, and good timing, too. I believe that’s her.”
    Nelson Wellers reached one hand into his coat as if he did not share the former president’s confidence that this visitor was a fellow agent, not something more sinister; and Henry Epperson tensed as well. But within moments Polly returned. She was flushed, and glanced nervously between the newcomer and the men in the room.
    “Gentlemen,” she said. “I … um. This is … this is Maria Boyd. She says she’s with the Pinkertons, and she showed me her badge … but…”
    “But nothing,” Lincoln nodded reassuringly. “All’s well, Polly, thank you. Could you bring us another pot of coffee, please? Our guest might care for a cup. And, Miss Boyd—that’s your preferred address, isn’t it? Thank you for coming on such