both sides of the clock tower whose alabaster face registered a few minutes past five. The faint tremor that had just rippled through the room was like so many other small jolts she’d experienced as a native San Franciscan. Not like the earthquake in April of 1898, that had broken windows in the women’s residence hall adjacent to the Berkeley campus, frightening some of her fellow sorority sisters half to death.
“Mornin’, Miz Bradshaw.”
She peered across the room at a bewhiskered man in a dark blue cap who’d poked his head through the open office door.
“Zack! Goodness! You gave me quite a turn.” She paused and then asked, “Did you feel anything just now? The shaking?”
“What, miss?” the night watchman replied, furrowing his brow.
She glanced around the room and shrugged. “I thought I felt a little earthquake a few minutes ago, but maybe not. I think you caught me cat-napping.”
“The charwomen will be comin’ soon.”
“I know. It’s after five. You must think me daft.”
Zachary Webb cocked a disapproving eyebrow in so fatherly a fashion that Amelia laughed. “You’ve worked long enough, it seems to me,” he said. “It’s just comin’ on daybreak. You’d best enjoy a cup of coffee with me in the basement and have yourself a bit of a rest while the ladies be at their cleanin’.”
“Yes, of course. That’s a lovely offer.” The watchman had been extraordinarily kind to her from her first day entering the building just as everyone else was leaving. There was kinship in the night shift, she concluded, happy to have his company. She pointed at her drawing. “Just give me five more minutes.”
Webb shook his head in another show of friendly censure. “I’ll just be makin’ one more round of the building, miss, and be back for you in my elevator when the chars arrive.”
“You’re very kind,” she murmured, absorbed in her handiwork. After a few minutes, Amelia sighed, absently tucking her shirtwaist more securely into her skirt. “ Voilà !” she exclaimed, pronouncing the project complete. With a flourish, she stashed her drawing implement in a tin cup atop her drafting table.
As if that triumphant flick of her wrist had set a giant machine in motion, the clutch of sharpened pencils rattled an alarming tattoo inside their metal container.
Amelia would remember that staccato sound the rest of her life.
In the next second, a vicious tremor struck beneath the soles of her sturdy shoes. She grasped the edge of her drafting table to steady herself and hung on tight as a large photograph of Julia Morgan’s controversial Mills College bell tower swung in a wide arc along the paneled wall. Then a second gigantic jolt of primordial energy shot through the room.
“Oh!” she cried as the four walls began a terrifying dance. “Oh God, no! ”
A loud rumbling in the distance, deep and powerful as a hundred locomotives, gathered strength, and in seconds roared beneath her feet. The black-framed photograph of the campanile catapulted off the wall and crashed onto the desk normally occupied by Lacy Fiske. Lacy’s desk, her typewriting machine, and the smashed picture then toppled to the floor, overturning the drafting boards like a row of dominoes.
Amelia clutched her own desk for support. Church bells from a few blocks away sounded, joined by peals from the tower of old St. Mary’s on upper California Street by Chinatown. Then, bells all over the city began a dissonant clanging, as if heralding doomsday.
It is an earthquake! she thought, stunned. And it’s a big one!
By this time, the entire ninth floor was undulating like a deadly carpet. Rolls of blueprints flew out of their storage bins as bottles of ink exploded off the shelves in the supply room. Agonizing seconds ticked by while the noise grew even more deafening—the unforgettable roar of the earth splitting open and nearby buildings collapsing in lethal piles of debris.
Amelia’s stool pitched out from under
“Mornin’, Miz Bradshaw.”
She peered across the room at a bewhiskered man in a dark blue cap who’d poked his head through the open office door.
“Zack! Goodness! You gave me quite a turn.” She paused and then asked, “Did you feel anything just now? The shaking?”
“What, miss?” the night watchman replied, furrowing his brow.
She glanced around the room and shrugged. “I thought I felt a little earthquake a few minutes ago, but maybe not. I think you caught me cat-napping.”
“The charwomen will be comin’ soon.”
“I know. It’s after five. You must think me daft.”
Zachary Webb cocked a disapproving eyebrow in so fatherly a fashion that Amelia laughed. “You’ve worked long enough, it seems to me,” he said. “It’s just comin’ on daybreak. You’d best enjoy a cup of coffee with me in the basement and have yourself a bit of a rest while the ladies be at their cleanin’.”
“Yes, of course. That’s a lovely offer.” The watchman had been extraordinarily kind to her from her first day entering the building just as everyone else was leaving. There was kinship in the night shift, she concluded, happy to have his company. She pointed at her drawing. “Just give me five more minutes.”
Webb shook his head in another show of friendly censure. “I’ll just be makin’ one more round of the building, miss, and be back for you in my elevator when the chars arrive.”
“You’re very kind,” she murmured, absorbed in her handiwork. After a few minutes, Amelia sighed, absently tucking her shirtwaist more securely into her skirt. “ Voilà !” she exclaimed, pronouncing the project complete. With a flourish, she stashed her drawing implement in a tin cup atop her drafting table.
As if that triumphant flick of her wrist had set a giant machine in motion, the clutch of sharpened pencils rattled an alarming tattoo inside their metal container.
Amelia would remember that staccato sound the rest of her life.
In the next second, a vicious tremor struck beneath the soles of her sturdy shoes. She grasped the edge of her drafting table to steady herself and hung on tight as a large photograph of Julia Morgan’s controversial Mills College bell tower swung in a wide arc along the paneled wall. Then a second gigantic jolt of primordial energy shot through the room.
“Oh!” she cried as the four walls began a terrifying dance. “Oh God, no! ”
A loud rumbling in the distance, deep and powerful as a hundred locomotives, gathered strength, and in seconds roared beneath her feet. The black-framed photograph of the campanile catapulted off the wall and crashed onto the desk normally occupied by Lacy Fiske. Lacy’s desk, her typewriting machine, and the smashed picture then toppled to the floor, overturning the drafting boards like a row of dominoes.
Amelia clutched her own desk for support. Church bells from a few blocks away sounded, joined by peals from the tower of old St. Mary’s on upper California Street by Chinatown. Then, bells all over the city began a dissonant clanging, as if heralding doomsday.
It is an earthquake! she thought, stunned. And it’s a big one!
By this time, the entire ninth floor was undulating like a deadly carpet. Rolls of blueprints flew out of their storage bins as bottles of ink exploded off the shelves in the supply room. Agonizing seconds ticked by while the noise grew even more deafening—the unforgettable roar of the earth splitting open and nearby buildings collapsing in lethal piles of debris.
Amelia’s stool pitched out from under
Similar Books
