Chapter 14: Oath & Secrets
The sun was dropping fast behind the jagged rooflines of the West Side tenements, casting long light across Commerce Street. It was a quiet, curving lane, tucked away from the frantic rush of Bleecker. Here, the tenements were older, built of dark red brick that had weathered decades of river fog and chimney soot.
Ricky checked the small, printed card in his hand, his thumb brushing over the elegant, ink-printed letters: Mrs. Eleanor O’Connell, 14 Commerce Street.
"I think it’s this one," Ricky said, nodding toward a four-story brick building across the narrow street.
Marek stepped up beside him, his boots clicking lightly on the cobblestones. The boy adjusted his new, dark grey flat cap, still self-consciously smoothing the lapel of his stiff wool jacket. "Looks clean," Marek noted, his voice low. "No gang tags on the brickwork. No lookouts sitting on the stoop either. It’s quiet."
They crossed the cobblestones, dodging a small puddle where the grease of a passing cart had turned the water a shimmering violet. Ricky led the way up the shallow stone steps of number 14. He raised his hand and knocked firmly on the heavy, dark oak door.
For a moment, the only sound was the distant, muffled chime of a church bell down the avenue and the gentle clop-clop of a solitary carriage horse a block away. Then, the heavy latch inside clicked. The door swung inward with a dry creak.
Mrs. O’Connell stood in the doorway, wearing her practical dark skirt and a clean white apron. Her silver hair was pinned back in its tight, tidy bun. When she saw the two boys standing on her stoop, her face lit up, a warm, genuine smile cutting through the sharp lines of her face.
"Well, look at you two," she said, her Irish-American lilt warm and welcoming. "You’re a sight earlier than I expected. I thought for sure you’d be arriving tomorrow morning after you settled your business."
Ricky took his cap off, holding it against his chest. Beside him, Marek quickly did the same. "We managed to finish up earlier than we thought, Mrs. O’Connell," Ricky said, offering a respectful nod. "We didn’t want to waste any daylight."
"And dressed so fine, too," she noted, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she took in their new wool suits. She stepped back, gesturing into the warm hall. "Well, don’t just stand out there letting the river draft catch your necks. Come on in."
Ricky and Marek stepped over the threshold, the scent of hot cabbage stew, floor wax, and burning anthracite coal wrapping around them like a heavy blanket. It was a massive upgrade from the damp, onion-scented rot of the Hudson Valley warehouse.
Mrs. O’Connell closed the door, the heavy lock sliding into place with a solid, reassuring thunk. She turned to lead them toward the dark wooden staircase. As she reached the landing, she stopped, her gaze lingering on their empty hands. Her brow furrowed slightly.
"Where are your bags, boys?" she asked, looking from Ricky to Marek. "You haven’t got a trunk between the two of you?"
Ricky’s mind ran a quick, instinctive loop. They didn’t have another pair of clothes, the only ones they have were the new outfit they wore and the old clothes. He certainly couldn’t tell her that he came from the future and forgot to bring his clothes. He also couldn’t tell her they didn’t have any. They would sound like a vagrant.
"We’ve been scrambling all day trying to find work, ma’am," Ricky lied smoothly, keeping his voice relaxed and down-to-earth. "We left what little we had over at our friend’s place on the West Side so we wouldn’t have to lug it from shop to shop. We’ll go fetch our things tomorrow once we’re settled."
Marek glanced at Ricky, amazed at what he just said. He was too smooth like he’d done it a thousand times.
"Ah, sensible enough," Mrs. O’Connell said, nodding with a sigh. "New York’s no place to be carrying your life on your back when you’re knocking on doors. Come along then. Up we go."
The climb was slow. Mrs. O’Connell walked with a slight, stubborn limp, her hand resting heavily on the dark pine banister. Ricky stayed a step behind her, matching her pace, while Marek followed silently, his eyes darting to the framed portraits of Catholic saints and the small, clean oil lamps hanging from the hallway walls.
"Most of the rooms on the top floor took some damage from the fire," Mrs. O’Connell explained over her shoulder, her breath coming a bit shorter as they reached the third-floor landing. "It wasn’t a terrible blaze, mind you—just a chimney spark that got out of hand before the lads from the hook-and-ladder company arrived. But it scorched the plaster and ruined the floorboards in the hallway. I simply never had the spare coin to have the carpenters put it right."
She paused at the foot of the final, narrow set of stairs that led up into the attic space. "But there’s one room at the far end that the smoke didn’t touch. It’s the only decent room up there at the moment. I had young Clara from the second floor sweep it out and wash the window pane this morning. I even managed to find two clean wool blankets and a pair of feather pillows from the linen chest."
Ricky felt a quiet prick of gratitude in his chest. "You didn’t have to do that, Mrs. O’Connell. We’re used to roughing it."
She let out a dry, dismissive snort, waving her hand as she climbed the last few steps. "Oh, stop. I’m not running a workhouse, young man. A decent boy deserves a clean bed to lay his head, especially if he’s trying to make an honest start of things."
They stepped onto the fourth-floor landing, and the air turned noticeably cooler. Ricky looked around.
The damage was exactly as she had described. The plaster on the hallway walls was stained with dark, greasy sweeps of soot, and the pine floorboards beneath their boots were charred in places, some of the planks warping slightly where the firemen’s water had soaked the wood. But the roof above was solid and dry, the heavy rafters showing only faint, blackened scars.
"It’s not too bad," Ricky said, stepping over a slightly uneven board. He knelt down, running his fingers over a seam where a floorboard had split. "The joists are still strong. Some fresh pine tongue-and-groove, a bucket of lime plaster, and some white paint, and you wouldn’t even know there was a fire."
Mrs. O’Connell watched him, her eyes brightening with a sudden, quiet approval. "That’s exactly what my late Thomas would have said. He was a carpenter, you know. Built half the warehouses down on West Street before the pneumonia took him."
She led them down the short, shadowed hallway. "Most of the old furniture is stored in the side rooms up here. Termites will probably get to it sooner or later, so if you boys find any chairs or tables you can salvage, you’re welcome to use ’em. I was going to have the drayman haul ’em to the dump anyway."
She stopped at the very end of the hall, pointing toward a heavy wooden door with a rusty iron latch. "That leads out to the iron fire escape. It goes right down to the alley behind the building. Keep it locked from the inside, but it’s there if you ever need a quick way out."
Another entrance, Ricky thought, his survival instincts registering the detail instantly. An untraceable, private door that bypassed the main hallway. It was perfect.
Mrs. O’Connell turned to the door on her left and pushed it open. "Here we are."
Ricky and Marek stepped inside.
The room was modest, but to Ricky, it felt like a palace compared to the cold cardboard of the Hudson Valley warehouse. The wood floor was scrubbed clean, smelling faintly of vinegar and pine soap. Against the far wall sat a sturdy, dark wood double bunk bed, made up with thick, clean wool blankets. Two tall, narrow wardrobes of dark oak stood in the corners, and a small three-drawer chest sat beneath a clean glass window that looked out over the quiet, slate roofs of Commerce Street.
"This is great," Marek breathed, his eyes wide as he walked over to the bunk bed and pressed his hand against the mattress. "Ricky, look at this. Real feathers."
"It’s perfect, Mrs. O’Connell," Ricky said, turning to her with a genuine smile. He looked at Marek, giving him a quiet nod. "Marek, let’s pay the lady."
Marek reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his small roll of silver coins. He counted out four silver dollars, their heavy, metallic clink loud in the quiet room, and handed them to Ricky. Ricky added his own four dollars to the pile, stepping forward to offer the eight dollars to Mrs. O’Connell.
"This is for three weeks in advance," Ricky said, holding the coins out. "We want to make sure you’re squared away first."
Mrs. O’Connell looked at the silver in his palm, her hands tucking into her apron pockets. She shook her head gently. "Oh, boys, keep your silver for now. I told you Greenwhich is hard on strangers. You’ll need every nickel for your breakfast and your boots until you find a steady master to pay you a wage."
"We insist, ma’am," Ricky said, his voice quiet but absolutely firm. He stepped closer, gently taking her hand and placing the heavy silver coins into her palm. "You took a risk on two young man off the docks. We pay our debts, and we pay our rent. It’s the least we can do to thank you for your trust."
Eleanor O’Connell stared at the silver in her hand for a long, silent second. A soft, complex expression crossed her face—pity, respect, and a deep, maternal warmth. She closed her fingers over the coins, nodding slowly.
"You’re good boys," she said, her voice a little softer now. "Thomas would have liked you, Ricky. He had that same stubborn pride." She tucked the silver into her apron pocket. "Now, have you two had your supper? There’s plenty of cabbage and salt pork downstairs if you’re hungry."
Ricky felt his stomach rumble at the mention of pork, but he didn’t want to crowd her kitchen on their very first night. He tipped his cap. "Thank you, ma’am, but we’re going to head back out outside to grab a quick bite and look at the streets before the shops close up. We want to get a feel for the neighborhood."
"Suit yourselves," she said, offering a warm smile as she stepped back into the hallway.
"Just make sure you’re locked in before the ten o’clock bell. The streetlights are gas on this block, and the alleys get dark early."
"We will," Ricky said. "Goodnight, Mrs. O’Connell."
Once her slow, limping footsteps had faded down the wooden stairs, Marek let out a long, heavy sigh and collapsed onto the bottom bunk. He stared up at the wooden slats of the top bed, his shoulders slumping.
The silence of the room settled over them, heavy and cool.
"No job," Marek muttered, his voice flat with disappointment. "We spent the whole morning walking, Ricky. We talked to every butcher, every baker, every merchant from here to Seventh Avenue. No one’s hiring. If we don’t find something by next week, those eight dollars we just spent are going to look like a fortune."
Ricky didn’t answer. He walked over to the small drawer chest, pulling his pocket notebook and a stubby lead pencil from his vest pocket. He leaned against the wood, staring out the window as the first streetlamps flickered to life below, casting pale yellow circles on the cobblestones.
In his mind, the blue, quiet interface of the Founder’s Ledger was already open, but he wasn’t looking at the system’s character sheet. He was looking at the market.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Ricky began to write in his notebook, his pencil scratching softly against the rough paper:
Flour
Sugar
Coffee
Soap
Candles
Salt
Beside each item, he wrote down the retail prices he had seen on Bleecker Street, then the complaints of the store owners about wholesale markups, shipping delays, and damaged deliveries.
Mrs. Bellini is paying extra for dirty potatoes, Ricky thought. Whitaker is waiting three weeks for carbon steel files. The baker is burning scrap wood because his coal delivery is stuck in New Jersey.
"What are you doing?" Marek asked, sitting up on the edge of the mattress, his brow furrowed as he watched Ricky’s pencil fly across the page.
Ricky didn’t look up. "Running the numbers for our business."
"For what?" Marek scoffed gently, leaning back against the wooden post of the bed. "We don’t have a shop, Ricky. We don’t have a horse, we don’t have a wagon, and we don’t have a warehouse. What good does it do to know the price of flour?"
"We don’t need a shop," Ricky said, finally turning to look at him. His voice was steady, grounded by a quiet, absolute certainty. "And we don’t need to work for twelve cents an hour sweeping floors for some baker who’s angry at his distributor. Every merchant on Greenwhich has a supplier problem, Marek. If we can solve that problem, we don’t need a job. We have a business."
Marek let out a short, incredulous laugh. "A business? Ricky, you’re mad. You think you can just walk up to Samuel Gold or Henry Whitaker and sell them goods? Where are we going to get the stock? Wholesalers won’t even talk to you unless you buy by the ton, and we don’t have the cash to buy a single sack of flour!"
Ricky closed his notebook with a soft snap. He looked at the heavy wooden door, then back to Marek. "If I show you something," Ricky said, his voice dropping into a low, serious tone, "do you promise on everything you hold holy that you won’t ever speak a word of it to anyone? Not to Mrs. O’Connell, not to some girl in a saloon, not to anyone."
Marek puzzled as he took in the dead-serious intensity in Ricky’s eyes. He swallowed, shifting slightly on the mattress. "What kind of secret, Ricky?"
"Promise me first, Marek," Ricky insisted, stepping closer. "Promise me on your sister’s health. If you ever breathe a word of this, you’ll go straight to hell."
Marek hesitated, looking at Ricky’s face, then at his hands. The sheer weight of the oath was incredibly serious to a Polish Catholic kid in 1910. He raised his right hand slowly, his eyes locked on Ricky’s. "I promise, Ricky. On my mother’s soul and my sister’s health. I swear on God I will never tell a soul."
Ricky let out a slow, quiet breath. He knew Marek was street-smart, but he was still a kid of his era. If Ricky tried to explain a digitalized, holographic interdimensional ledger system, the boy’s brain would probably short-circuit. He had to translate it into terms Marek could comprehend.
"Alright," Ricky said.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, calling up the Ledger’s vault menu.
[ LEDGER VAULT — WITHDRAWAL ]
Available Balance: $194.00
Request: $20.00
Output Format: Period-Accurate Local Tender
Ricky focused his mind on the word Confirm.
In the empty air directly between Ricky’s chest and Marek’s wide eyes, the dark space seemed to fracture. A tiny, shimmering tear appeared in the air—no larger than a pocket watch—glowing with a brief, piercing blue light.
Marek gasped, his body jerking back against the wooden bunk frame as his hands flew to his chest. "Jesus! What—"
Before the boy could even shout, the blue light vanished. A crisp, beautifully detailed orange-backed paper bill fluttered out of the empty air, spinning gently before landing flat on the clean wood of the chest.
A United States Gold Certificate. Twenty dollars.
The room went dead quiet.
Marek sat perfectly frozen, his mouth half-open, his eyes staring at the vibrant orange bill as if it were a live snake. He looked at the bill, then up at Ricky’s face, his fingers trembling as he pointed a finger at the wood.
"You..." Marek whispered, his voice shaking with a deep, primal terror. "How did you... where did that come from, Ricky? Is it... is it magic? Are you a wizard?"
Ricky let out a quiet chuckle, picking up the gold certificate and holding it out.