York: The Shadow Cipher

New Year's Eve, 1855

New Year's Eve, 1855

The true story of any city is never a single tale; it's a vast collection of stories with many different heroes. But most storytellers believe that theirs is the only true story and that they are the only true heroes. They are surprised to find out they are wrong.

Just a few hours before midnight, a brief hush fell over the streets of New York City, as if someone were about to tell a grand tale of mystery and adventure and needed quiet to begin. William Covington Hanover didn't like the sudden quiet, and he already knew the story of New York City—his story. He had been in this city for barely a fortnight and had concluded it was teeming with ruffians, murderers, and thieves. That he himself was a murderer and a thief was beside the point.

(And he would thrash the daylights out of anyone who called him a ruffian.)

No, the point was that William Covington Hanover didn't look like a murderer or a thief. He had pride. He had standards. On this fine winter evening, the air aflutter with new snow, he wore a crisp white shirt with a pleated front, a white cravat, a dark tailcoat, and clean trousers. His top hat added to his already considerable height, and his fine wool greatcoat swept behind him like the regimentals of a British general.

Which was why pretty Miss Ava Oneal had no idea he'd been shadowing her for seven blocks.

And why would she? His was a stylish ensemble pinched from his last employer, the profoundly near-sighted Lord Something-or-Other of Somewhere-upon-Avon, who never seemed to notice when the candlesticks and silverware went missing. Until the day he did notice, causing an ill-advised tussle over a serving fork. William was forced to stuff his spoils into a pillowcase and steal aboard a packet bound for this strange city with its even stranger inhabitants. Ruffians, murderers, thieves . . . and fools. When the ship had docked in America, and he'd informed the immigration officials at Castle Gar-den that his name was "William Covington Hanover," he was joking. Who would believe a man who had spent months crammed into a boat with shoemakers and potato farmers was a member of the House of Hanover, same as Queen Victoria? But they had merely scratched his quip in a ledger and waved him on.

And on he went. Through Battery Park and into the cauldron of the Five Points neighborhood, where he found lodging in a cramped tenement that reeked of gin fumes and rancid cabbage. Not much to steal in the Five Points, and far too much to drink. It didn't take long for him to migrate into the heart of the city, where the shining Morningstarr Tower stood like a beacon to everything that he had desired his whole life and all that he deserved: riches and power beyond his wildest imaginings (though, honestly, just the riches would do).

Now he was on the upper west side of the island, where the wealthy had recently built rows of fine houses as well as some grand estates complete with lawns and forest. Most of the coppers stayed south near the Five Points, but a few wandered north to protect the wealthy from, well, people like William Covington Hanover. William nodded at the coppers on the corner, tipped his hat to the groups of ladies gathered to climb into horse-drawn carriages that would bear them to this ball or that one.

"Good evening, ladies," he said, in his best upper-crust English accent. "You are the picture of loveliness this magical night."

"Good evening to you, sir," said the boldest. The ladies giggled as he passed, eyes darting over his fine coat, his fair hair, his ready smile. As long as he didn't get close enough for any of them to notice his cold-and-whiskey-reddened nose or the knife scars on his white cheeks, he was safe. He would appear to be like any other gentleman making his way to a New Year's Eve celebration instead of a man pursuing a dream in the form of Miss Ava Oneal.

Miss Ava was dressed less opulently—and more strangely—than the other ladies. Despite the festive occasion, she wore a plain jacket buttoned all the way up to the neck, a long dark skirt and cloak, and a mannish hat nearly as tall as William's. But her outfit was not the most remarkable thing about her. Nor was it her small stature, her flawless brown face, or the fact that she walked unescorted through the swirling, sparkling snow. It wasn't even that she was reading a book in the dim light of the streetlamps as she went. No, it was Miss Ava Oneal's employers who most intrigued him.