Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century) by Cherie Priest

sure everyone knew it.
    “All right, Mr. Pinkerton. Brief me.”
    “Listen to you there, picking up the lingo like you’re one of the boys. Never thought I’d see the day,” he said, as he parked himself behind the desk, facing her. The wheels on his chair bottom rolled back and forth as he fidgeted. He put his elbows atop a pile of ledgers, reached for a cigar, and lit it. Then he used his knuckles to drag a big glass ashtray within easier reach.
    “Rose uses the lingo, too.”
    “Rose is a special case.”
    “And I’m not?”
    The old man grinned. His white-bearded cheeks inflated and puffed as he sucked the cigar to life. “All my employees are special. Is that what you want to hear?”
    “Not really.”
    “Good, because it isn’t true. How was that art job in Philly? You turned that one over pretty quick.”
    “It was easy,” she said, which meant it hadn’t been very interesting. “Sometimes the most obvious answer is the right one. Alastair Duggard’s wife destroyed the painting.”
    “Why?”
    “Because her husband liked it. And because she found out about his mistress, who she didn’t like at all.”
    “Most obvious answer, indeed,” he said, tapping a scrap of ash into the tray. “Too bad we couldn’t get it back for him, but I suppose it’s his own fault it’s gone. He paid up?”
    “He paid up. I was recording the last of the invoices when—”
    “In Kelly’s chair, I saw.”
    “I was cold. I am cold. It’s cold. ”
    “You’re in Chicago, dear.” He said it “Shi-kah-go” like the locals, despite his native (if fading) Glaswegian patter. “It’s cold here more often than not. You need warmer clothes, or thicker blood. Living down there in the jungles … it’ll make you soft.”
    She didn’t bother to correct him anymore when he talked about Virginia’s jungles. He’d never seen Virginia—or a jungle, for that matter—but she had better things to do than waste her breath convincing him of it. “I need to move around more, that’s all. And I believe you can help me with that—you said you’ve got a case for me?”
    “I do indeed. And it’s a big one, too.” He hesitated, leaving something unsaid.
    “Sir?”
    “I’m not going to lie to you, Maria: I can’t tell if you’re the best candidate for this one, or the worst possible choice.”
    “Another job working for the Union, I take it? I managed the last assignment to everyone’s satisfaction.”
    “That you did, but this one is … closer to the heart.”
    She was confused. “My heart? Your heart?”
    “To President Lincoln’s heart. Literally and figuratively.”
    “You … you want me to work for Abraham Lincoln?”
    “The situation is unusual—but not the same kind of unusual as usual.”
    “You’ve always had a way with words, sir.”
    He looked past her shoulder. “Do me a favor, dear—reach behind you and shut that door.”
    She did as he asked, and he continued, but in a quieter, more serious tone. “Mr. Lincoln and I have remained friends for many years, despite the incident at the Ford. Depending on who you ask, my son either saved his life or ruined it, and Mrs. Lincoln held the whole thing against us for a while. Abe’s recovery came so slowly, and so incompletely.… Still, the president has continued to accept our service in good faith. He presently employs one of our D.C. operatives—a young man named Nelson Wellers, who happens to be a physician.”
    “These days, I guess Mr. Lincoln needs a doctor more than a bodyguard.” Maria cocked her head and frowned. “But this Dr. Wellers is no longer sufficient? I worked as a nurse, but quite briefly, I want you to know; I wasn’t cut out for it. If you’re only looking to send me because I’m a woman—”
    “No, no, no.” He dismissed her concerns with a wave of his cigar, leaving a trail of smoke to underline his impatience. “Wellers is fine. Nothing wrong with him. Mr. Lincoln doesn’t need a nursemaid or another