The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) by C.A. Sanders Page B

that handkerchief that she keeps waving around.  The crazy shikse doesn’t even know what she has.  But you know, Herr Watchmage, don’t you?”
    “No, I don’t.” I admitted.
    Levitt’s eyes lit up.  “Wonderful!  One should always embrace a moment to learn.  I have a book about it here somewhere…” his voice trailed off as he moved to his desk.  “I took it out last week to make sure that she had what I thought.” He shuffled the mess around, mumbling to himself.  “Ah ha! Here it is.” He raised a worn book in triumph.
    “The relic in question is here,” he said, flipping to a page.  The words were in Hebrew, which I hadn’t used in several decades. 
    “You know your Genesis , I’m sure.  Do you remember the story of Yosef and his coat?”  Levitt turned the page.  On the next page was an illustration of a young man being thrown into a pit by older men.  A colored mantle was in one man’s hands.
    “She has the Coat of Many Colors?”  I asked with a frown. After seeing a hundred finger bones of Christ over the years, I’ve grown a thick skin when it comes to holy relics.
    “The very same.  You’ve felt its power.  That’s the power of The Lord passing his gifts on to his people.  Yosef was a great prophet and wizard, and this is his legacy.  The coat belongs with his people.
    “You?”
    “Us.  It belongs with us, not some shtotty goyish family.”
    I looked at the unfamiliar letters in the book.  If there was something I should know, I wouldn’t find it there.  “You offered Missus Vanderlay money for the handkerchief.”
    “I did, as much as I could gather from my people.  Money, we don’t have, but we have our traditions.  That rag is bupkis to her, but to us, more precious than gold.”
    “It sounds like you want it desperately.”
    “I do.”
    “Is that why you took the baby?  To trade?”
    A confused expression came across his face.  “I didn’t take a baby.  I would never do that.  I didn’t even know one was missing.”
    “It’s been in all the papers.”
    “Not the Jewish ones.”
    “The Vanderlay baby’s gone.  The missus thinks that you did it.”  I leaned in and spoke in a softer voice.  “She’s been saying that you took him for a blood ritual.  There’ve been some very nasty articles in the papers about your people.  They’re calling for your heads.”
    “ Oy. ” Levitt’s hand shook as he drank his tea. “Why couldn’t this be a nice visit for tea and jokes?”
    I rose from my chair and scanned the room.  “Do you mind if I look in the other rooms?”
    He shrugged his shoulders. “Do as you must.  There’s not much to see.”
    I stepped into the darkened hallway.  Rabbi Levitt picked up a candlestick and followed. 
    “They’re calling for our heads? ‘There are no pogroms in America,’ my uncle said.  ‘The streets are paved with gold.’ Bah.”  The rabbi wrung his hands and mumbled a prayer.
    The hallway was short, and opened into a rectangular room with a cooking stove on one side.  A pair of wooden cabinets stood near a table.  One of them was open, and a curly haired girl pulled a pair of onions from it.  Two older men sat on the floor, playing chess with shaped pieces of brick, while a boy in knickers too big for him watched with half-closed eyes. 
    Levitt gave the girl a kiss on the head.  “My granddaughter,” he said to me.  “Ruchel, when will the soup be done?”
    “It needs more schmaltz ,” she said.  “Hershel went to the butcher to buy some. It has to cook all night, Zaydee .   And carrots, he went to buy carrots.  We still have chopped herring and pickled tomatoes for tonight.”
    “Wonderful,” he said.  My stomach growled with yearning.  I was hungry before my time, and herring was my Achilles heel.
    I saw no signs of the Vanderlay baby, so I continued to the next room.  I realized that these rooms were set like rail cars, one box joining with another, a small community